I'm not saying that child abuse is simply a mirror of the times — but something has certainly changed between yesterday and today, and criminal lawyers, think of the internet alone, are doing everything they can to keep the laws up to speed. Meanwhile, going to pick up my daughters and their friends from a nightclub, I overhear that little X "pulled" six of them during the evening, while Y "only" four, and that crazy Z pulled more than eight.
Now for me — and I suspect for most of you — to "pull" a girl or a boy has one specific meaning. So imagine me, frozen behind the wheel, listening to all of this. I drive them all home and the moment I'm finally alone in the garage with my daughters I ask: "What does it mean that X pulled six and the other pulled four? What are you talking about?"
My daughters look at me as though I'm a not-very-bright alien.
"It means they kissed."
One enormous sigh of relief. It seems serious enough, but not outright prostitution.
"And who did they pull — that is, who did they kiss, and where?"
"Whoever came along, Dad. A lot of girls do it like that at the club now — they see someone they like, they look at each other, they kiss for a bit and then it's over."
"And who are these guys? How old are they?"
"Depends — they're always older, obviously."
"Older by how much? If they're more than four years older than the underage girls they're kissing, it's a criminal offence. It's child abuse!"
My daughters exchange glances, observe me with evident pity, and go to bed. "Goodnight, Dad."
A step back
We were at Serenella's place — in the empty apartment next door where the grown-ups sent us after Sunday lunch to get us out from under their feet. Nearly every Sunday. My brother, a schoolmate of his, Serenella — who was much older than us but still not allowed out on her own — Serenella's best friend, who was very plain and always in a bad mood, the seven-year-old daughter of the building's caretaker who looked at least ten, and a record player loaded with Celentano and Morandi.
We danced, pairing up as best we could, each of us secretly dreaming of someone else. And we played tricks: from the fifth floor we threw glasses of water at people in the street below, or tomatoes, or we shouted "help!" just for a laugh.
One day, three girls walked below our balcony. Extraordinary. I flew downstairs and begged them in every way to come up.
"It's a great party, come on up — food, drink, loads of guests!"
The three girls finally smiled and agreed, reassured by Serenella waving from the balcony. They found only this bunch of desperadoes, but they weren't put off — they liked the music and started dancing, pairing up with whoever was free.
One of the three stepped out onto the balcony for a cigarette. She was at least twenty. I followed her.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Sixteen," I said. I'd just turned thirteen.
"Oh, come on," she said, ruffling my hair. I started looking at her: a wide mouth full of lipstick, a top that showed off her enormous breasts, thick black hair with fresh curls.
"Where were you lot going?" I asked, trying not to sound squeaky.
"Nowhere in particular — today's Sunday. It's our day off."
"What do you do?" I asked, emboldened, unable to stop staring at her breasts and her mouth. I wanted to be her child and suckle from her.
"I work in a hairdresser's."
I tried to picture her washing someone's hair.
"And have you got a boyfriend?" I asked, for no particular reason.
"Yes, but he's doing his military service. What about you — have you got a girlfriend?"
"Yes," I lied. "But she couldn't come out today. She had a cold."
She laughed at everything I said and never took her eyes off me.
"And what do you do with your girlfriend?"
"Everything," I said too quickly. And she burst out laughing.
Suddenly I hated her. She was vulgar. I didn't like the way she was dressed. She had a strong provincial accent. I didn't like the way she was looking at me.
"Do you like me?" she asked.
"Yes, a lot," I said without thinking.
"How much do you like me?"
I didn't know what to say. I didn't hate her anymore. I had the feeling something was about to happen and that it all depended on my answers.
"A lot," I repeated, trying to hold her gaze.
"Do you like me more than your girlfriend?"
"Yes, a lot."
She laughed again, head back, mouth open.
"I don't actually have a girlfriend," I told her.
"What a pity," she said, gesturing for me to come closer.
As if hypnotized, I moved toward her. She looked at my hair, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Then she took my face in her hands, brought it close to hers, and while still looking at my mouth she moved in until our noses touched and placed her lips on mine. She held me tight and pushed her tongue into my mouth. I was frightened — I felt this enormous tongue against my teeth, pressing down my throat. She pulled back. Looked at me again. Then she went back in with her tongue, more forcefully. She pulled back again, as if suddenly ashamed, annoyed. She went back inside, said goodbye to her friends and left.
To this day I don't know whether that was child abuse or the first time I kissed a woman.
Alessandro Ippolito