like a steam roller, to the thickness of your photograph.
When you step into the street, may even the lampposts dog your heels, may an irresistible fanaticism oblige you to prostrate yourself before every garbage pail and may all the inhabitants of the city mistake you for a urinal.
When you want to say “My love”, may you say “fried fish”; may your own hands try to strangle you at every turn, and every time you go to flick away a cigarette, may it be you who is hurled into the spittoon.
May your wife deceive you even with the mailboxes; when she snuggles next to you, may she metamorphose into a bloodsucking leech and, after giving birth to a crow, may she bring forth a monkey wrench.
May your family amuse itself deforming your bone structure, so that mirrors, looking at you, commit suicide out of sheer repugnance; may your only entertainment consist of installing yourself in the waiting rooms of dentists, disguised as a crocodile, and may you fall so passionately in love with a toolbox that you can’t desist, even for an instant, from licking its clasp.
TWENTY-TWO: DEFENSES AGAINST WOMEN
WOMEN VAMPIRES are less dangerous than women with a prehensile sex.
For centuries, we have known various methods for protecting ourselves against the former.
It is known, for example, that a rubdown with turpentine after a bath will, in the majority of cases, immunize us; this is because the only thing women vampires like about us is the maritime taste of our blood—that remnant that perdures in us from the epochs when we were sharks or crabs.
The impossibility of their being able to sink their lancet into us in silence reduces, however, the risk of an unforeseen attack. As soon as we hear them coming we play dead because, after sniffing us and confirming that we are not moving, they hover for a moment and leave us alone.
Against women with a prehensile sex, on the other hand, almost all forms of defense prove ineffective. No doubt prickly underpants and certain other preventatives can offer their advantages, but the violence of the sling with which their sex lashes out at us rarely gives us time to use them; before we notice their presence, they hurl us into a roller-coaster ride of interminable spasms, and our only remedy is to resign ourselves to months of immobility, if we hope to recover the kilos we have lost in an instant.
Nevertheless, among the creations of sexuality’s inventory, those already mentioned are the least dreadful. Much greater dangers, indisputably, proceed from electric women, for one simple reason: electric women operate at a distance. Undetectably, across time and space, they charge us up like a battery, until suddenly we enter into such intimate contact with them that we find ourselves sharing the same currents and hosting the same parasites.
It’s useless to isolate ourselves like hermits or pianos. Asbestos pants and testicular lightning rods afford zero protection. Our flesh, little by little, acquires magnetic properties. The thumbtacks, pins and bottle caps that perforate our epidermis make us kin with those African fetishes pierced with pieces of rusted iron. Progressively, the high-tension discharges putting our nerves to the test galvanize us from the tops of our skulls to the tips of our toes. Hundreds of sparks escape from our pores every instant, obliging us to live in nakedness. All the way up to that little-contemplated day, when the woman who has been electrifying us intensifies her sexual discharges to such a degree that she ends up electrocuting us in a spluttering spasm of disruptions, disconnections and fizzling short circuits.
TWENTY-THREE: SOLIDARITY
ONE CAN CONTEST my ornithologic erudition and the efficacy of my chess openings. It never fails that some dolt will deny the astronomical accuracy of my horoscopes. But no one—and that’s a fact!—will ever take it into his head to doubt, even for an instant, my perfect, my absolute solidarity.
A colony
When you step into the street, may even the lampposts dog your heels, may an irresistible fanaticism oblige you to prostrate yourself before every garbage pail and may all the inhabitants of the city mistake you for a urinal.
When you want to say “My love”, may you say “fried fish”; may your own hands try to strangle you at every turn, and every time you go to flick away a cigarette, may it be you who is hurled into the spittoon.
May your wife deceive you even with the mailboxes; when she snuggles next to you, may she metamorphose into a bloodsucking leech and, after giving birth to a crow, may she bring forth a monkey wrench.
May your family amuse itself deforming your bone structure, so that mirrors, looking at you, commit suicide out of sheer repugnance; may your only entertainment consist of installing yourself in the waiting rooms of dentists, disguised as a crocodile, and may you fall so passionately in love with a toolbox that you can’t desist, even for an instant, from licking its clasp.
TWENTY-TWO: DEFENSES AGAINST WOMEN
WOMEN VAMPIRES are less dangerous than women with a prehensile sex.
For centuries, we have known various methods for protecting ourselves against the former.
It is known, for example, that a rubdown with turpentine after a bath will, in the majority of cases, immunize us; this is because the only thing women vampires like about us is the maritime taste of our blood—that remnant that perdures in us from the epochs when we were sharks or crabs.
The impossibility of their being able to sink their lancet into us in silence reduces, however, the risk of an unforeseen attack. As soon as we hear them coming we play dead because, after sniffing us and confirming that we are not moving, they hover for a moment and leave us alone.
Against women with a prehensile sex, on the other hand, almost all forms of defense prove ineffective. No doubt prickly underpants and certain other preventatives can offer their advantages, but the violence of the sling with which their sex lashes out at us rarely gives us time to use them; before we notice their presence, they hurl us into a roller-coaster ride of interminable spasms, and our only remedy is to resign ourselves to months of immobility, if we hope to recover the kilos we have lost in an instant.
Nevertheless, among the creations of sexuality’s inventory, those already mentioned are the least dreadful. Much greater dangers, indisputably, proceed from electric women, for one simple reason: electric women operate at a distance. Undetectably, across time and space, they charge us up like a battery, until suddenly we enter into such intimate contact with them that we find ourselves sharing the same currents and hosting the same parasites.
It’s useless to isolate ourselves like hermits or pianos. Asbestos pants and testicular lightning rods afford zero protection. Our flesh, little by little, acquires magnetic properties. The thumbtacks, pins and bottle caps that perforate our epidermis make us kin with those African fetishes pierced with pieces of rusted iron. Progressively, the high-tension discharges putting our nerves to the test galvanize us from the tops of our skulls to the tips of our toes. Hundreds of sparks escape from our pores every instant, obliging us to live in nakedness. All the way up to that little-contemplated day, when the woman who has been electrifying us intensifies her sexual discharges to such a degree that she ends up electrocuting us in a spluttering spasm of disruptions, disconnections and fizzling short circuits.
TWENTY-THREE: SOLIDARITY
ONE CAN CONTEST my ornithologic erudition and the efficacy of my chess openings. It never fails that some dolt will deny the astronomical accuracy of my horoscopes. But no one—and that’s a fact!—will ever take it into his head to doubt, even for an instant, my perfect, my absolute solidarity.
A colony
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