One Hundred Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

by Melissa P.

  My excitement was growing, filling my soul and flowing anew from my sex, provoking a mysterious exaltation. I was subjugating him, and I was happy. Happy for me and happy for him. For him because it was what he wanted, one of his greatest desires. For me because it was a means of asserting my person, my body, my soul, my entire self over another person, swallowing him up completely. I was participating in a celebration of my self. Seizing the whip, I passed first the shaft and then the leather strips over his bottom, although without striking it. I gave him a light blow and felt his body shudder and contract. Above us the bluebottle kept on bashing against the light, and before me hung the curtain, pulled by the half-opened window to the point of ripping. A final violent lash to his tortured, reddened back, and then I grabbed the dildo. I had never held one, and I didn’t like it. I coated the surface with the sticky gel, my fingers gauging the falsity of the thing, its utter lack of naturalness. It was very different from seeing Gianmaria and Germano slowly enter each other’s bodies, doing it gently, tenderly, being inside a reality that was different but true, comforting. The present reality repulsed me: it was completely false, miserably hypocritical. He was hypocritical in relation to his life, his family, a worm who prostrated himself at the feet of a girl. The dildo entered with difficulty, and I felt it vibrate in my hand as if it had split something: his guts. As I was penetrating him, I repeated a series of phrases in my head, like a litany chanted during a rite.

  This is for your ignorance: first thrust. This is for your feeble presumptuousness: second thrust. For your daughter who will never know she has a father like you; for your wife who lies next to you at night; for not including me, for not understanding me, for not grasping the fundamental essence of me, which is beauty. That true beauty which we all have, but you lack. I gave him countless thrusts, every one rough, sharp, lacerating. He was groaning beneath me, screaming, weeping at times. His orifice widened, and I saw it red with tension and blood.

  “Can’t you take it, you disgusting brute?” I sneered cruelly.

  He screamed at the top of his voice; perhaps he experienced an orgasm. Then he said, “Enough, I beg you.”

  And I stopped as my eyes filled with tears. I left him on the bed, ravaged, destroyed, completely broken. I got dressed, and in the lobby I said goodbye to the concierge. I hadn’t say goodbye to him, I hadn’t looked at him, I just left, and that was it.

  When I arrived home, I didn’t look in the mirror. Before going to sleep, I gave myself a hundred brush strokes. To see my face destroyed and my hair mussed would have hurt me, too much.

  4 March 2002

  The night was filled with horrific dreams. One in particular made me quake.

  I was running through a dark barren forest chased by mysterious evil characters. Before my eyes rose a tower lit by the sun; it was just like Dante trying to reach the hill but failing because he was thwarted by three wild beasts. Except that I wasn’t actually thwarted by three wild beasts, but rather by an arrogant angel and his devils and behind them an ogre with a bellyful of babies’ bodies and farther on an androgynous monster followed by young sodomites. They were all foaming at the mouth, and someone was dragging himself laboriously, scraping his body along the parched earth. I was running, turning around constantly for fear that one of them might reach me; they were all screaming incoherent, unpronouncable phrases. At a certain point, I stopped paying attention to the obstacle before me and began shouting. Opening my eyes wide, I spotted the kind face of a man who, taking me by the hand, led me through dark secret paths to the foot of the high tower. He held up a finger and said, “Ascend the stairs and never turn around. At the top, you will halt and discover what you sought in vain in the forest.”

  “Run, before I meet up with them again!” he screamed, violently shaking his head.

  “But you are my saviour! I don’t need to climb the tower; I have already found you!” This time I was shouting joyfully.

  “Run!” he repeated. Then his eyes changed, turning red and ravenous, and he ran off, foaming at the mouth. I stood there, at the foot of the tower, my heart shattered.

  22 March 2002

  My parents went away for a week and will return tomorrow. For days I’ve had the house to myself, and I came and went as I pleased. At the beginning, I thought of inviting someone to spend the night with me, perhaps Daniele, who contacted me a couple of days ago, or Roberto, or perhaps I would dare call Germano or Letizia – someone, in other words, who might keep me company. Instead I enjoyed my solitude; I stayed by myself and thought about all the beautiful things that had recently happened to me, as well as the ugly ones.

  I know, Diary, I’ve hurt myself, I’ve had no respect for me, for my person, which I say I love so much. I’m not so sure I love myself as I once did: a girl who loves herself doesn’t let her body be violated by any man whatsoever, without a specific reason and without even any pleasure. I tell you this as a prelude to revealing a secret, a sad secret that I foolishly wanted to hide from you, deluding myself that I’d forget. One night while I was alone, I thought I’d cheer myself up and get a little air, so I went to the pub where I always go, and after a few beers I met a guy who chatted me up, in a way that was neither nice nor courteous. I was drunk, he turned my head, and I gave him free rein. He brought me back to his place, and when he closed the door behind me, I was overwhelmed with fear, a tremendous fear, which my drunkenness enabled me to repress immediately. I asked him to let me go, but he wouldn’t, compelling me with his tiny crazed eyes to undress. Frightened, I did it, and then I did everything he ordered me to do. I penetrated myself with a vibrator he thrust into my hand, and I felt the walls of my vagina burn, felt the skin tear. I cried as he offered me his little, flaccid member. He was holding my head, and I couldn’t avoid doing what he wanted. He couldn’t come; my jaws, even my teeth were aching.

  He threw himself on the bed and abruptly fell asleep. Instinctively, I looked in the bedside table and expected to find the money he would’ve owed a good whore. I went into the bathroom and washed my face without deigning, even for a wretched instant, to glance at my reflected image. I would’ve seen the monster that everyone wants me to become. I can’t allow myself to become that, I can’t allow them to want it. I am dirty; only Love, if it exists, can cleanse me again.

  28 March

  Yesterday I told Valerio what had happened to me the other night. I expected him to say, “I’ll come right away,” to take me in his arms and cuddle me, to whisper that I mustn’t worry about anything, he would be there with me. None of this happened. He told me in a bitter, reproachful tone that I’m stupid, a fool, and it’s true that I am – no shit! But it’s already enough that I blame myself, I don’t want sermons from other people, I just want someone to hug me and make me feel good. This morning he was waiting for me by the school entrance; I would’ve never imagined such a surprise. He arrived on a motorcycle, his hair blowing in the wind and a pair of sunglasses covering his splendid eyes. I was chatting away in front of a bench where a few of my classmates were sitting. My hair was a mess, my book bag heavy on my shoulder, and my face flushed. When I saw him arrive with his sly, captivating smile, my jaw dropped, and I was tongue-tied for a moment. I quickly said “Excuse me” to my mates and ran into the street to greet him. I threw myself against him in a childish manner; it was spontaneous and said a great deal. He told me he was longing to see me, he missed my smile and my perfume, he thought he’d fallen into some sort of crisis of abstinence from Lolita.

  “What are the clones looking at?” he asked me, nodding toward the kids in the piazza.

  “Who do you mean?” I asked.

  He explained that this was his term for young people who all look identical, each of them a member of the same great, enormous herd. It’s their way of distinguishing themselves from the adult world.

  “You have a strange way of defining us. Anyway, they’re looking at your bike, they’re intrigued by you, and they envy me because I’m talking to you. Tomorrow the
y’ll ask me, ‘Who was that guy talking to you?’”

  “And what will you say?” he asked, certain of my response.

  His certainty irritated me, so I said, “I might or might not answer. It depends on who asks and how they ask.”

  I looked at his tongue wetting his lips, looked at his eyelashes, long and black as a baby’s, and his nose, which seems a perfect copy of mine. Then I looked at his penis, which swelled when I drew close and whispered, “I want to be possessed, now, in front of everybody.”

  He looked at me and smiled, nervously clenching his lips as if to contain his feverish excitement. Then he asked, “Lo, Lo, do you want to drive me crazy?”

  I answered yes with a slow nod and flashed a smile.

  “Let me smell your perfume, Lo.”

  I offered him my pure white neck, and he nuzzled it, filling his lungs with my musky vanilla fragrance. “I’m going now, Lo.”

  He couldn’t leave. This time I was ready to play all my cards.

  “You want to know what panties I’m wearing today?”

  He was about to start the motor, but he stared at me, Shocked, and with his mind befogged, he answered yes.

  I hiked up my trousers, unbuttoning them at the top, so he could see that I wasn’t wearing panties. He continued to stare at me, searching for a response.

  “I often go pantyless. I like it,” I told him. “Remember that night we did it the first time?”

  “You’re driving me crazy.”

  I drew near his face, keeping a distance that was very close and therefore very dangerous. “Yes,” I said, looking straight into his eyes, “that’s my intention.”

  We gazed at each other without saying a word for a long time. He would occasionally shake his head and smile. I again approached his ear and told him, “Rape me tonight.”

  “No, Lo … it’s risky,” he replied.

  “Rape me,” I repeated, at once bossy and wicked.

  “Where, Mel?”

  “The place where we went the first time.”

  29 March

  1:30 am

  I climbed out of the car and closed the door, leaving him inside. I set off down those dark, narrow streets, and he waited a little while before following me. I found myself alone, crossing the jagged pavement. I heard the noise of the sea in the distance, then nothing more. I looked at the stars and felt as if I had to catch their imperceptible sound, beings that twinkle intermittently. Then the engine and headlights of his car. I stayed calm; I wanted everything to unfold as I had planned it: he was the executioner, I the victim. Victim in body, humiliated and subjugated. But the mind, mine and his – I command it, I alone. I desire all this; I am mistress of it. He is a fake master, a master who is my slave, slave to my desires and whims.

  The car pulled up. He switched off the engine and headlights and climbed out. For a few moments I thought I was again alone, as I heard nothing … There he goes; I heard him. He was walking at a slow, calm pace, but he was breathing fast, panting. Unexpectedly, I felt fear. He started to pursue me more vehemently, he ran toward me and, seizing my arm, threw me against the wall.

  “Signorinas with lovely little asses shouldn’t wander around the streets alone,” he said, his tone of voice changing.

  With one hand he held my arm, hurting me; with the other, he pushed my head toward the wall, pressing my face hard against the rough, muddy surface.

  “Stay still,” he ordered.

  I was waiting for the next move, I was excited but also frightened, and I asked myself what I would have felt if a real stranger were violating me, not my sweet Prof. Then I erased this thought, recalling a few nights ago and all the violence my soul has endured so many times … and I still wanted violence, violence beyond endurance. I am accustomed to it; perhaps I can’t do without it. It would seem strange to me if one day gentleness and tenderness came knocking at my door and asked to enter. Violence kills me, wears me down, dirties me, and feeds on me, but with and for it I survive, I feed on it.

  He used his free hand to rummage through a trouser pocket. He squeezed my white wrists hard, released me a moment, then used his other hand to grab the object he had taken from his pocket. It was a blindfold. He tied it around the upper part of my face, covering my eyes.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “I’m raising your skirt, whore. Don’t speak, and don’t scream.”

  I felt his hand inside my panties, his fingers caressing my sex. Then he gave me a violent slap; I groaned in pain.

  “I told you not to make a sound.”

  “Actually, you told me not to speak or scream. I groaned,” I whispered, knowing he would punish me for this.

  In fact, he gave me another slap, even more violent. But I didn’t make a sound.

  “Brava, Lo, you’re great.”

  He bowed down, still holding me tightly, and began to kiss my buttocks, on which he had visited so much violence. When he started to lick them slowly, my desire to be possessed grew, I couldn’t stop it. I arched my back to make him seize my lust.

  In response I received another slap.

  “When I say,” he ordered.

  I could perceive only sounds and his hands on my body. I was deprived of sight and now of total pleasure.

  He let go of my wrists and leaned his entire body against me. With both hands he grabbed my breasts, free of any constraint that might impede him. He grabbed them hard, hurting me, squeezing them with fingers that felt like burning pincers.

  “Easy,” I murmured, scarcely audible.

  “No, it’ll be the way I say,” and he let loose another very violent slap. As he was rolling my skirt up to my hips, he said, “I would’ve liked to hold out longer, but I can’t. You’ve got me too worked up, and I can’t do anything but give in to you.”

  He plunged a stake into me, penetrating me deeply, filling me completely with his excitement, his uncontrollable passion.

  A powerful, shuddering orgasm swept through my body, and I collapsed against the wall, scratching my skin. He held me, and I felt his hot breath on my neck. His panting made me feel good.

  I remained so long like that, too long, long enough that I didn’t want it ever to end. Returning to the car meant returning to reality, a cold, cruel reality from which escape was inevitable, as I immediately realized. He and I, the marriage of our souls, had to end there; the circumstances won’t ever permit either of us to be completely and spiritually inside the other.

  On the way back, stuck in the traffic that brings chaos to Catania every night, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “Lo, I love you.” He took my hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it. Lo, not Melissa. He loves Lolita; he knows nothing of Melissa.

  4 April 2002

  Diary,

  I’m writing to you from a hotel room; I’m in Spain, in Barcelona. I’m on a school trip, and I’m having lots of fun even if the sour, obtuse teacher looks at me cockeyed when I say I don’t want to visit museums, I feel they’re a waste of time. I hate visiting a place just to learn about its history. OK, that’s important too, but later what good will it be to me? Barcelona is so alive, upbeat, but with an undercurrent of melancholy. It’s like a beautiful, fascinating woman with deep, sad eyes that dig into your soul. It’s like me. I’d like to wander through the nocturnal streets lined with bars and swarming with all kinds of people, but they’re forcing me to spend the nights in discos where, if things go well, I manage to meet someone who hasn’t yet got wasted on alcohol. I don’t like dancing; it bores me. There’s so much noise in my room: someone’s jumping on the bed, someone’s chugging sangria, someone’s puking in the toilet. I’m going now, Giorgio is pulling me by the arm …

  7 April

  The next-to-last day. I don’t want to go home. This is my home, I feel comfortable, safe, happy, understood by the Barcelona natives, even though we don’t speak the same language. It’s a relief not to hear the phone ringing with calls from Fabrizio or Roberto – and I don’t have to concoct some excuse for refusing
to meet them. It’s a relief to be able to talk late with Giorgio without feeling I have to slip into his bed and give him my body.

  Where have you ended up, Narcissa, you who loved yourself so much, who smiled so much, who wanted to give as much as she received? Where have you ended up with your dreams, your hopes, your manias, those of life as well as those of death? Where have you ended up, mirror image? Where do I search for you, where do I find you? How can I control you?

  4 May 2002

  Today Letizia was standing at the school entrance. She came to meet me with her round face framed by huge sunglasses, quite like those I’ve seen in photos of my mother from the 1970s. She was with two girls who were obviously lesbians.

  One is named Wendy. She’s my age, but her eyes make her look much older. The other one, Floriana, is slightly younger than Letizia.

  “I’ve been dying to see you,” Letizia told me, gazing into my eyes.

  “I’m glad you came,” I replied. “I’ve wanted to see you too.”

  In the meantime people were leaving school and taking seats on the benches in the piazza. Kids were looking at us curiously, whispering and snickering among themselves. The virgins of Sant’Ilario were even more sour, sanctimonious, and stupid than ever: they turned up their noses and rolled their eyes, fixing the pigtails their mommies made for them that morning before coming to school. I thought I caught some of their comments: “Did you see who she’s going around with? I always said she was strange.”

  Letizia seemed to pick up on my uneasiness, so she said, “We’re going to have lunch at the centre. Do you want to come?”

  “What centre?” I asked.

  “Gay-Lesbian. I have the keys. We’ll be alone.”

  I accepted. I started my scooter and Letizia got on behind me, gluing her breasts to my back and breathing on my neck. We laughed a lot on the road. I was constantly weaving in and out because I wasn’t used to carrying another person; she kept on sticking out her tongue at the little old ladies, her arms encircling my waist.