come hither and yon, now censorial, now welcoming; to this we’d have to add the shallow delights of the half-light where muteness reigned, making room for a play of features, bonding through lust: almost kissing, but—whack! the waiter’s importunity, to which: Go away! I want sex not drinks. And Demetrio, turning to the brunette, said: Hey, listen, you, come on already, let’s go to bed. How abrupt! He must have been really horny. And that was that, no dithering, almost at a run. Let’s now summarize their time behind closed doors: it was raining thus imperative for them to seek shelter as soon as possible: a rush to undress and a rush to screw, as well as all the rest, to wit, long kisses with exceedingly motile tongues, as if in time with the cadence of their lower regions; above, an exchange of saliva or prolonged smearing. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a sequence of distracting positions. He was spared: and: restrained initiative, hers more than his … She offered her ardor, her extra, her unbridled pleasure, which led to almost maudlin caresses, as well as the ever-so-rhythmic hip action that swelled the man’s eyes and made his eyebrows rise, peaking, now! at which point Demetrio exploded and as he did so exclaimed: That’s it … baby … yes … ! How do you do it … Et cetera. And the sudden gush of sperm and a matchless orgasm with all the corresponding sensations. Satisfaction. Then hastily and carelessly dressing without even combing one’s hair to one’s liking in front of the mirror, not she, not he, not as one should, though the agronomist promised the lusty lass a second visit the following day, and the fee: as posted, but to the madam rather than the brunette: the madam being a squat woman with an equatorial waist who occupied a luxurious suite just off the main salon. He entered. A miniature hell. Danger. Inside, phew, pretentious scents. Shimmering purple armchairs where two bodyguards like reclining patriarchs conversed. Interruption: and: the bill. Payment. A fortune. One of Madam’s eyes had a cloud in it. What can one say about that mysterious and imprecise gaze? We might add that nobody betrayed even the hint of a smile, and she, whose eyes switched back and forth like windshield wipers … Madam gave Demetrio his change. Good-bye. An about-face and … Let’s see: no reason for him to almost run, even if he did have the impression that he was fleeing a world in flames.
The foregoing stands as a vast frame around what might appear to be perverse daubs of oily globs that puddle in spots to no purpose. Herein a riddle: what era are we in? The answer: 1945, the year the atomic bomb exploded and the Second World War ended. Modernities. But we are at the other end of the earth, in Oaxaca, a world cultural center, superior (let us say) to Tokyo. But we are also with Demetrio Sordo, the sexual agronomist, who one day among many began to do some bookkeeping. He had been visiting the Presunción brothel for more than a week. He had been making love to the brunette every day but Monday. Wonder of wonders: her name was Mireya, a name in suspended animation because in the brothel she was known as Bambi. Who knows why this nickname, for the wench wasn’t delicate, like her namesake. Quite the contrary. For example, they could have called her Goddess Kali, because of her exuberance, or Goddess Isis, something like that, but—Bambi? Let’s avoid getting waylaid by a superfluous obsession and focus on the bookkeeping. Demetrio began pouring numbers onto the pages of a lined notebook. His atomic pen slid awkwardly across the page. Nerves. In thirteen days a total of 104 pesos, even if they were well spent; counting pleasure by fives, plus the entrance fee, these by threes, an incomparable boon for an obsessive. On Monday, Mireya rested. She gave Demetrio fair warning and the chance to find another to hold in his arms, but only—as it turned out—that first Monday. The novelty was a slim, stylish woman, insipid … Next: calculate his total income and subtract his expenses. The unexpected extra. Pleasure in the nude. Shared pleasure gains a firmer and firmer foothold. The dreadful was undergoing daily transformation: O amour! O silhouettism! Then, back to the numbers, a bit more than two hundred pesos. Plus all his other expenses. Also, minus Mondays, for he would no longer