Black Cat
Black Cat
Black Cat

100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

by Melissa P. Translated from Italian by Lawrence Venuti

“The erotic adventures of a sexually ravenous girl . . . A wisp of a book that has had a wallop of an impact . . . readers have simply devoured it.” –The New York Times

  • Imprint Black Cat
  • Page Count 176
  • Publication Date October 18, 2004
  • ISBN-13 978-0-8021-1781-6
  • Dimensions 5" x 7.25"
  • US List Price $13.00

About The Book

The best-selling erotic novel by a Sicilian teenager about a young girl’s search for love in a pornographic world–”a scandal a la Catherine M.” (L”Espresso, Italy)

An instant blockbuster in Italy where it has sold over 850,000 copies and scandalized the nation, and it has gone onto become an international literary phenomenon, 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is the fictionalized memoir of Melissa P., a Sicilian teenager whose quest for love rapidly devolves into a shocking journey of sexual discovery.

Melissa begins her diary a virgin, but a stormy affair at the age of fourteen leads her to regard sex as a means of self-discovery, and for the next two years she plunges into a succession of encounters with various partners, male and female, her age and much older, some met through schoolmates, others through newspaper ads and Internet chat rooms. In graphic detail she describes her entry into a Dante-esque underworld of eroticism, where she willingly participates in group sex and sadomasochism, as well as casual pickups. “I have no remorse. . . . It’s not much use debating whether it’s good or bad. If I had the chance, I’d do it all again.” –Melissa P. in The Bookseller  Melissa’s secret life is concealed from family and friends, revealed only in her diary entries.

Told with disarming candor, Melissa P.’s bittersweet tour of extreme desires is as poignant as it is titillating. One Hundred Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is a stunning erotic debut, a Story of O for our times.

“I discovered myself through sex–through a specific kind of sex which was very different from the kind I engage in now, which is much more normal. . . . Every adolescent to some extent, and especially me, believes that life has to be lived to its fullest extent: all or nothing, black or white, life and death.”  –Melissa P., in The Bookseller

” Foreign rights sold in twenty-four countries
” Film rights sold to Francesca Neri, star of The Ages of Lulu and Live Flesh

Tags Erotica


“The erotic adventures of a sexually ravenous girl . . . A wisp of a book that has had a wallop of an impact . . . readers have simply devoured it.” –The New York Times

“The narrator brings an emotional authority to her work, letting the reader momentarily forget her age and simply relate to her often turbulent journey, until one is reminded that for all her bravado and self-knowledge, she is still a schoolgirl.  100 Strokes is by turns romantic, erotic, sensationalistic, and disturbing.” –Rachel Kramer Bussel, Bust

“What’s most remarkable about this staggeringly assured debut, however, is not the sexual smorgasbord–voyeurism, sadomasochism, group sex, etc., etc.–but the utter lack of any distractions from sex (family, school, friendships) recorded in Melissa’s diary; the prose chaste as the 100 strokes of the hairbrush that mark Melissa’s return from each adventure; and her wide-eyed acceptance that she feeds on the sexual violence that she so abhors.” –Kirkus Reviews

“Melissa tells herself no fairy tales–and therein lies the odd, potent purity of these pages.” –Publishers Weekly

“I discovered myself through sex–through a specific kind of sex which was very different from the kind I engage in now, which is much more normal. . . . Every adolescent to some extent, and especially me, believes that life has to be lived to its fullest extent: all or nothing, black or white, life and death.” –Melissa P., in The Bookseller 

“Remarkably self-assured . . . the shock waves of this self-revealing schoolgirl’s confession . . . are still reverberating.” –The Times (London)

“In the world that surrounds [Melissa], adults have no interest in her and remain hostile, distant, and alien, even as they’re taking off their trousers. All this is conveyed with cold, almost hypnotic sadness, rendered with language much more elegant and precise than one would ever expect from a mere teenager.” –Corriere della Sera (Italy)

‘Scandalous, word perfect, languid like those thoughts that first start to coalesce in adolescence…nostalgic . . . totally nostalgic: this is what I felt having just put down Melissa P’s 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed. . . . The end of the diary is marvellous, idyllic and beyond description: a story that cannot be put down told by an imperious personality whose passion overwhelms the reader.” –Gazzeta del Sud (Italy)

“Catherine M. can go put her clothes back on. . . . Melissa’s diary in which this schoolgirl from Catania narrates her erotic experience is outselling Harry Potter.” –Les Echos (France)

One Hundred Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is imbued with a literary voice, the echo of a physical vibration miraculously caught in the web of the author’s language: the way memories of experience are both expressed and withheld. Melissa’s secret is in the amazing equilibrium between reticence and confession.” –Il Manifesto (Italy)


6 July 2000
3:25 P.M.


I’m writing in my shadowy room plastered with Gustav Klimt prints and posters of Marlene Dietrich. As she levels her languid, haughty gaze at me, I scribble across a white page that reflects the sunlight seeping through the chinks in the blinds.

It’s hot, a dry, torrid heat. I hear the sound of the TV in the next room, and my sister’s tiny voice reaches me as she harmonizes with the theme song of some cartoon. Outside a cricket screeches like there’s no tomorrow, but inside a soft peacefulness has descended on the house. Everything seems safely enclosed in a bell jar of the most delicate glass, and the heat weighs down every movement. But inside me there’s no peace. It’s as if a mouse were gnawing away at my soul, so gently that it even seems sweet. I’m not ill, but I’m not quite well; what’s worrying is that “I’m not.

” Still, I know how to find myself: all I need do is lift my eyes and fix them on the reflection in the mirror, and a soft, peaceful happiness will possess me.

I admire myself before the mirror, and I’m transported by the figure gradually emerging there, by the muscles that have assumed a firmer, more defined shape, by the breasts that are now noticeable beneath pullovers and bob gently at every step. Ever since I was little, my mother has innocently wandered around the house nude, so I’ve grown accustomed to observing the female body, and a woman’s figure is no mystery to me. Still, an impenetrable forest of hair hides the Secret and conceals it from sight. Often, with my image reflected in the mirror, I slip my finger inside, and as I look into my eyes, I’m filled with a feeling of love and admiration for myself. The pleasure of observing me is so intense and powerful that it immediately turns physical, starting with a twitch and ending with an unusual warmth and a shudder, which lasts a few moments. Then the embarrassment comes. Unlike Alessandra, I never fantasize when I touch myself. A while ago she confided to me that she too touches herself, and she said when she does it she likes to imagine she’s being possessed by a man, hard, violently, as if she were going to be hurt. Gosh, I thought, and here I get excited simply by looking in the mirror. She asked me if I also touched myself, and my answer was no. I absolutely don’t want to destroy this pillowed world I’ve constructed, a world of my own, whose only inhabitants are my body and the mirror. Answering yes would have been a betrayal.

The only thing that really makes me feel good is the image I behold and love; everything else is make-believe. My friendships are fake, born by chance and raised in mediocrity, utterly superficial. The kisses I timidly bestow on boys at my school are fake: as soon as I press my lips on theirs, I feel a kind of repulsion–and I bolt whenever I feel their clumsy tongues slipping into my mouth. This house is fake, so far removed from my current state of mind. I want every picture to be suddenly torn from the walls, a freezing, glacial cold to penetrate the windows, the howling of dogs to replace the crickets’ song.

I want love, Diary. I want to feel my heart melt, want to see my icy stalactites shatter and plunge into a river of passion and beauty.

8 July 2000
8:30 P.M.

A commotion on the street. Laughter fills the stifling summer air. I imagine the eyes of my peers before they leave their homes: bright, animated, yearning for a fun night out. They’ll spend it on the beach singing songs accompanied by a guitar. Some will wander off to spots cloaked in darkness to whisper infinite words into each other’s ears. Others will swim tomorrow in a sea warmed by the dim morning sun, guardian of a maritime life that is yet unknown. They will live and learn how to lead their lives. OK, I’m breathing too, biologically I’m on track. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid of leaving the house and facing strange looks. I know, I live in perennial conflict with myself: there are days when hanging out with the others helps me, and I feel an urgent need for them. But there are also days when the only thing that satisfies me is to be alone, completely alone. Then I listlessly drive my cat from the bed, stretch out on my back, and think. I might even play some CDs, almost always classical music. I perk up with the music’s help and don’t need anything else.

But that racket outside is tearing me to pieces: I know that tonight they’ll live more deeply than me. I shall remain inside this room, listening to the sounds of life, listening till sleep welcomes me into his embrace.

10 July 2000
10:30 A.M.

You know what I think? I think starting a diary was the worst possible idea. I know what I’m about, I understand myself. In a few days I’ll forget the key somewhere, or maybe I’ll just decide to stop writing, jealous of my thoughts. Or maybe (this isn’t so implausible) my snoopy mother will pore over the pages, and then I’ll feel stupid and break off my tale.
I really don’t know if it’s such a good thing to unburden myself. At least I’m distracted.

13 July


I’m happy! Yesterday I went to a party with Alessandra, who looked very tall and thin on her spike heels, beautiful as ever, and as ever slightly rude in the way she talked and acted. But she was affectionate and sweet too. At first I didn’t want to go, partly because parties bore me and partly because yesterday the heat was so stifling it stopped me from doing anything. But then she begged me to go with her, so I went along. We traveled by scooter and sang till we reached the suburb in the hills, now transformed by the scorching summer from green and lush to parched and shriveled. The town of Nicolosi had gathered in the piazza for a huge festival, and the asphalt, cooled by the evening, was covered with booths selling candy and dried fruit. The little villa stood at the end of a narrow, unlit road. When we arrived at the gate, Alessandra started waving her hands and shouting, ‘daniele, Daniele!”
He walked up very slowly and greeted her. He seemed rather handsome, though I couldn’t make out much in the darkness. Alessandra introduced us, and he gave me a limp handshake. He murmured his name very softly, and I smiled, thinking he might be shy. At one point I distinctly saw a gleam in the darkness: his teeth were so white, so amazingly bright. I squeezed his hand harder and said ‘melissa” a little too loudly. Maybe he didn’t notice my teeth weren’t as white as his, but maybe he saw my eyes brighten and shine. Once we had gone inside, I noticed that in the light he seemed even more handsome. I walked behind him and saw the muscles ripple on his back with each step. At five foot two I felt very short beside him; I also felt ugly.

When we finally sat down on the armchairs in the living room, he was facing me, slowly sipping his beer and staring straight into my eyes. I was embarrassed by the spots on my forehead and by my complexion, which seemed much too fair compared to his. His straight, well-shaped nose looked just like the ones on Greek statues, and the veins that stood out on his hands endowed them with an awesome strength. His huge dark blue eyes cast a 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’m thinking 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.”

Copyright ” 2003 by Fazi Editore, translation copyright ” 2004 by Lawrence Venuti.  Reprinted with permission from Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.