Melissa P.: 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

His place was half empty, but the presence of four men was visible: there was a nasty smell (yes, that oppressive smell of sperm), and the rooms looked like they had been hit by a cyclone.

We flung the packages to the floor and removed our dripping overcoats.

"Do you want one of my T-shirts? It'll take a while for your clothes to dry."

"OK," I said, "grazie."

When we reached his bedroom-cum-library, he approached the wardrobe with a peculiar anxiety; and before he would open it completely, he asked me to fetch the packages from the other room.

When I returned, he quickly shut the wardrobe.

Amused and soaked, I blurted, "What do you have in there? Your dead women?"

He smiled and answered, "More or less."

His answer made me curious. But he avoided other questions by tearing the packages from my hands and saying, "Come on, let me see! What did you buy, little one?"

He opened my wet box with both hands and stuck his head inside, like a child opening a Christmas gift. His eyes sparkled, and with his fingertips he drew out a pair of black panties.

"Ooh-la-la! And what do you do with these, eh? Do you wear them for someone in particular? I doubt they're part of your school uniform."

"We all have our secrets," I said ironically, aware that I was arousing his suspicions.

He marveled at me, leaned his head slightly to the left, and softly said, "What do you mean? Let's hear: what's your secret?"

I was weary of keeping it inside me, Diary. So I told him. The expression on his face didn't change; he wore the same look of enchantment as before.

"Don't you have anything to say?" I asked, irritated.

"You've made your choices, little one. I can only tell you to go slow."

"It's too late," I said, feigning resignation.

Trying to stifle my embarrassment, I burst out laughing and then said in a cheery voice, "OK, honey-bunch, now it's your turn. Your secret?"

He blanched, and his eyes darted around the room, uncertain.

He stood up from the faded floral sofa bed and took a few giant steps toward the wardrobe. Then he dramatically threw open one door, pointed at the clothes hanging there, and said, "These are mine."

I recognized the things; we had bought them together. The price tags had been removed, and they had clearly been worn. They were wrinkled.

"What do you mean, Ernesto?" I said quietly.

His movements slowed, his muscles relaxed, his eyes turned toward the floor.

"I buy these clothes for myself. I wear them and… I work in them."

This time I was left speechless; I really couldn't think of anything to say. Then a moment later my head was crowded with questions: You work in them? What kind of work do you do? Where do you work? Why?

He began before I could ask them.

"I like to dress up as a woman. I started doing it a few years ago. I lock myself in my room, plant a video camera on the table, and dress up. I like it; it feels good. Later I watch myself on the screen and… well,

I get excited. Sometimes I'll let someone else see me on film, if they ask." He was suddenly swallowed by a deep blush.

Dead silence. The only sound was the noise of the rain streaming down from the sky, forming thin wires that encaged us.

"Are you a prostitute?" I asked, not mincing words.

He nodded, immediately covering his face with both hands.

"Meli, believe me, I only do oral sex, nothing else. Someone might ask me to… take it up the ass, but I swear, I never do it. It's to pay for my studies, you know, my parents can't afford it." He would've continued, fishing for more excuses. Anyway, I know he likes it.

"I don't blame you, Ernesto," I said after a lull. I was carefully examining the window, where the droplets sparkled nervously.

"Look, everybody chooses their own life. You yourself said it a few minutes ago. Sometimes even the wrong roads can turn out to be the right ones, or vice versa. The important thing is to follow your dream, to be true to yourself, because only if we succeed in doing this can we say that we've made the best choice for ourselves. At this point, what I really want to know is why you do it." I was being a hypocrite.

Then he looked at me with tender, questioning eyes and asked, "Why do you do it?"

I didn't answer, but my silence spoke volumes. My conscience was screaming so loudly that to repress it I said spontaneously, without any shame, "Why don't you dress up for me?"

"Why are you asking me this?"

I myself didn't know.

Slightly embarrassed, I spoke in a hushed tone: "Because it's beautiful to see two identities in the same body: man and woman in the same skin. Here's another secret: it excites me. A lot. But forgive me… it's something we both like; nobody is forcing us to do it. A pleasure can never be a mistake, right?"

I noticed from his trousers that he was aroused. He tried to hide it.

"I'll do it," he said curtly. From the wardrobe he took a dress and then a T-shirt, which he tossed to me.

"Sorry, I'd forgotten to get it for you. You can wear that."

"I'll have to undress," I said.

"Are you ashamed?"

"No, no, of course not," I replied.

As I undressed, my nudity increased his excitement. I slipped into the huge pink T-shirt. On the front it featured a winking Marilyn with the caption "Bye Bye Baby." Together we watched my friend don his vestments, as if it were an ecstatic, sublime ceremony. He dressed with his back turned, so I could scarcely make out his movements, not to mention the G-string that parted his square buttocks. He turned to face me: black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, thigh-high boots, gold lame top, padded bra. This is how he presented himself to me, a friend I'd always seen in Lacoste and Levi's! My excitement wasn't visible, but it was there.

His dick popped out of the flimsy G-string with no problem. He shifted it and started rubbing.

As in some performance, I stretched out on the sofa bed and eyed him attentively. I longed to touch myself, even to possess that body. Much to my amazement, I watched him masturbate as if I had assumed a male gaze. His face was rapturous, beaded with little drops of sweat. My pleasure arrived without penetration, without caresses, simply through my mind, through me.

His, however, came strong and steady, I saw him spurt and heard his gasp, which broke off when he opened his eyes.

He lay down on the sofa with me. We hugged each other and fell asleep as Marilyn rubbed her eye against Ernesto's gold lame top.

3 January 2002

2:30 A.M.

Another visit to the museumlike house with the same people. This time we played a game: I was the earth, and they were worms burrowing into it. Five different worms dug furrows in my body, and the soil, upon my return home, was loose and crumbly. An old yellowed nightgown, my grandmother's, was hanging in my wardrobe. I slipped into it and smelled the scent of softener and a time long gone as they blended with the absurd present. I undid my hair and let it fall to my shoulders, protected by the comforting past. I undid it, nuzzled it, and went to bed with a smile that quickly turned into weeping. Gentle, tame, and meek.

9 January 2002

At Ernesto's house there aren't many secrets. I confided to him that my experiences had provoked a desire to see one man inside another. I really want to see two men screw. To see them screw each other just as they've screwed me, with the same violence, the same brutality.

I can't stop myself, I'm moving as fast as a stick swept along by the current in a river. I'm learning to say no to other people and yes to myself, learning to release the deepest part of me and let it slam against the surrounding world. I'm learning.

"Melissa, you're a continual revelation," he said, his voice still hoarse from sleep. "How can I put it? You're a mine of fantasies and imagination."