I followed his advice, and from then on I bought only black lace.

I watch him take a fancy to the colored thongs, worthy of a Brazilian dancer: shocking pink, green, electric blue. When he shops in earnest, he chooses red.

"Your girlfriends must be really weird," I tell him.

With a giggle he says, "Not as weird as you," and my ego is boosted again.

The bras are almost all padded. He never coordinates them with the panties, preferring to juxtapose colors that seem unlikely together.

Then the stockings: mine are almost always thigh-highs, crowned with a band of lace, strictly black, so they form a sharp contrast with the wintry pallor of my skin. He buys fishnets, which don't match my taste.

When Ernesto is particularly fond of a girl, he dives into the throng at a department store and buys her glittering dresses adorned with multicolored sequins, cut with dizzying necklines and daring slits.

"How much does this girl make an hour?" I joke.

He turns serious and, without responding, goes to pay. Then I feel guilty and stop acting like a stupid idiot.

Today, as we strolled through the shops, past the acid young salesgirls, the rain caught us by surprise, soaking the packages we were toting.

"Let's go under the portico!" he shouted as he seized my hand.

"Ernesto!" I said, midway between irritation and amusement. "There are no porticoes on Via Etnea!"

He looked at me, bug-eyed, shrugged, and exclaimed, "Then let's go to my place!" I didn't want to go there: I learned that one of his roommates is Maurizio, a friend of Roberto's. I didn't feel like seeing him; much less did I want Ernesto to discover my secret activities.

From the place where we stood, his apartment was only a few hundred yards away. We covered them at a fast clip, hand in hand. It felt great to break into a mad dash with someone who doesn't make me feel like I have to get into bed with him and let myself go, no holds barred. For once I'd like to be the one who decides: when and where to do it, how long, with how much desire.