"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 trou-ser 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 gotten 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-the-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 center. Do you want to come?"
"What center?" 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.
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, as the library contained not only books, but also a huge jar filled with condoms. Displayed on a table were gay magazines, fashion magazines, some 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 to go and 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 tender: 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.