ITALIAN SPEAKING Here I am, sitting comfortably in the garden, a cigarette between my fingers. Next to me, my friend just as relaxed smokes nonchalantly while the afternoon sun warms our skin. Between us, on the warm pavement, lies our human ashtray. He cannot speak; he cannot move except to receive. Every time I tap out the ash, I deposit it directly onto his tongue; he remains motionless, eyes downcast, breathing only when we allow him to. It is the only task he is permitted: to be useful, silent, and always available. When I invite a few mistresses over, the scene expands. I don’t just offer the ashtray. I offer an entire service of jack-of-all-trades slaves. One who holds the glasses and refills them as soon as they’re empty. One who massages our feet while we talk. One who stays on his knees to serve as a footrest, another who cleans up the ashes that have fallen to the floor with his tongue. Each task has its own assigned body: cooking, massages, humiliation, sexual service whatever the guests desire. I sit back, smoke, watch, and decide who does what. My friend laughs softly, stubs out her cigarette, and asks for the next slave.