by Melissa P.
When Letizia opened the door, a special world appeared before my eyes. It was only a house, yet a house that didn’t belong to anyone in particular, but to the entire gay community. It was furnished with everything and more; the library contained not only books, but also a huge jar filled with condoms. Displayed on a table were gay magazines, fashion magazines, magazines about cars, others about health. A cat wandered through the rooms, rubbing against our legs, and I caressed him as I caress Morino, my beautiful beloved cat (who is here now, curled up on my desk; I hear him breathing).
We were hungry, so Letizia and Floriana proposed going to buy a pizza from the shop on the corner. As they were about to leave, Wendy gave me a cheerful look with a dim-witted smile. She had a peculiar spring in her step; she seemed like some sort of crazed imp. I was afraid to be alone with her, so I went to the door and shouted for Letizia, saying I wanted to keep her company. Wendy interrupted me, trying to get me to stay inside. My friend immediately guessed what was happening and with a smile invited Floriana to go back. While we were waiting for the pizza, we didn’t speak much. Then I said, “Shit, my fingers are frozen!”
Letizia looked at me mischievously, but also ironically. “Mmmm,” she said, “I’ll have to keep that in mind …”
While we were walking back, we met a friend of hers named Gianfranco. Everything about him was sweet: his face, his skin, his voice. His infinite gentleness filled me with happiness. He came inside with us, and we sat talking on the sofa while the others set the table. He told me he was a bank clerk, although his outrageous tie seemed in sharp contrast to the sober world of banking. His voice sounded sad, but asking him about it would’ve seemed too forward. I felt like him. Then he left, and the four of us sat around the table, chattering away and laughing. Or more precisely I was the only one who was chattering, nonstop, as Letizia looked at me, attentive and at times disconcerted when I spoke about some guy I’d been to bed with.
Later on I stood up and went into the garden, which was neat but not well tended. They had planted tall datepalms and strange trees with prickly trunks and huge pink flowers in their foliage. Letizia walked up and hugged me from behind, grazing my neck with a kiss.
I turned around instinctively and met her mouth: hot, soft, extremely yielding. Now I understood why men love to kiss women so much: a woman’s mouth is so innocent, pure, whereas the men I’ve met always leave me with a slimy trail of saliva, coarsely thrusting their tongues into my mouth. Letizia’s kiss was different: it was velvety, fresh yet intense at the same time.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had,” she told me as she held my face.
“You too,” I responded, although I didn’t know why. There was no need to say it since she was my only woman!
Letizia changed roles with me, and this time I took the lead, rubbing my body against hers. I hugged her tightly, breathing her perfume; then she led me to the next room, lowered my pants, and ended the tender torture that had begun a few weeks ago. Her tongue was melting me, but the thought of achieving an orgasm in a woman’s mouth made me shudder. While her tongue was licking me, while she was on her knees before me, straining for my pleasure, I closed my eyes, and with my hands folded like the paws of a frightened rabbit, I recalled the invisible little man who used to make love to me in my childhood fantasies. The invisible man is faceless, colourless; he is only a sex and a tongue which I use for my enjoyment. It was then that my orgasm arrived, so powerful it had me panting. Her mouth was full of my sap, and when I opened my eyes, I saw her – what a marvellous surprise – with a hand inside her panties, writhing with the pleasure that was arriving for her too, perhaps more keen and genuine than mine had been.
Later we lay down on the sofa, and I believe I slept for a short while. When the sun set and the sky darkened, she accompanied me to the door, and I told her, “Leti, it would be better if we didn’t see each other again.”
She nodded, smiled gently, and said, “I agree.”
We exchanged a last kiss. When I was heading home on my motorino, I felt used yet again, used by another and by my own wicked impulses.
18 May 2002
I’m recalling the sound of my mother’s warm, reassuring voice. Yesterday, while I was in bed with the flu, she told me this story:
“Something you find difficult, something you don’t want, can prove to be a wonderful gift. You know, Melissa, we often receive gifts without our knowledge. This is the story of a young sovereign who assumes the rule of a kingdom. He was beloved before he became king, and his subjects, delighted with his coronation, brought him ever so many gifts. After the ceremony, whilst the new king was dining in his palace, he suddenly heard a knock on the door. The servants found a shabbily dressed old man, to all appearances a beggar, who wished to see the sovereign. They did their utmost to dissuade him, but to no avail. Then the king went to meet him. The old man showered him with praise, telling him that he was very handsome, and that everyone in the kingdom was pleased to have him as sovereign. He had brought the king a gift: a melon. The king detested melons, but to be polite to the old man, he accepted it, thanked him, and the old man departed happily. The king went back inside the palace and handed the fruit to the servants, so that they might toss it into the garden.
“The next week, at the same hour, there was another knock on the door. The king was summoned once again, and the beggar lauded him, offering him another melon. The king accepted it, saluted the old man, and, once again, tossed the melon into the garden. The scene was repeated for several weeks: the king was too polite to affront the old man or to scorn the generosity of his gift.
“Then, one evening, just when the old man was about to deliver the melon to the king, an ape leapt down from a portico and caused the fruit to fall from his hands. The melon broke into a thousand pieces against the façade of the palace. When the king looked, he saw a shower of diamonds fall from the heart of the melon. Anxiously, he ran to the garden behind the palace: all the melons had turned into mounds of jewels.”
I stopped her, excited by the beautiful story, and said, “Can I infer the moral?”
She smiled and said, “Of course.”
I took a deep breath, just as I do whenever I get ready to repeat a lesson at school. “Sometimes inconvenient situations, problems, or difficulties conceal opportunities for growth; very often in the heart of difficulties shines the light of a precious jewel. It is therefore wise to welcome what is inconvenient and difficult.”
She smiled again, stroked my hair, and said, “You’ve grown, little one. You’re a princess.”
I wanted to weep, but I restrained myself. My mother didn’t know that, for me, the king’s diamonds had been the crude bestiality of boorish men incapable of love.
20 May
Today the Prof came to meet me again outside school. I was waiting for him: I gave him a letter in which I enclosed a particular pair of panties.
I am these panties. They describe me best, curiously designed with a dangling ribbon on each side. To whom could they belong, if not some Lolita?
Yet they don’t simply belong to me; they are me and my body.
I happen to have worn them often when I made love, perhaps never with you, but that doesn’t matter. The ribbons hold back my impulses and my senses; they are the ties that, apart from leaving a mark on my skin, restrain my feelings. Imagine my body wearing nothing but these panties. If one knot is untied, only one of my spirits is released.
Sensuality. The spirit of Love is still impeded by the other knot. Thus, whoever has untied my Sensuality will see only the woman, the girl, or generically the female, capable of receiving sex, nothing more. He possesses only half of me, and it is probably what I want on most occasions. When someone unties only the knot of Love, I shall give another part of me, a part that is small but deep. Then the day may come when my jailer arrives, offering me the keys to release both of my spirits: Sensuality and Love are set free and take wing. You feel good, free and satisfied, and your mind
and body no longer ask for anything, no longer torment you with their requests. Like a tender secret, they are freed by a hand that knows how to caress you, that knows how to make you throb, and they glow at the mere thought of that hand.
Now smell that part of me which lies exactly in the centre between Love and Sensuality: it is my Soul, which seeps through my fluids.
You were right when you told me I was born to screw. As you see, my Soul too wishes to be desired and gives off its smell, the female smell. Perhaps the hand that freed my spirits is yours, Prof.
I dare say only your sense of smell could fathom my fluids, my Soul. Don’t scold me for saying this, Prof, if I go too far. I feel I must do it because at least in future I won’t regret losing an opportunity before grasping it. This thing creaks inside me like a door that needs to be oiled; its noise is deafening. When we are with you, in your arms, my panties and I are free of any impediment, any chains. Yet the spirits have met a wall in their flight, the horrendous and unjust wall of time, which passes slowly for one, fast for the other, a series of figures that keep us at arm’s length. I hope your mathematical intelligence might offer you some hints on how to solve this terrible equation. But not only this: you recognize only one part of me, even though you have liberated two. And that isn’t the part I would like to let live on its own. It’s up to you to decide whether to bring about a change in our relationship, whether to make it become more… “spiritual”, a tad more profound. I put my trust in you.
Yours,
Melissa
23 May
3:14 pm
Where is Valerio? Why did he leave me without a kiss?
29 May 2002
2:30 am
I weep, Diary, I weep with immense joy. I’ve always known that joy and happiness do exist. This is something I’ve sought in so many beds, in so many men, even in a woman, something I’ve sought in myself and then forfeited. And now I’ve found it in the most anonymous and ordinary of places. Not in a person, but in a person’s eyes. Along with Giorgio and some others I went to the new café that just opened right near my house, about fifty metres from the sea. It’s an Arab place with belly dancers who gyrate round the tables when they’re not serving. There are pillows on the floor, carpets, candles, incense. It was packed, so we decided to wait till a table was free and we could sit down. I was leaning against a streetlight, thinking about a phone call from Fabrizio. It had ended badly: I told him I didn’t want anything from him, and never want to see him again.
He started crying and said he’d given me everything, by which he meant money, money, and more money.
“If this is how you treat people, I don’t have to take it. But thanks for the offer, all the same,” he shouted ironically. I hung up on him. I didn’t answer any more of his calls and won’t ever, I swear. I hate that man: he’s a worm, a scumbag, I won’t give myself to him again.
I was thinking about all this and about Valerio. I was frowning, and my eyes were fixed on some unspecified point. Then, as I was turning away from those irksome thoughts, my gaze met his: who knows how long he was watching me. He was gentle and sweet. I looked at him, and he looked at me, at very brief intervals. We would turn away, but our eyes couldn’t help but pounce on each other again. His were deep and sincere, and this time I wasn’t deluding myself by creating absurd fantasies about wanting to be hurt or punished. This time I really believed what was happening, I saw his eyes, they were there, staring at me, and they seemed to be saying they wanted to love me, wanted to get to know me better. I began to look more carefully at him. He was sitting with his legs crossed, a cigarette in his hand. His lips were fleshy, his nose slightly pronounced but impressive, and he had the eyes of an Arab prince. He was offering something to me, me alone. He wasn’t looking at any other girl, he was looking at me, and not the way men usually look at me on the street, but sincerely and honestly. I don’t know what motivated me to do it, but I let out a laugh that was too loud. I couldn’t contain myself. I felt so intensely happy I couldn’t limit myself to a smile. Giorgio was watching me, amused; he asked me what was up. With a wave I signalled he shouldn’t worry and hugged him to justify my sudden explosion. I turned around again and noticed the prince was smiling, offering me a glimpse of his splendid white teeth. It was then that I calmed down and told myself, “Don’t forget, Melissa, scare him off. Make him see you’re an idiot, a defective, an ignoramus. And above all do it now: don’t make him wait!”
While I was thinking this, a girl passed by him and stroked his hair. He looked at her for no more than an instant, then shifted over a bit to get a better look at me.
Giorgio distracted me: “Meli, let’s go somewhere else. My stomach’s rumbling; don’t make me wait any longer.”
“Come on, Giorgio, another ten minutes,” I responded. “You’ll see, something will open up.” I didn’t want to part with those eyes.
“Why are you so keen to stay here? Got your eye on some guy?”
I smiled and nodded.
He sighed and said, “We’ve had a long talk about this, Melissa. Chill out for a while; nice things happen by themselves.”
“This time is different,” I told him like a spoiled brat.
He sighed again and said they were going to check out other places in the neighbourhood. If they found a table, they’d grab it. I’d just have to follow.
“OK!” I said, certain they wouldn’t find anything at that hour. I saw them go into the ice cream parlor with the Japanese umbrellas over the tables. Then I returned to the streetlight, trying as hard as possible not to look at him. All of a sudden, I saw him stand up. I think my face must have turned purple, I didn’t know what to do, I was mortally embarrassed. So I turned toward the street and pretended I was waiting for someone, looking into all the cars that arrived. My Indian silk trousers fluttered in the light wind coming off the sea.
I heard his warm, deep voice at my back. He said, “What are you waiting for?”
Out of the blue I thought of an old rhyme I read as a child. It appeared in a fairy tale that my father had brought back from one of his trips. In a way that was spontaneous and unexpected, I recited it as I turned toward him:
I wait and wait till the sun goes down,
and open the gate when someone comes round.
After failure comes success,
why this is so he’ll never guess.
We remained silent, our faces frozen; then we burst out laughing. He offered me a soft hand, and I squeezed it gently but with determination.
“Claudio,” he said without removing his eyes from mine.
“Melissa.” I don’t know how I managed to get it out.
“What were you just saying?”
“What?… Oh, you mean the rhyme. It’s from some fairy tale. I learned it by heart when I was seven.”
He nodded as if to say he understood. Another panic-stricken silence. It was broken by my clumsy yet simpatico friend who had just run up, saying, “Come on, silly. We’ve found a table; we’re waiting for you.”
“I have to go,” I murmured.
“May I knock at your gate?” He too spoke softly.
I looked at him, amazed at his boldness. He wasn’t being cocky; he just didn’t want everything to end there.
I nodded, my eyes teary, and said, “You can easily find me in the neighbourhood. Actually, that’s my room up there.” I pointed to my balcony.
“Then I’ll come and serenade you,” he said with a wink.
We said goodbye, and I didn’t turn around to look at him one more time, as I would’ve liked: I was afraid of ruining everything.
Giorgio asked me, “Who was that?”
I smiled and said, “Someone who’ll never guess.”
“Hunh?” was his response.
I smiled again, pinched his cheek, and said, “You’ll find out soon enough. Chill!”
4 June 2002
6:20 pm
He wasn’t joking, Diary! He really did come to serenade me! People stopped to
watch, burning with curiosity, and I was laughing on the balcony like a lunatic. A portly, red-faced man played a battered guitar, and the prince sang like sweet bells, jangled, out of tune, yet irresistible. Irresistible the way the song filled my eyes and heart. It was an old Sicilian song about a man who was left sleepless by thoughts of his beloved. The melody was at once delicate and agonizing. It went more or less like this:
I toss and turn and can’t stop sighing,
Every night I spend awake.
Your beauty has me analyzing,
I think of you without a break.
For you I gave up my reprieve,
This tortured heart can find no peace.
It begs to know when you I’ll leave –
When my life ends and I surcease.
It was a grand gesture, a shrewd courtship, traditional, some might even say banal, but nonetheless full of charm.
When he had finished, I said jokingly from the balcony, “Now what should I do? If I’m not mistaken, I would need to signal my acceptance of your suit by switching on the light in my bedroom. If, however, I wish to refuse, I must go back inside and switch it off.”
He didn’t respond, but I understood what I had to do. In the hallway I ran into my father (I nearly knocked him down!). He wanted to know who that guy was singing in the street. I burst out laughing and answered that I hadn’t slightest idea.
I dashed down the stairs, just as I was, in shorts and a pullover. Yet when I opened the door, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. Should I run up to him and give him a big hug or just smile and thank him with a handshake? I remained motionless in the doorway, and he realized I wouldn’t approach him if I didn’t have some sort of signal. So he gave me one.
