proud, haughty gaze at me. He asked me a stream of questions while displaying utter indifference. Instead of discouraging me, it made me bolder.
He doesn't like to dance, nor do I. So we stayed by ourselves while the others got loose, drank, and joked.
A hush suddenly fell upon us, and I wanted to fix it.
'Beautiful house, isn't it?' I said, feigning self-confidence.
He just shrugged his shoulders. I didn't want to be pushy, so I remained silent.
The moment for intimate questions had arrived. When everybody was busy dancing, he moved even closer to my chair and started looking at me with a smile. I was surprised and charmed, expecting him to make some sort of move; we were alone, in the dark, and now quite favorably close to each other. It was then that he asked me, 'Are you a virgin?'
I turned crimson and felt a lump in my throat as a thousand pins pricked my brain.
I answered a timid yes, which immediately made me turn away my eyes in order to quell my immense embarrassment. He bit his lip to repress a laugh and confined himself to a cough without uttering a single syllable. Inside me the reproaches were loud and harsh. 'He'll never pay attention to you again! Idiot!' But in the end what could I say? The truth is that I'm a virgin. I've never been touched by anyone but myself, and I'm proud of it. Still, the curiosity is there and it's very strong, particularly a curiosity about the nude male body. I've always been prevented from getting to know it: when a nude scene comes on the TV, my father grabs the remote control and changes the channel. And when, just this summer, I stayed out all night with a boy from Firenze who was on holiday here, I didn't dare put my hand on the same place where he had already put his.
Then there's the desire to experience a pleasure produced by someone other than me, to feel his skin against mine. Finally there's the privilege of being the first among girls my age to have a sexual relationship. Why did he ask me that question? I haven't even thought about what my first time will be like, and I'll probably never think about it. I want only to live it and, if I can, cherish a memory that forever remains beautiful, a memory that will keep me company at the saddest moments in my life. I'mthinking Daniele could be it-or so various things have led me to feel.
Last night we exchanged phone numbers and during the night, while I was sleeping, he sent me a text message. I read it this morning: 'It was great to be with you, you're very pretty, and I want to see you again. Come to my house tomorrow and we'll go for a swim.'
7:10 P.M.
I'm perplexed and upset. The outcome I'd been unable to anticipate till a few hours ago was rather harsh, even if not entirely disgusting.
His vacation home is very beautiful, surrounded by a verdant garden and myriads of the freshest, most colorful flowers. The sun's reflection shone in the blue swimming pool, and the water was so inviting you could just dive in. But today, of all days, I couldn't: my period stopped me. Under the weeping willow I watched the others diving and playing while I sat at a little bamboo table holding a glass of iced tea. Every so often he would glance in my direction and smile, and I would cheer up again. Then I saw him climb up the ladder and come toward me, the water slowly trickling down his glistening torso. He swept back his soaking hair and sprayed droplets all around.
'I'm sorry you can't have any fun,' he said with a slightly ironic tone.
'No problem,' I answered. 'I'll just get some sun.'
Without a word he took me by the hand as he grabbed the cold glass and set it down on the table.
'Where are we going?' I asked, laughing but a little worried.
He didn't answer. Instead he led me to a door at the top of a stair, lifted the mat, picked up a set of keys, and inserted one into the lock, watching me with a keen, crafty look as he did it.
'Where are you taking me?' I asked again with the same concealed worry as before.
Once more no answer, just a faint laugh. He opened the door, pulled me inside, and closed it behind me. The room was extremely hot and dimly lit by the glimmers that filtered through the shutters. He leaned me against the door and kissed me passionately, making me savor his lips, which tasted like strawberries and were nearly the same in color. His hands were planted on the door, and the muscles on his back were taut. I could feel them hard beneath my hands while I caressed his back, running my fingers up and down just as the demons were running up and down my body. Then he took my face in his hands, broke away from my mouth, and asked me softly, 'Would you like to do it?'
I bit my lip and answered no, because a thousand fears suddenly invaded me, faceless, abstract fears. The hands he had placed on my cheeks exerted more pressure, and with a force he may have wanted-in vain- to translate into gentleness, he pushed me farther down, abruptly showing me the Unknown. I now had it before my eyes, it smelled male, and every vein that crossed it expressed such power that I felt duty-bound to reckon with it. It entered my lips presumptuously, washing away the strawberry taste that still impregnated them.
Then all of a sudden there was another surprise: my mouth filled with a hot, sour liquid, thick and plentiful. My sudden start at this new discovery gave him a slight twinge; he grabbed my head and pushed it toward him even more forcefully. I heard him panting, and there was a moment when I thought the warmth of his breath reached all the way down to me. I drank the liquid because I didn't know what else to do with it; my throat emitted a soft gurgle that embarrassed me. While I was still on my knees, I saw his hands drop. Thinking he wanted me to raise my face, I smiled. But he just pulled up his bathing suit, and I heard the noise of the elastic against his sweat- soaked skin. I then stood up on my own and looked him in the eyes, searching for some reassuring sign that might brighten me up.
'Do you want something to drink?' he asked.
Still tasting the sour liquid, I answered yes, a glass of water. He left and returned a few seconds later with a glass in his hand. I was still leaning against the door, looking curiously around the room after he had switched on the light. I observed the silk curtains and the sculptures, as well as the various books and magazines scattered across the elegant sofas. An enormous aquarium projected its sparkling light on the walls. I heard noises coming from the kitchen. I felt neither worry nor shame, just a strange contentment. Only later did shame assail me, as he handed me the glass indifferently and I asked, 'Is this really the way it's done?'
'Of course,' he answered with a derisive smile that displayed his beautiful teeth. Then I smiled and hugged him. While I was smelling the nape of his neck, I felt his hands behind me grasping the handle and opening the door.
'Let's meet tomorrow,' he said, and after a kiss that was sweet for me, I went down to the others.
Alessandra looked at me and laughed. I flashed a smile that immediately disappeared as I lowered my head: my eyes filled with tears.
29 July 2000
Diary,
I've been going with Daniele for more than two weeks, and already I feel very close to him. It's true that his behavior toward me is somewhat rude, and never does a compliment or a kind word issue from his mouth: only indifference, insults, irritating laughter. And yet the way he acts makes me even more tenacious. I'm certain the passion I feel can make him all mine, and he'll soon recognize it. During the hot, monotonous afternoons, I often find myself thinking of his taste, the freshness of his strawberry mouth, his muscles firm and rippling like massive fish. And almost always I touch myself, experiencing awesome orgasms, intense and brimming with fantasies. My passion is overwhelming, I feel it beating against my skin, wanting to get out, to unleash all its potency. I have a crazed desire to make love, I'd do it right now, I'd keep at it for days on end, till my passion is completely out, finally free. I know intuitively I shall never be sated anyway; after a short while I shall reabsorb what I have dissipated only to surrender it anew, in a never-ending cycle, always the same, always exciting.
1 August 2000
He told me I'm not capable of doing it, I'm not passionate enough. He said it with his usual mocking smile, and I left in tears, humiliated by his response. We were lying on the hammock in the garden, his head resting on my legs as I gently caressed his hair and gazed at his eyelashes, quite thick for an eighteen-year-old's. I ran a finger across his lips, wetting the tip a little. He awoke and shot me an inquiring look.
'I want to make love, Daniele,' I blurted out. My cheeks were flaming.
