I am really surprised that this book has been translated into English, after being a big editorial case here in Italy, as Koa has said, I hoped at least it would remain within our borders. Anyway I read a few excerpts in italian and I think it's not worth the whole reading, too. Replies: 32 Last Post: , PM. All times are GMT The time now is AM. Return to Book Page. Lawrence Venuti Translator. An instant blockbuster in Italy where it has sold over , copies, and now an international literary phenomenon, Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is the fictionalized memoir of Melissa P.
Melissa begins her diary a virgin, but a stormy affair at the age of fourteen An instant blockbuster in Italy where it has sold over , copies, and now an international literary phenomenon, Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is the fictionalized memoir of Melissa P. 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. Melissa's secret life is concealed from family and friends, revealed only in her diary entries. Told with disarming candor, Melissa P. Get A Copy. Paperback , pages.
More Details Original Title. Melissa Panarello. Other Editions Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
To ask other readers questions about Strokes of the Brush Before Bed , please sign up. Be the first to ask a question about Strokes of the Brush Before Bed. Lists with This Book. Community Reviews. Showing Average rating 2. Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Start your review of Strokes of the Brush Before Bed. Aug 10, Empress rated it did not like it Recommends it for: All those moms and health ed teachers who thought Reviving Ophelia really spoke to my generation Surely this has been misclassified as erotica--yes, there is a lot of sex, but it isn't erotic by any means.
If anything, it's depressing. Think Go Ask Alice, only with nocuous sexual encounters being the object lesson instead of irresponsible experimental drug use--only much, much worse.
I should have known from the title Wracked with self-doubt after a disappointing first encounter with love, the author admittedly attempts to muffle her feelings of loneliness and inadequacy through deliber Surely this has been misclassified as erotica--yes, there is a lot of sex, but it isn't erotic by any means. Wracked with self-doubt after a disappointing first encounter with love, the author admittedly attempts to muffle her feelings of loneliness and inadequacy through deliberate self-exploitation.
Although she is sincerely fascinated by her new-found seductive powers, she clearly does not feel liberated in acting upon them.
She persistently seeks out precarious rendezvous with highly questionable men in a predictable cycle of self-punishment. Occasionally, Melissa will lapse into her mirror-world where she is so taken with her own beauty and sensuality; her inherent ability to be desired, that the despair she feels melts away, and for a moment the reader is convinced that she may actually be enjoying herself.
However, that illusion is always quickly shattered when the camera pans back out and we see her again as an ashamed, distraught and misunderstood would-be heroine. As Melissa becomes less and less recognizable to her former self, her exploits hasten and become increasingly risky in a blurred attempt to reincarnate her prior self the girl in the mirror , and if not, to at least chastise it for disappearing.
She spends the entire book frantically struggling to regain ownership of her sexuality. Unable to achieve this on her own, she repeats this sequence of sexual extremes and shame until her knight in shining armor finally comes to rescue her from herself.
As if her sexual misadventures weren't bad enough, the language she uses to describe them is even worse. Then again, it is considered one of the most scandalous and wildly controversial novels to come out of Europe in recent years… View all 3 comments.
May 22, Shelley rated it did not like it Shelves: biomemoir , in-translation , smut. Not sexy, not hot, not erotic.
A bored teenager had a lot of bad sex with a lot of lame guys and wrote about it. I keep reading to find out why, and I think I did: she was bored and dumb. I read this when I around the same age as the author is in the book, my cousin gae it to me when she found out I was sexualy active. She read it because her literature profesor made her.
She told me that if I was going to be sexualy involve with somone I should have my eyes pretty open, because guys dont think the same way about sex that we woman. I have to admit at first I was suprise my cousin let me read a book with such content, but whe I finished it and started thinking about everything I u I read this when I around the same age as the author is in the book, my cousin gae it to me when she found out I was sexualy active. I have to admit at first I was suprise my cousin let me read a book with such content, but whe I finished it and started thinking about everything I understood.
This book is not a book that someone Me personaly would read to enjoy it and to escape the true world. Maybe this book isn't a great book, but it definitely help me be more carefull with sex and with who I was sleeping around. My sex was swollen like as never before, and Lethe was flooding the Secret in waves. A week later, Letizia and a teen lesbian met Melissa at her school. Subsequently, Letizia and Melissa had sex.
Melissa P. Images Donate icon An illustration of a heart shape Donate Ellipses icon An illustration of text ellipses. EMBED for wordpress. Want more? But forgive me… it's something we both like; nobody is forcing us to do it. A pleasure can never be a mistake, right? From the wardrobe he took a dress and then a T-shirt, which he tossed to me.
As I undressed, my nudity increased his excitement. I slipped into the huge pink T-shirt. On the front it featured a winking Marilyn with the caption "Bye Bye Baby.
He dressed with his back turned, so I could scarcely make out his movements, not to mention the G-string that parted his square buttocks. He turned to face me: black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, thigh-high boots, gold lame top, padded bra. This is how he presented himself to me, a friend I'd always seen in Lacoste and Levi's! My excitement wasn't visible, but it was there.
As in some performance, I stretched out on the sofa bed and eyed him attentively. I longed to touch myself, even to possess that body. Much to my amazement, I watched him masturbate as if I had assumed a male gaze. His face was rapturous, beaded with little drops of sweat. My pleasure arrived without penetration, without caresses, simply through my mind, through me. His, however, came strong and steady, I saw him spurt and heard his gasp, which broke off when he opened his eyes.
He lay down on the sofa with me. We hugged each other and fell asleep as Marilyn rubbed her eye against Ernesto's gold lame top. Another visit to the museumlike house with the same people.
This time we played a game: I was the earth, and they were worms burrowing into it. Five different worms dug furrows in my body, and the soil, upon my return home, was loose and crumbly. An old yellowed nightgown, my grandmother's, was hanging in my wardrobe. I slipped into it and smelled the scent of softener and a time long gone as they blended with the absurd present.
I undid my hair and let it fall to my shoulders, protected by the comforting past. I undid it, nuzzled it, and went to bed with a smile that quickly turned into weeping.
Gentle, tame, and meek. At Ernesto's house there aren't many secrets. I confided to him that my experiences had provoked a desire to see one man inside another. I really want to see two men screw. To see them screw each other just as they've screwed me, with the same violence, the same brutality.
I can't stop myself, I'm moving as fast as a stick swept along by the current in a river. I'm learning to say no to other people and yes to myself, learning to release the deepest part of me and let it slam against the surrounding world.
I'm learning. You're a mine of fantasies and imagination. Boy meets girl, they fall in love and have sex, everything balances out, and they live happily ever after. It'd be better to stay single. And you-you're one to talk! He told me about two guys, law students in their final year. I'll meet them tomorrow: after school, they'll come to pick me up at Villa Bellini, in front of the fountain where the swans swim. I'll call my mother and tell her I'll be out all afternoon, attending a drama class.
Watch two men screw… mah! He was driving. His eyes were huge and black; his massive, finely sculpted face was crowned by the most beautiful black ringlets, which, if not for his fair complexion, would have made him a young African, potent and proud. He was ensconced in the driver's seat like the King of the Forest, tall and majestic, his long, tapering fingers on the steering wheel.
A steel ring with tribal markings stood out against the whiteness of his skin and its extraordinary softness. His partner, a thin-lipped guy who sat behind me, responded in a faint, polite voice: "Leave her alone. Can't you see she's young? And she's so tiny… Look at her lovely little face, so sweet. Are you sure you want to do this, little one? From what I gathered, these two had agreed to the encounter because they owed Ernesto a favor, though I didn't have the faintest idea what exactly they were paying back.
The fact is that Germano was put out by the situation, and if he had his way, he'd have left me by the side of the deserted road.
And yet an obscure enthusiasm shone in his eyes; it was a subtle feeling that I sensed come and go at intervals. During the journey, silence kept us company. We were driving down a country road, heading for Gianmaria's villa, the only place where no one would disturb us. It was an old farmhouse, built of stone and surrounded by olive and fir trees; in the distance you could see rows of vines, dead in this season. The wind gusted, and when Gianmaria got out to open the enormous iron gate, a mass of leaves dropped into the car, falling on my hair.
The cold was piercing, the smell that of wet soil and leaves long left to rot in water. I clutched my handbag and stood up straight in my high-heeled boots, hugging myself against the icy chill. The tip of my nose felt frozen; my cheeks were tight, anesthetized. We arrived at the main door, wherein the names of various children had been carved during their summer games, a sign of one's passage through time.
Germano's and Gianmaria's had also been etched in the wood… I've got to run, Diary, my mother has just thrown open my door and told me I have to accompany her to visit my aunt she broke a hip and is in the hospital.
I'm getting off an airplane. The sky over Milano shows me a sullen, hostile face. The clinging, icy wind musses and flattens my hair, just done at the salon.
In the grayish light, my face looks washed out, and my eyes seem empty, ringed by narrow phosphorescent circles that make me even weirder. My hands are cold and white, corpselike. I arrive inside the airport and spot my reflection in a window: I take note of my face, thin and colorless, my long hair, disheveled and at this point horrendous, my lips, clenched, hermetically sealed. I am aware of a strange, unmotivated excitement. Then I flash on myself again, just as the reflection shows me, but somewhere else.
Instead of being in an airport, dressed in my usual designer clothes, I am suddenly in a dark, putrid cell touched by so little light I can't see what clothes I'm wearing or what kind of condition I'm in. I weep; I am alone. Outside it must be night. At the end of the corridor I glimpse a flickering light, which is nonetheless intense.
No noise. The light approaches. It grows closer and closer, frightening me, since I hear no step at all. The man who arrives moves with great caution.
He is tall, potent. He rests both of his hands on the bars; I stand, drying my eyes, and go to meet him. The light of the torch illumines his face, suffusing it with a diabolical air, while his body remains in shadow. I see his enormous, ravenous eyes, of some indefinable color, and his broad lips, which are parted, permitting a glimpse of a row of pearly teeth.
He lifts a finger to his mouth, signaling me not to speak. I observe his face up close and notice that he is fascinating, mysterious, and extremely handsome. I am jolted when he places his perfect fingers on my lips and traces a circle.
He does it gently, my lips are moist, and almost spontaneously I draw closer to the bars, pressing my face against them. His eyes brighten, but he is absolutely, eternally calm. His fingers enter deeply into my mouth, lubricated by my saliva. Then he withdraws them, and with the aid of his other hand, he rips open the upper part of my threadbare clothes, leaving my full breasts exposed. The nipples are rigid from the cold entering the narrow embrasure, and at the touch of his soaked fingers, they become even harder.
He places his lips on my breasts, nuzzling them at first, then kissing them. I hang back my head in pleasure, but my chest remains still, yielding only to his demands.
He stops, gazes at me, smiles. One of his hands searches through his clothes, which, from up close, I realize are those of a clergyman.
A jingling of keys, followed by the sound of an ironclad door softly closing. He is inside. With me. He again tears at my clothes, ripping them from my body, exposing my belly and then, farther below, my warmest point. He slowly lays me down on the pavement.
His head descends, and his tongue thrusts between my legs. While I am no longer cold, I desire to feel myself, to perceive myself through him. I pull him toward me, smelling my humors on his face. Groping beneath his tunic, I feel his member in my hand, lovely and hard, and I rub it more and more frenetically… His penis wants to escape from the tunic, and I help it by lifting the black garment.
He penetrates me, our fluids run together, and he slides wonderfully, like a knife in warm butter, but he does not stir me. He slips his member out and sits in a corner. I let him wait; only later do I approach him. Again he immerses it in my foaming waves. A few strokes, hard, sharp, sudden, are enough to bring me to infinite pleasure.
We are in unison. He regains his composure and abandons me, weeping even more than I was before. A dream within a dream. A dream that echoes what happened yesterday. His eyes were the same as Germano's.
The fire illuminated them, made them shine. Gianmaria had entered with two huge logs and some branches. He arranged them in the fireplace, which began to brighten the setting, making it more hospitable. A strange, comforting warmth was invading me. What I observed did not provoke any feeling of disgust or embarrassment. On the contrary, it was as if my eyes were accustomed to certain scenes, and the passion that had beaten against my skin all this time flew out and struck the faces of the two young men who unwittingly were in my hands.
I watched each of them plunge into the other: I in an armchair beside the fire, they on a couch in front of it, lovingly eyeing and touching each other.
Their every moan was an "I love you"; and while in my viscera I experienced every thrust as devastating and painful, for them it was a pure caress. I too wanted to take part in an intimacy I did not understand, in their loving and tender refuge, but I had not proposed it and just watched according to our agreement.
I was naked, pure in body and mind. Then Germano shot a blissful glance at me. He detached himself from the cleft and, much to my amazement, knelt before me, slowly prying open my thighs. He awaited a sign from me before he dove into that world.
He kept at it for a little while, then went back to being himself, the hard and implacable African King. We exchanged places: he pulled me by the hair and bent me toward his scepter.
That was the moment when I noticed his eyes, when I understood that his passion wasn't any different from mine: they took each other by the hand, grappled, then fused. The lovers fell asleep on the couch in an embrace while I, my skin incandescent from the flames, continued to watch them, alone. 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? Whoever this might be: man, woman, old, young, married, single, gay, transsexual. 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. 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. 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?
Turn on your computer, and I'll send itimmediately, while we're on the phone, so you can tell me it's arrived. You're… so beautiful," I said, stupefied and made stupid! I don't really like women. She begged a boorish boy with strawberry-tasting lips to take her virginity; on her sweet 16th she allowed an "arrogant angel" and his four devil friends to enter her "Secret"; she played Lolita to her math tutor and dominatrix to a bad married man. And that's just a partial list of the varieties of sexual experience that unfold over the course of two years in one teenager's life.
It is composed in diary form -- a teen scream disguised as an erotic fairy tale. The book has sold some , copies in Italy and is being published in 24 languages.Goodreads helps you keep track of books you 100 strokes of the brush before bed pdf free download to read. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Other editions. Enlarge cover. Error rating book. Refresh 100 strokes of the brush before bed pdf free download try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Lawrence Venuti Translator. An instant blockbuster in Italy where it has sold overcopies, and now an international literary phenomenon, Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is the fictionalized memoir of Melissa P. Melissa begins agents of shield season 5 episode 4 online free diary a virgin, but a stormy affair at the age of fourteen An instant blockbuster in Italy where it has sold overcopies, and now an international literary phenomenon, Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is the fictionalized memoir of Melissa P. 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. Melissa's secret life is concealed from family and friends, revealed only in 100 strokes of the brush before bed pdf free download diary entries. Told with disarming candor, Melissa P. Get A Copy. One Hundred Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is a stunning erotic debut, it right now, I'd keep at it for days on end, till my passion is completely out, finally free. Strokes of the Brush Before Bed Paperback – September 22, by have a Kindle? Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App. Access-restricted-item: true. Addeddate: Boxid: IA Boxid_2: CH Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II. download Strokes of the Brush Before Bed (writer Melissa Panarello) DepositFiles extension ibooks extension pdf - teremingpephy1's. STROKES OF THE BRUSH BEFORE BED: "The Erotic Adventures of a Sexually Ravenous Girl". Melissa Panarello's. Strokes of the Brush Before Bed book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. An instant blockbuster in Italy where it has s. E-book needed: strokes of Brush before Bed by Melissa P can i have the links to download the above mentioned e-book?? or if anyone. Download and Read Free Online Strokes of the Brush Before Bed By Melissa P. Editorial Review. Users Review. From reader reviews: Joan Jackson. Princesses do this, her mother tells her, though the act is recast in Panarello's mind as punishment. Unlock more free articles. Create an account. Told with disarming candor, Melissa P. The E-mail Address es field is required. 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. Your rating has been recorded. One hundred strokes of the brush before bed - Waterstones. But there are also days when the only thing that satisfies me is to be alone, completely alone. It is significant for people that most accurate about Melissa P. 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. At one point I distinctly saw a gleam in the darkness: his teeth were so white, so amazingly bright. Print version: P. This house is fake, so far removed from my current state of mind. You may have already requested this item. Melissa begins her diary a virgin, but a. 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.