She was sixteen or seventeen, her legs covered in hair, a single dark stripe of hair connecting her eyebrows, hair on her arms, behind her ears. Teeth like white marble, eyes black and glittering. Smooth and solid as steel, a bosom like tanned leather. How beautiful Carmela was. I would spend hours watching her, devouring her with my eyes, imagining her nakedness, her intimacy. She washed, hung laundry, scrubbed, polished, dusted, swept — she did everything with force and fury, and beneath her apron her flesh trembled, indecent. I helped her dry the dishes just to be near enough to smell her. She didn't smell like my mother or my grandmother. She was a woman. I tried to unlock her mystery with my gaze through every gap, every open button, every fold of her dress. Sometimes, unable to contain myself, I'd give her a hard smack on the backside. It felt like hitting a horse. I'd run, afraid of her reaction. But Carmela had been raised in obedience. "Young master, stop that!" was the most she ever dared say, sometimes, when I stood on my head to try to see her thighs.
Carmela's world was for me an infinite mystery. I wanted to see her go to the toilet, comb her hair, get dressed. Sometimes, smoke would come from the bathroom, and from an exchange between my mother and my grandmother I gathered that she danced on sheets of burning newspaper to remove body hair. I trembled with excitement when I saw that smoke, when I saw her ankles, her calves, red and scorched. Carmela, my love — silent, vigorous, agile as a deer, strong as a soldier. I was certainly in love with her. And I tried to understand whether I was in any way loved in return. But it was impossible, in any sense. Behind those black eyes there was only a glimmer, impenetrable. I could do nothing but look at her. I was mad about her.
I followed her, spied on her, devoured her with my eyes. I looked and looked and then closed them to see the rest with my imagination. I'd look at an ankle and close my eyes to picture the knee, the thighs, the groin, the curve of her buttocks. As for her sex — I didn't even dare think about it. I didn't know exactly what it was. I was eleven years old and my father had explained nothing to me. The jokes at school told me little. I imagined only something vast, deep, dangerous — though I couldn't picture what. And part of me, perhaps, was afraid of it. I preferred to think about Carmela's navel, which gave me a powerful and bewildering excitement. One day I decided that Carmela had to be mine. She had to be in my arms, and I had to be able to touch her everywhere, smell her everywhere, discover her everywhere. I couldn't wait any longer, I couldn't hold on. I decided to do it at night. And so it happened.
Almost the first time
It was summer. Everyone was apparently asleep. But I was waiting for my grandmother's pee. Eyes wide open, trembling, I waited. And my grandmother, as she did every night, woke at some point, got up, and standing over the chamber pot, lifted her long nightgown and urinated. It was the signal. After that pee, my grandmother would sleep deeply until morning. And so would my grandfather — and perhaps the whole city. It was the signal. I wouldn't have to imagine anything anymore — everything was about to become real. That was the beginning of the most thrilling sexual adventure of my life.
I got up slowly, barefoot, slipped out of the room and walked the long corridor that led to the kitchen and the room where Carmela slept. I was utterly resolved, like someone walking to an appointment knowing they are expected. And welcome. I was convinced Carmela wouldn't turn me away. In response to my desperate glances, it seemed to me she had returned them with equal desperation. Carmela slept in a room that served as a passage from the sitting room to the kitchen and the bathroom. The door was closed. I stopped and listened — the whole house was breathing steadily in deep sleep. I gripped the handle softly and pushed it slowly downward to open. Naturally the door and handle began to creak, but I moved so slowly it was impossible for anyone to hear. When the door had opened just enough for me to slip through, Carmela shifted in her bed and changed position. She was covered by a sheet. My heart was hammering now. I was within a metre of Carmela's perhaps naked body. I could feel its warmth, its scent. I was overwhelmed, I felt something was about to happen inside me without knowing what. I bent over her, kneeled beside the bed. And stayed still, trying to make out in the darkness what had been storming my imagination. I decided to call her name. Carmela… Carmela… She moved under the sheets without making a sound. I decided to touch her breast. Slowly I reached my hand toward her chest. Gently I landed there. Both my hands on her breast, without squeezing, still, for I don't know how long. My heart racing, Carmela motionless, Naples — my city — a complicit sleeper along with my grandmother and my uncles. I released her breasts. I moved down slightly, to the level of her navel. I needed to see now what hid in the belly of a woman, what the belly of Carmela was made of. I needed to. I could no longer live without discovering this mystery. I was going mad with the desire to make this discovery. I slowly lifted the nightgown. There — in the darkness I could finally make out her legs. Heart in my throat, mouth dry, trembling, I managed to lift the gown to the navel. I couldn't see a thing. Carmela was so hairy, and her hair so black, that from the navel downward there was nothing to see. And yet I was terribly drawn to it. I needed to see more, to discover her secret. I reached my hand toward her belly. I stroked the thick, dense hair. I felt nothing beneath my hand but hair. I tried to move up and then press my fingers further down, but found nothing. What I knew — gleaned from drawings on the walls of public toilets — was that women, unlike us men, have nothing that protrudes from the belly: they have only a hole, and that's where they urinate. I was beginning to suspect this was just one more piece of nonsense boys tell each other. With my index finger I began to press into the hair, starting below the navel, searching for this hole. I pushed with the pad of my index finger, expecting at any moment to plunge into this hole, but there was simply nothing there. I worked my fingertip all around the navel but found nothing, anywhere. I was disappointed. Carmela didn't seem such a great mystery anymore. I began to yawn. It was quite late for me and I couldn't seem to do much more. It was pitch dark. I couldn't see a thing. I leaned over Carmela's face, kissed her on the cheek, touched her breasts once more, covered her with the nightgown and the sheet, buried my nose in her armpits until I nearly lost consciousness. She never moved. Not once. I left, determined to return with a plan.
The First Time
The following night. I was calm, cold, prepared. I'd spent the whole day working on my conquest. In the dark, I waited for the signal — still, determined. My grandmother urinated. Silence. I was so composed I didn't even hurry. The tick-tock of the large alarm clock on the nightstand. The breathing of the whole house. I got up. I picked up the bag I'd prepared, and as though it were the most natural thing in the world, I walked toward Carmela's room. I felt like a lion. Everyone asleep and I wide awake, heading to my appointment with the mystery of woman. I opened the door. Carmela shifted again, legs in the sheets, silence. A silence that seemed watchful, expectant. How beautiful she was, my princess. In the darkness I reached for her breast. And again she moved. I stayed still, intoxicated, heart wild. I went to her feet, gently opened her legs. And again Carmela shifted, accommodating my movements, apparently unaware. I was ready. I climbed onto the bed, kneeling in front of Carmela's open legs. I took two small plates, two candles and some matches from the bag. I set the two plates beside her hips. I lit the matches, melted a little wax, set the candles into it and placed them in the centre of the plates. Now I could finally see. Two candles in the dark give off an enormous light. The whole room was lit — the bed, and Carmela on it: lying on her back, legs open, uncovered to the thighs. She looked like Cinderella: hair loose, eyes closed. The candle flames lit Carmela's belly perfectly. I was breathless.
Carmela appeared to have no interest in waking. She was now motionless, as if lifeless. And yet her warm, burning body seemed to betray her. I had to find that hole. I slowly lifted her nightgown, terrified she might wake and start screaming. After all — even if I was the young master, the grandson of her employer — finding me between her thighs with two lit candles would hardly have reassured her. I wanted to find that hole. It had to exist somewhere; I had a kind of premonition. I sensed the presence of something deep and mysterious but had no idea where it was. Then I caught my breath. When I managed to lift the gown completely and uncover Carmela's belly, I found myself facing something like a full head of hair. Everything was covered in hair, up to the navel and beyond: thick black down, a fur coat. I was fascinated, incredulous. I brought my nose close to it. I checked Carmela's breathing, the candles, the door. I moved closer still, as though I wanted to push my head into that dense forest. I began to search again, in the same places as before, but this time I could see. I pressed all around the navel but found no holes. Instinctively I started to move lower, as if following a call, and suddenly found my fingers sunk into something soft, yielding, almost wet. What was it? I didn't understand. I pressed my index finger everywhere, from the navel to the groin. Nothing. That hole wasn't there. There was only this strange thing — like a mouth, warm and damp. I smelled it. Too intense and strange for my nostrils. Carmela was now moving continuously. It seemed she was about to wake. Only many years later would it become easier to imagine her wide awake. I didn't know what men did with women. I was sure — absolutely certain — that everything had to do with what I had between my legs. I was certain I needed to lie down on top of Carmela now and hold her in my arms. That was what I had to do — I was absolutely sure of it. Being careful of the candles, which kept burning in the dark, their flames following my every breath, I slowly climbed onto Carmela's body, stopping when my belly met hers. I felt her coarse hair pricking my smooth skin. I held her two breasts in my hands and stayed still — for I don't know how long. Carmela kept moving beneath me. I paid no attention, thinking she simply had a restless sleep. Then I started to yawn. The wax was beginning to drip dangerously. Now an overwhelming sleepiness had taken over. I raised myself, blew out the candles, covered Carmela again with her gown, and headed for the bathroom in the same corridor. I urinated and for the first time in my life I felt like a man. I had had Carmela. I was convinced of it. And that was the first time I believed I had made love.
That was my first time. In those days schools had no sex education — which, incredibly, is still the case today. In recent years, because of the hypocrisy of those who govern us, young people learn about sex from pornography.
Alessandro Ippolito