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 P.M.
At school they offered me a role in the play.
Finally I can spend my days doing something fun. I go onstage in a month or so, at a theater in the center of town.
5 February 2002 10:00 p.m.
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 itimmediately, 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 P.M.
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! What 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 p.m.
I'm well aware that the devil sometimes sails under false colors, 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 gray 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.