EROTICAMENTE FOR MAXIM MAGAZINE
Me enslaved by the passion for a local Sicilian
Mine was a red-hot long summer, incandescent and flaming, literally dotted with erections and eruptions. As a matter of fact, I was languidly lying under the sun on the island of Stromboli on July 3rd when Iddu, Him, the volcano in Sicilian, exploded with a mighty blast all its magmatic fury. I have been visiting the island of fire for over twenty dishonored years, I know its inhabitants, sinuous recesses, moods, flavors and I am also used to Iddu’s tantrums, to its voice and lymph. I am a pagan nymph, devoted to Idduism and bound by passion to the dissolution of senses. The mountain, as the locals call the Stromboli peak, had never before scared me; quite the contrary, I have always felt attracted to its flame and sucked down by the primordial force of this burning, smoking and viscerally magic land. The islanders nicknamed me Idda for my likewise explosive and fiery nature and on the black island I enjoy posing with irreverent irony as Raffaella Pavone Lanzetti, the character of the bitchy and snobbish Milanese, masterfully interpreted by actress Mariangela Melato in Swept Aways – Travolti da Insolito Destino nell’Azzurro Mare d’Agosto, cult movie by Lina Wertmüller, along the impeccable Giancarlo Giannini, who plays the part of the coarse sailor Gennarino Carunchio, mistreated and humiliated by the “industrial whore,” as he calls her in the movie.
The 1974 movie depicts a class struggle, the conflict between North and South and between the roles of man and woman. The master/slave dynamics is overturned when the two are shipwrecked on a deserted island: the insolent loquacity of the Milanese is shattered and utterly useless in front of the survival necessities which, on the contrary, the poor yet crafty sailor knows how to navigate being a man of the people used to get by. The signora becomes the slave: she washes his underpants, she cooks for him, she serves him. And he fervently desires to take her but not through violence as when he runs after her and he’s on the verge of raping her only to stop in the very moment he feels the Northern woman sizzling with pleasure. Carunchio possesses dignity, once upon a time a noble value on the island, and his words exude fervid torment:
“You must fall in love. You must be raptured by a dark love, twisting your insides, a desperate passion worse than a disease. I have to penetrate your mind, your heart and your belly. Passion or nothin’!”
Passion on this land burnt by fire, whipped by wind and wreaked by waves, knows no shades. It is impetuous and tremendous: it pervades your bowels, you feel the volcano entering each joints, you savor the intensity of perversion about to erupt in all its salvific energy. Sex and death, red and black, fire and water: Stromboli stands as the magmatic embodiment of the excess/sex of lava flow exploding its intemperance pouring sperms of fire, the “blonde pumices”, onto the marine bed.
Making love in Stromboli is carnally copulating with the volcano.
On its black earth during my Dionysian summers I have loved with incendiary passion locals and foreigners alike, welcoming adventurers, without any gender distinction, as another Calypso, bursting open the doors of sexual ecstasy, nestling them in my womb. We isolated islanders are ferine women, volcanic handmaidens, voluptuous amazons who share inflamed ardors to nourish the flame of the overwhelmingly ardent desire on the mountain peak and within our delta of Venus.
In 1949 the Italian director Roberto Rossellini fell prey to the seducing charm of the actress Ingrid Bergman, the subtle pussycat from Sweden, with whom he was shooting on the island the movie Stromboli. Under Iddu’s complicit scenario, a violent love affair blew up between them while Anna Magnani, icon of Italian Cinema, and at the time the feisty director’s partner, was filming Vulcano on the eponymous island. Local myth says that if the volcanoes did not explode due to the fatal fury of a seduced and abandoned Magnani – Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned envisaged William Congreve – then us idle and dissolute Idduists might as well placidly bask under its slopes.
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