Melissa P.: 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

"Open the glove compartment. There should be some CDs."

I found a couple and chose Carlos Santana.

We talked about my school and his university, then about us.

"I don't want you to think badly of me," I said.

"Are you joking? That would be like thinking badly of myself. We're both doing the same thing, in the same way. For me it might be even more dishonorable, since I'm spoken for. But you see, she-"

"Doesn't give you any," I interrupted with a smile.

"Exactly," he said with the same smile.

He entered a narrow, badly paved road and stopped before a huge green gate. He climbed out of the car and opened the gate. When he got back inside, Inoticed the face of Che Guevara printed on his drenched T-shirt.

"Fuck!" he complained. "It's still fall, but the weather is already so lousy." Then he turned to me and asked, "Aren't you a little excited?"

I closed my lips so tightly that I wrinkled my chin. I shook my head and after a brief pause said, "No, not at all."

To reach the door I covered my head with my bag. Running in the rain, we laughed nonstop, like two idiots.

The house was completely dark. When I entered, I felt an icy cold. I groped my way in the pitch darkness; he was evidently used to it. He was familiar with every corner and therefore walked with a certain confidence. I planted myself in a spot where there seemed to be more light and made out a couch, where I placed my bag.

Roberto came up from behind, turned me around, and kissed me, thrusting his entire tongue into my mouth. I found this kiss a bit repulsive; it wasn't at all like Daniele's. He was swapping spit with me, letting it trickle from our lips. I backed off tactfully, without revealing my disgust, and wiped my mouth with the palm of my hand. He took me by the same hand and led me into the bedroom, which was just as dark and just as cold.

"Can't you switch on the light?" I asked while he was kissing my neck.

"No, I like it better like this."

He left me on the huge bed, knelt down, and removed his shoes. I was neither excited nor impassive. I felt I was doing everything just to please him.

He undressed me as if I were a mannequin in a window display, the way a fast, detached shop assistant strips the dummy and leaves it bare.

He was shocked to see my stockings. "You're wearing thigh-highs?" he asked.

"Yes, always," I replied.

"You filthy pig!" he roared.

I was embarrassed by his comment, so out of place, but I was even more struck by his transformation from a polite, well-bred young man to a coarse, vulgar beast. His eyes were flaming, ravenous, his hands rummaged around beneath my blouse, inside my panties.

"Do you want me to keep them on?" I asked to comply with his wishes.

"Definitely, leave them, you're dirtier like this."

My cheeks flushed again, but now I felt my fireplace start to blaze, and reality gradually receded. Passion was getting the upper hand.

I got down from the bed, and my feet touched the smooth, incredibly cold floor. I waited for him to take me and do what he wanted.

"Suck my dick, slut," he whispered.

I ignored my shame, immediately banished it, and did what he asked me to do. I felt his member turn hard and swollen. He grabbed me by the armpits and lifted me to the bed.

He positioned me on top of him like a defenseless doll and aimed his long lance toward my sex, still so little opened, so little wet.

"I want to make you feel pain. Come on, scream, let me hear how I'm hurting you."

There was in fact pain, I felt the walls burning, and the dilation occurred against my will.

I screamed as the dark room spun around me. My embarrassment had vanished and in its place was only the desire to make him mine.

If I scream, I thought, he'll be happy, he asked me to do it. I'll do anything he tells me.

I screamed and felt pain, no trace of pleasure passed through me. He, however, exploded, his voice was transformed, and his words turned obscene and vulgar.

He hurled them at me, and they pierced me with a violence that exceeded even his penetration.

Then everything returned to the way it was before. He picked up his glasses from the bedside table, took off the condom with a tissue and threw it away, calmlydressed, caressed my head, and when we got into the car, we talked about bin Laden and Bush as if nothing had happened.

25 October 2001

Roberto calls me often. He says hearing me fills him with joy and the desire to make love. He says the latter in a low voice, partly because he doesn't want to be heard, partly because he's embarrassed to admit it. I tell him that I feel the same way, that I often think about him when I touch myself. It isn't true, Diary. I say it only to stroke his ego; he's full of himself. He's forever saying, "I know I'm a good lover. Women really like me."

He's an arrogant angel, he's irresistible. His image hounds me during the day, but I think of him more as the polite young man than as the passionate lover. And when he is transformed, he makes me smile: I think he knows quite well how to maintain his equilibrium, how to be different people at different times. I, in contrast, am always the same, always identical. My passion is everywhere, so is my cunning.

1 December 2001

I told him my birthday is the day after tomorrow, and he exclaimed, "Great. Then we'll have to celebrate in an appropriate fashion."

I smiled and said, "Robi, we just celebrated yesterday. Aren't you satisfied?"

"Uh, no. I meant your birthday should be special. You know Pino, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," I replied.

"Do you like him?"

Worried about saying something that would distance him from me, I hesitated a little, then decided to tell the truth: "Yes, quite a lot."

"Perfect. I'll come to pick you up the day after tomorrow."

"OK." I shut my phone, curious about this strange excitement of his. I trust him.

3 December 2001

4:30 A.M.

My sixteenth birthday. I want to stop right here and not go any further. At sixteen I'm mistress of my actions, but also the victim of chance and unpredictability.

When I left the house, I noticed Roberto wasn't alone in his yellow car. I saw the black cigar, indistinct in the darkness, and understood everything.

"You could at least stay home on your birthday," my mother said before I went out, but I didn't listen to her. I softly closed the door and left without answering.

The arrogant angel looked at me with a smile, and I climbed into the car, pretending I hadn't noticed Pino in the back seat.

"Well?" Roberto asked. "Don't you have anything to say?" He nodded toward the back.

I turned and saw Pino, wasted, his eyes red, his pupils dilated. I smiled at him and asked, "Did you smoke?"

He nodded yes, and Roberto added, "He also drank an entire bottle of grappa."

"Splendid," I said. "He's in great shape."

The lights of the city were reflected on the car windows. The shops were still open; the owners eagerly awaited Christmas. Couples and families strolled on the sidewalks, unaware that I was riding in the car with two men who were taking me to some strange place.

We crossed Via Etnea, and I saw the Duomo, the cathedral illuminated by white lights and surrounded by impressive palm trees. The river flows beneath this street, hidden by volcanic rock. It is silent, imperceptible. Just like my silent, docile thoughts, skillfully concealed behind my armor. They flow, eating away at me.

In the morning the fish market is held nearby. You can smell the scent of the sea on the fishermen's hands, their nails blackened by entrails. They fill a bucket with water and splash it on the cold, gleaming bodies of animals that are still living, still quivering. We were heading precisely in that direction, even though at night the atmosphere changes. When I climbed out of the car, I realized the scent of the sea metamorphoses into the scent of hashish, kids pierced with studs and rings replace the old, tanned fishermen, and life continues to be life, always, no matter what.