One Hundred Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

by Melissa P.

  Then I open my eyes, and I am back at the airport, observing my face.

  A dream within a dream. A dream that echoes what happened yesterday. His eyes were the same as Germano’s. The fire illuminated them, made them shine. Gianmaria had entered with two huge logs and some branches. He arranged them in the fireplace, which began to brighten the setting, making it more hospitable. A strange, comforting warmth was invading me. What I observed did not provoke any feeling of disgust or embarrassment. On the contrary, it was as if my eyes were accustomed to certain scenes, and the passion that had beaten against my skin all this time flew out and struck the faces of the two young men who unwittingly were in my hands. I watched each of them plunge into the other: I in an armchair beside the fire, they on a couch in front of it, lovingly eyeing and touching each other. Their every moan was an “I love you”; and while in my viscera I experienced every thrust as devastating and painful, for them it was a pure caress. I too wanted to take part in an intimacy I did not understand, in their loving and tender refuge, but I had not proposed it and just watched according to our agreement. I was naked, pure in body and mind. Then Germano shot a blissful glance at me. He detached himself from the cleft and, much to my amazement, knelt before me, slowly prying open my thighs. He awaited a sign from me before he dove into that world. He kept at it for a little while, then went back to being himself, the hard and implacable African King. We exchanged places: he pulled me by the hair and bent me towards his sceptre. That was the moment when I noticed his eyes, when I understood that his passion wasn’t any different from mine: they took each other by the hand, grappled, then fused.

  The lovers fell asleep on the couch in an embrace while I, my skin incandescent from the flames, continued to watch them, alone.

  24 January 2002

  The winter weighs me down in every sense. The days are so much the same, so monotonous, that I can’t bear them any longer. Wake up very early, go to school, argue with my teachers, come back home, do homework till incredibly late, watch some garbage on TV, read a book for as long as my eyes stay open, then go to sleep. Day after day passes like this, except for the unexpected phone calls from the arrogant angel and his devils. When that happens, I dress as best I can, I take off the clothes worn by the diligent student and put on those of the woman who drives men crazy. I am grateful to them because they give me an opportunity to break away from the dreariness and be something different.

  When I’m home, I log onto the Internet. I search, explore. I search for everything that simultaneously excites and sickens me. I search for excitement born from humiliation. I search for annihilation. I search for the most bizarre individuals, people who send me sadomasochistic photos, who treat me like a real whore. People who want to unload: rage, sperm, anguish, fear. I’m no different from them. My eyes take on a sickly light, my heart beats madly. I believe (or perhaps I delude myself?) that in the labyrinthine web I will find someone who is willing to love me. Whoever this might be: man, woman, old, young, married, single, gay, transsexual. Anybody.

  Last night I entered a lesbian chat room. To try a woman. I don’t find the idea entirely repulsive. More than anything else it embarrasses me, frightens me. Some women have made contact, but I trashed the messages right away, without even looking at the photos.

  This morning I found a message from a twenty-year-old girl. She says her name is Letizia, and she too is from Catania. The message says very little, just her name, age, and phone number.

  1 February 2002

  7:30 pm

  At school they offered me a role in the play.

  Finally I can spend my days doing something fun. I go on stage in a month or so, at a theatre in the centre of town.

  5 February 2002

  10:00 pm

  I phoned her. Her voice is a bit shrill. Her tone is cheerful, easygoing, unlike mine, which is melancholy, serious. After a little while I loosened up and smiled. I didn’t have the slightest desire to hear about her and her life. I was only curious to know her physically. In fact, I asked her, “Excuse me, Letizia, you don’t by any chance have a photo you can send me?”

  She laughed out loud and exclaimed, “Of course I do! Turn on your computer, and I’ll send it immediately, while we’re on the phone, so you can tell me it’s arrived.”

  “Great,” I said, satisfied.

  In the photo she is beautiful, incredibly beautiful. And nude. Inviting, sensual, captivating.

  “Is that really you?” I stammered.

  “Of course! Who do you think it is?”

  “Yes, I believe it’s you. You’re … so beautiful,” I said, stupefied (and made stupid!) by the photo and my own rapture. I don’t really like women. On the street I don’t turn around when a beautiful woman passes by, I don’t lust for female bodies, and I’ve never seriously thought of having a relationship with a woman. But Letizia has an angelic face and lovely fleshy lips. Beneath her belly I saw a sweet island where one might land, lush and jagged, fragrant and sensual. And her breasts, like two gentle hillocks topped by two large pink circles.

  “And you?” she asked me. “Do you have a photo you can send me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Wait a minute.”

  I chose one I found at random on my hard drive.

  “You look like an angel,” Letizia said. “You’re delightful.”

  “I may look like an angel,” I said with a wink, “but I’m really not.”

  “Melissa, I want to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I responded.

  After we ended the call, she texted me: “I would cover your neck with burning kisses while my hand explores you...”

  I removed my panties, slipped beneath the covers, and put an end to the sweet torture that Letizia had unwittingly set in motion.

  7 February 2002

  Today at Ernesto’s I saw Gianmaria again. He was very pleased and gave me a big hug. He said that, thanks to me, things between him and Germano have changed. He didn’t go into detail, and I didn’t ask. All the same, whatever drove Germano to do what he did that night remains unclear to me. I obviously brought it on. But how? Why? Only I have remained the same, Diary.

  8 February

  1:18 pm

  More searches. They won’t ever stop till I’ve found what I want. But I really don’t know what I want. Keep on searching, Melissa, forever.

  I entered a chat room called “Perverse Sex”, using the nickname “whore”. I scrolled through the various preferences and inserted the data that interested me. I was instantly contacted by “the_carnage”. He was direct, explicit, invasive, and that’s just the way I wanted it.

  “How do you like to be screwed?” was his opening line.

  “Brutally,” I replied. “I want to be treated like an object.”

  “You want me to treat you like an object?”

  “I don’t want anything. Do what you must do.”

  “You know you’re my whore, right?”

  “It’s hard for me to belong to someone; I’m not even my own.”

  He started to explain how and where he would put his cock in me, how long I would want it inside, how much I would enjoy it.

  I watched the stream of words being sent faster and faster. My stomach was tied in knots, and inside me throbbed a desire with a life of its own, so seductive that I couldn’t do anything but yield. Those words were the sirens’ song, and I exposed myself deliberately, yet painfully.

  Only after telling me he came in his hand did he ask how old I was.

  “Sixteen,” I wrote.

  He filled the screen with emoticons, smiles of amazement followed by a smiley face. Then: “Fucking aye! Brava!”

  “For what?”

  “You’re already such an expert.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “What do you want me to say? It doesn’t matter anyway; we’ll never meet. You’re not even in Catania.”

  “Oh, but I am in Catania.”

  Shit! Wh
at horrible luck to be contacted by a Catanian!

  “What do you want from me now?” I asked him, certain of his response.

  “I want to screw you.”

  “You just did.”

  “No.” Another smiley face. “For real.”

  I thought about it for a few seconds, then keyed in the number of my cell. Just when I was about to send it, I hesitated a moment. His “Grazie!” made me realize what an idiotic thing I’d just done.

  I don’t know anything about him, only that his name is Fabrizio and he’s thirty-five.

  We’re meeting in Corso Italia in half an hour.

  9:00 pm

  I’m well aware that the devil sometimes sails under false colours, revealing his identity only after he has defeated you. First he looks at you with sparkling green eyes, then smiles kindly, gives you a gentle kiss on the neck, and then swallows you whole.

  The man who appeared before me was elegant but not quite handsome: tall, robust, thinning salt-and-pepper hair (who knows if he was really thirty-five), green eyes, and grey teeth.

  At first sight I was charmed, but then the realization that this was the man from the chat room made me tremble. We strolled the clean sidewalks that fronted the chic shops with their gleaming windows. He talked to me about himself, his job, the wife he never loved but married nevertheless for the sake of their child. He has a fine voice, but a stupid laugh that really annoys me.

  While we were walking, he wrapped an arm around me and squeezed my breast. I gave him a polite smile, irritated by his intrusiveness and worried about what would happen next.

  I could have left, of course, taken off on my scooter and returned home to watch my mother knead the dough for the torta di mele, or listen to my sister read aloud, or play with the cat … I can enjoy normalcy and thrive within its boundaries – I can beam when I get a good grade in school, smile bashfully when I receive a compliment. But nothing amazes me, everything is empty and hollow, vain, lacking susbtance, bland.

  I followed him to his car, which took us straight to a garage. The ceiling was damp, and the small space was cluttered with boxes and tools.

  Fabrizio threw himself on top of me, but fortunately I didn’t feel the full weight of his body. He penetrated me slowly, gently. He wanted to kiss me, but I turned my head. No one has kissed me since Daniele. The heat of my sighs I reserve for my reflected image; and although the softness of my lips has too often touched the thirsty members of the arrogant angel and his devils, they have never, I’m certain, savoured that softness. So I shifted my head to avoid contact with his lips, but I gave him no hint of my disgust. I pretended I merely wanted to change position. He, like an animal, transformed the gentleness that had first surprised me into crude bestiality, grunting and shouting out my name as his fingers pressed into my hips.

  “I’m here,” I told him. The situation seemed grotesque to me. I didn’t understand why he was uttering my name, but to remain insensible to his calls felt embarrassing, so I reassured him, saying, “I’m here,” and he calmed down a little.

  “Let me come inside you,” he said, crazed with pleasure, “come on, please, let me come inside.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  He suddenly pulled out, voicing my name more loudly till it gradually became a faint echo, a long final sigh. Then, not satisfied, he came at me again, once more I had him inside, his tongue touched me fleetingly, heedless. My pleasure hadn’t arrived and yet his returned, a futile thing that had no regard for me.

  “Your cunt lips are so big and juicy I could just bite them. Why don’t you shave? You’d be even more beautiful.”

  I didn’t respond: what I do with it is none of his business.

  A car noise gave us a start. We quickly got dressed (I couldn’t wait). He caressed my chin and said, “The next time, little one, we’ll be more comfortable.”

  I climbed out of the car, its windows fogged, and everyone in the street noticed that my hair was mussed and I was upset, leaving a driver who had salt-and-pepper hair and a crooked tie.

  11 February

  Things aren’t going so well at school. It may be because I’m lazy and scattered, or because the teachers are too reductive and dogmatic … Perhaps I have a somewhat idealistic vision of school and teaching in general, but the reality utterly disappoints me. I hate maths! The fact that it isn’t a matter of opinion makes me angry. And then there’s that idiot of a teacher who keeps calling me a know-nothing without being able to explain anything! In Il Mercatino I pored over the classified ads in search of tutors and found a couple of interesting possibilities. Only one was available. A man; from the sound of his voice he seems rather young. Tomorrow we’ll meet to sort things out.

  Letizia throbs in my brain from morning to night; I don’t know what’s happening to me. Sometimes I feel like I’m up for anything.

  10:40 pm

  Fabrizio called me, and we talked a long time. At the end, he asked me if I had access to a place where we might meet. I answered no.

  “Then the time has come,” he said, “to give you a splendid gift.”

  12 February

  The maths tutor opened the door in a white shirt and black boxers, wet hair and tortoiseshell glasses. I bit my lip and said hello. His greeting was a smile, “Please, Melissa, make yourself comfortable.” I felt the same sensation as when I was a child and mixed milk, oranges, chocolate, coffee, and strawberries in the space of an hour. He shouted to someone in the next room, saying that he was going into the bedroom with me. He opened the door, and for the first time I entered the bedroom of a normal man: no pornographic photos, no imbecilic trophies, no clutter. The walls were covered with old photos, posters of old heavy metal groups, Impressionist prints. And there was an unusual, seductive fragrance that went right to my head.

  He didn’t excuse his obviously informal attire, and I thought it rather amusing that he didn’t. He asked me to sit on the bed while he took the chair at the desk and drew it closer, placing it in front of me. I felt a bit awkward … damn! I was expecting some dry-as-dust pedagogue in a canary yellow V-neck sweater, with his hair combed forward and dyed the same shade as the sweater. Instead I found myself before a tanned, sweet-scented, and extremely attractive young man. I still hadn’t removed my overcoat, and with a laugh he said, “Hey, watch I don’t eat you when you take that off.”

  I laughed as well, displeased by the fact that he couldn’t eat me. I hadn’t yet registered his shoes: no white socks, fortunately, just a slender ankle and a tanned, well-groomed foot that made concentric movements while we discussed the fee, the syllabus, and the schedule for our lessons.

  “We’re going to start at the very beginning,” I said.

  “Don’t worry: I’ll have you start at the two times table.” He winked.

  I was seated on the edge of the bed with my legs crossed and my hands folded on my knee.

  “You have such a lovely way of sitting.” He interrupted me as I was talking about my maths teacher.

  I bit my lip again and snorted as if to say, “Do you really expect me to take you seriously? What a cheesy line!”

  “Ah, I nearly forgot,” he said, changing the subject. “My name is Valerio. Don’t ever call me Professor; you’ll make me feel too old.” He shook his finger in a mock threat.

  I dallied a little: after so many witty remarks on his part, I obviously had to make one.

  I cleared my throat and said softly, “What if I really wanted to call you Professor?”

  This time it was he who bit his lip. He shook his head and asked, “And why would you want to do that?”

  I shrugged and after a brief pause said, “Because it’s more fun, is it not, Professor?”

  “Call me whatever you like, just don’t look at me with those eyes,” he said, visibly disturbed.

  Here I go again, the same old same old. What can I possibly do about it? I can’t avoid arousing someone I find attractive, sitting so close to me. I score a bull’s eye with every word, every bre
ak in the conversation, and I feel great. It’s a game.

  18 February 8:35 pm

  They’re already eating supper in the kitchen. I’ve stolen a moment to write, because I really want to take stock of what happened.

  Today I had my first lesson with Valerio. I managed to learn something with him, perhaps because I love to gaze at his shoulders and his elegant, tapering fingers as they accompany the movements of the pen. I was able to solve two problems, even if it was a struggle. He was very serious, professional, and this made him more attractive. He has captured me. The looks he sent me were awestruck, and yet he sought to maintain a discreet distance between us – lest my cunning interfere with his teaching.

  I wore a tight skirt for the occasion; I wanted to seduce him brazenly. So, when I stood up and headed for the door, he started to walk behind me, almost brushing against me. To play with him, I alternated quick strides with slower steps in such a way that he was forced to come close and then immediately back off.

  When I pressed the button for the elevator, I felt his breath on my neck, and in a whisper he said, “Keep your phone free tomorrow night between 10 and 10:15.”

  19 February 2002

  10:30 pm

  Two bits of news (as usual, one good, one bad).

  Fabrizio has bought a little apartment downtown where we can see each other without being discovered by our respective families.

  On the phone he was all peachy: “I’ve had a gigantic screen mounted in the bedroom so we can watch some of those flicks, eh, little one? You’ll have your own set of keys, of course. A big kiss on your lovely little face. Ciao, ciao.”