Almost Never: A Novel (27 page)

“I know those Sacramento women. I am certain that Doña Luisa and Renata planned the whole thing the night before in order to find out how deep your love for her was. Maybe mother and daughter thought you would make a wrong move because you had spoken about marriage, you might put your arms around her or caress her or squeeze her hand a little bit too hard; any of these gestures would have been normal for you, but you chose a precipitous kiss, with no bad intentions, I know, especially because of where you did it. In any case, Renata must have interpreted it as indecent and especially because of the lick—what a shame!”

“So, what’s your advice?”

“You shouldn’t give up … You should go to her. You’ll see, she’ll forgive you.”

“What a pain! really … I must admit, at this moment I have absolutely no desire to go anywhere.”

“I understand how you feel. Just remember that she is still in love with you, but she wants you to fight for her, she wants to be absolutely sure of you before she takes the next step … Hmm … I know all about those Sacramento women.”

“They are too complicated.”

“But they’re worth it. As soon as she’s yours, you’ll see, everything will come right.”

What’s to say other than that this onslaught left Demetrio bewildered. It would seem that Puritanism had unknown tentacles, arising from the most unexpected places, which had finally pinned him down and paralyzed him. He now saw that nobody he told about the incident of the kiss and the lick would take his side. Hence, to accept defeat, admit his mistake to the four winds, and thus avoid ever being squashed; and the admission of guilt—would it save him?, perhaps, but in the meantime distension to the point of obliteration, or as the chance to be dissipated to a point of satiety, and to elude his mother, once and for all, Demetrio ended the conversation like this:
I’ll decide whether or not I should go to Renata. Now I need to take care of myself. Please don’t pressure me and don’t bring up this subject again. Because right now I’m going to Torreón. Just so you know, I’m going to sin! What? I’m starved for sex. I want to lose my head! I’m dying to … and … well … I’ll probably be back the day after tomorrow.
Stunned, Doña Telma slowly lowered her head: “I understand him,” “I understand him,” “I have to understand him”—et cetera; she could repeat it to herself a hundred times, as if she were poking her breast with the point of a knife. A temporary setback—did she know that? And here we have the beginning of the skit: on the road, once and for all; the knot that almost came undone every time Demetrio placed his shoe on the gas pedal; the truck and the gasoline were his lively assistants that gave him a boost—right? another boost would be to whistle out of tune the whole way so he’d feel like a lad about to be initiated, for he was on his way to commit the greatest misdeed of his life, something like, let’s see: what if he hired two beautiful whores so they could take turns massaging him and doing him? That’s it, one would shower him with caresses while the other got on all fours—yes! and then the other way around, and that way, long-lasting sexual antics: the whole night, no matter how much it cost. When he arrived at a cathouse called Los Laureles—very costly—he immediately called two women over: one blonde and one brunette. However, the joint’s policy required that he order a drink before choosing. So, while he downed one shot after another Demetrio thoroughly planned his anticipated seclusion with the duo: step-by-step, assuming they agreed; at the same time, he’d be open to their suggestions, this or that change of position, more efficient arrangements, whereby nobody would feel at a disadvantage. They: concubines; they: sheaths with opinions as if they were mocking a simpleminded puppet, someone who found comfort elaborating a pleasing idyll only to grow weak before taking even the first step, because while they sat at the table he didn’t touch them once, a long way from an array of what could and should potentially be done: a thoughtful, lascivious, sinful trio, though for Cirila and Begoña, which is what they were called, what mattered was to get the client drunk as quickly as possible. Hence the mischief of shamelessly ordering mixed drinks they barely sipped, the trick made manifest: obvious to anybody who knows the ways of any cathouse, but he: how many straight shots of tequila did he have to imbibe before he became unbearable? Eight, nine at the most: an amount, once reached, that made him lose his balance, fall off the chair, and pick himself up with great difficulty, but once on his feet he said again:
Let’s go to the room! I want the two of you at the same time.
Oh, really? well, out with the bills already: ergo: the spender rendered unconscious, and next they called over the bouncer to drag him to the room of sin, the concubines following behind, amused and mocking. Slow motion once inside: a real fuss to undress somebody not used to drinking so much alcohol. In the end, the man couldn’t perform, not even half an erection could he muster. The worst part was that he’d paid in advance, an exorbitant fee, for these two cynics who, after seeing him impaired, called the bouncer back to have him thrown out on the street. They carried him as if he were a rag doll. A collapsed and futile mass, and: how could he drive the truck in his state? Demetrio had no choice but to ask someone to call him a taxi that would take him to a hotel, a cheap one, please. This episode entailed a long list of grievances, culminating in a long overdue explanation. The taxi driver informed him that none of the joints in Torreón’s red-light district allowed sex with any of those statuesque women until you’d first drunk torrents of booze and paid in advance with a hefty roll of bills. He also told him that if he just wanted sex he should go to the seedy women, the worst of the worst, all over fifty, perhaps some chubby young ones and, to top it off, they stank, those sitting on their rocking chairs, each one in front of the open door of her own mangy hovel. There were lots along a three- or four-block stretch. The thing was that if he wanted fine flesh he’d have to drink like a donkey and … which has already been said … money attracts money, right? as well as disgust and definitely drama.
Like so many others before you, my friend, you’ve been had.
After uttering this reproachful rant, he hurled at him a hail of insults, and who knows how much they affected Demetrio, for his reason seemed to be drifting like a slipstream: he heard sharp words—but which ones? The discourse was—could it be?—inebriated. The little he caught became faint in the face of fleeting memories of Oaxaca: there everything was straightforward, no sly malevolence, only direct consummation, whereas here … longings left unquenched that get reabsorbed and mess everything up … Money evaporating in proportion to aggravation provoked, knowing that if he returned to the red-light district he would have to do so with great caution: not pay in advance: duh!? Suffer, err, and top it all off sleeping in a hotel, ergo, impersonal sleep, even more so because the room was—cheap? Demetrio didn’t know how much he’d paid the taxi driver or the clerk at the … A fortune—tough luck! And there he remained till noon the next day. When he awoke he had no appetite, only pure dismay. His priority—can you guess?—: go find the pickup. His hangover had left him transfixed. But he found a taxi and, did he remember where … ? He paced painstakingly through the red-light district: four blocks; very few people in the streets; the big guy’s lucky star better start to shine soon; if only it would magically appear—now!—his vehicle, among the splendors of chance (few, many, just the right number): leaden destiny, for God’s sake! and, after walking around like an inept detective he finally found his pickup, it was all in one piece, and it even seemed to have acquired a new sheen. He took off, of course, for Parras … automatically … Well done! The magnet: sanctity—what else could it be?, or at least caution was pulling him back. The devil would pull at him later … But now let’s have a look at this:

His arrival at the house of rustic beauty. His silent mother, big like him, wanting to embrace, let us say, a distress: and: the parry: such scoundrelly persistence. Right away Demetrio’s retreat so he could pull himself together. There was noise in his head and twisted (red) threads, so to speak: confusion, unmitigated, or one obstacle after another: intrinsic, or—what the hell were they? Some kind of logjam lay in wait for this semisinful man, a logjam that threatened to drown him in one single and frantic obsession: sex, at any cost: once, again, then again and again, recondite recycling. However, when he saw all those saints in his room, porcelain beings that seemed to grow bigger the longer he watched them, he muttered this:
“Demetrio” is synonymous with “nobody’s fucking me.”
And he fell asleep. His dream did him no favors. Mireya appeared, as if against her own will, shining from the jewels that bedecked her. She was the queen of the red-light district in Saltillo, where he found himself. When she saw him she said in a malicious voice:
Well, well, I finally find you … You might like to know that your daughter is twenty years old
—had that much time passed?—
She’s studying medicine at the best university in Monterrey. I pay for her studies with my work as a high-class prostitute. What do you think about that? Now, get out of here, because if you don’t, I’ll have my men tear you to pieces. Go away! You’re a pathetic fool!
Demetrio woke up with even more encephalitic din. He began palpating his temples with his fingertips, trying to soothe the internal whir. He had meager success. Little by little—thank God!—the noise went elsewhere.

What the big guy needed was a long and deep cleansing, and that’s what he got. The lathering had to be like an incursion into territory where all memories, good and bad alike, become futile. More and more beneficial suds. An inkling of a new beginning where it would be ordained that he could do whatever the hell he wanted, as long as he acted strategically, per the reigning paranoia, whenever he acted boldly. It had been a good idea to get rid of the brunette, but—Renata? that haughty yet suffering decency … hmmm … let her suffer; may her error ramify; this was the already prodigious and accepted revenge of a macho and now let’s turn to something else … See-through-sex; provocation-sex; struggle-sex. So many gradations of falsity that would soon become achievements. Then came what was not desirable: he emerged resplendent and perfumed, and his mother stood in the main hallway and intercepted him and—what do you think she said? Her indiscretion erupted … She was in such a state of anxiety …

“Demetrio, tell me please if you sinned while you were gone.”

“Yes, indeed I did.”

“How do you feel?”

“Look, Mama, leave me alone, or I’ll go away and never come back.”

“It’s just that I’m worried …”

“Well, you needn’t be, because I’ve been an adult for a long time … What’s more, I’ll tell you right now I’m going to keep on sinning … I’m very fond of all and any sins.”

How could the lady reproach him? She understood, finally, about him being an adult: it’s about time!, and the irremediable strains of maturity: his! he was beginning to rot, whereas she was better off positioning her tearful self in an unfamiliar weepy dimension, because she wept in front of Demetrio: her apron—absorbent? A shudder that hearkened back to when she rocked her only male offspring in a pure white cradle: a pink baby, a sleeping peacock, who then became an incorrigible toddler: O avid restlessness, that then led to him studying to be an agronomist, as his father had recommended, and now, tough luck! to have to see him become a flagrant sinner who walked out without kissing her good-bye on the cheek as he uttered a bitter sentence:
I’m going to Torreón. I like the cathouses there. I’m going to sin.
Hasty and contemptuous communication. And the pickup and the gasoline: everything ready, of course, for … He left whistling, he wanted to sing, but—what song? He didn’t know all the lyrics of a single one. So, random fragments, O uproarious crooning!, or a feeling of boldness to peel off layers of doubt, don layers of enthusiasm: free and delightful swaying over the course of miles … Happiness is always fortuitous …

Let’s watch his relapse: his arrival at Los Laureles, because he wanted to get it on with those impressive concubines: that Cirila and that Begoña, both unforgettable. Herewith the arrangement: in order to get them to come to his table, Demetrio would have to pay an exorbitant sum (a new rule) to a man with a very flat Carmelite hairdo (that is, with a part down the middle). However, the big guy refused to pay, arguing that it was very bad for him to get drunk: that he was not an alcoholic; he couldn’t tolerate all that nausea and vomiting; and the most whimsical: that alcohol would prevent him from having a decisive erection, to which the man with the very well-groomed do replied that if he wanted only sex he had to pay triple the amount: fifty pesos for each female: o-ho! such a sum was almost highway robbery, or maybe a splendidly pleasant altitude he’d have to reach, for at stake was, let us call it, an irresistible otherness, and Demetrio said, okay, I’ll go for it! Hence the pay now, play later, though the “play” part required a brief wait, whereas the pay became a proud display of bills: an insolent Demetrio under the glow of multicolored lights: mistake … to excess. The brief delay led to a further complication: the man with the hairdo called Cirila and Begoña over and they hid behind a violet curtain. The last thing he said to them was this:

“You’re going with that client from before. The guy is loaded, so you know what to do.”

Yes: they promised great things (per instructions) and, right from the start: cloying affection, handy for softening up the pseudo superman; a devilish start that led to a quick disrobing behind closed doors: a naked trio who began to eagerly grope each other … If only we could see the bare-assed outlines … Cirila gave the commands; the other played the role of the compliant slave: that is: let’s see … Begoña was the first to practice fellatio, which started at the client’s (unwashed) testicles: then crept up slowly to the glans by dint of tongue action, then the risings and fallings that began at a very precise speed, while the other, in corroboration, planted a big kiss on the lips of the aforementioned, who experienced, how could he not! a continuous nuanced bubbling throughout his entire body. Next, Begoña, following the instructions Cirila gave via hand signals, climbed on top of, what we might call, the murder victim, so he could penetrate her, followed by a slow trot on horseback. That part was easy and, man, what a delight! In addition the kissing in perfectly syncopated rhythm continued, a sublime lark conducted by the director’s right index finger. Let us here note that a hasty ejaculation by the big guy would have been quite inconvenient, for it would have spoiled their well-planned and executed plot. So: no increase in pleasure, instead somewhat extended endurance, though not in ascent, or let’s call it an opportunistic (ahem) “petty elongation,” or, to wit, the two managed to get Demetrio to close his eyes and that was when Begoña announced she was going to the bathroom for a minute to pee. The pleasure continued full speed ahead because Cirila immediately climbed on top and inserted him into her, and her movements were so beguiling and rhythmic (much better than Begoña’s) that the big guy didn’t even think of opening his eyes. Quite clever, this trip to the bathroom: a fucking foil, for Begoña was rifling through Demetrio’s pants—could you have guessed?—: that bare-assed babe swiftly removed the man’s well-endowed wallet and dropped it into her handbag. Then the sinful kissing continued: a kiss that reopened the mouth of the man who used to be rich: she surpassed the other, in this respect, so we are now talking about sexual plenitude: the magma of the savage—and therefore ecstatic—interlacing. Then came the semenic eruption in Cirila’s lubricated insides. Whereby we can assert that Demetrio had never before experienced such almost otherworldly pleasure. The consummation waned and the sinner, dazed, was exhausted, but the concubines ordered him to get dressed right away:
We’re leaving. And you, my love, can’t stay in the room alone.
In consequence: a vibrant rush, the departure of the trembling trio. On the way to the salon the bewildered client assured them he would return the following day:
I want to do tomorrow what we did today. I loved it!
But the concubines scurried away between the scarlet curtain panels. They said neither thank you nor good-bye. When Demetrio reached the room where the music played, the man with the Carmelite hairdo intercepted him and was persuasive in the following way: