Entre Caderas, Corazones y Divagaciones

So, I won't translate this specific post because it is too personal a message to have something lost in translation. You can, if interested, tell google to translate this... hopefully it'll make sense.
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No tengo idea por qué no puedo sacar suficientes palabras. Es más, no importa si son suficientes o no, pero sí tienen que ser relevantes... no tienen que ser relevantes, tienen que ser urgentes... ¡¿tampoco?! Quizás emotivas... no, eso implica precondicionarte, y eso implica deshonestidad... tienen que ser entrañables... pero mi entraña y tu entraña son diferentes... pero se complementan... te tienen que llegar al corazón... ¡¡¡Carajo!!! Puedo escribir para cine, puedo escribir para televisión, puedo escribir divagaciones, pero nada que te llegue al corazón. ¡No es justo! Quiero regalarte una canción, o mínimo un grito con algo de sentido... no puedo... ¿Cómo llegar a un corazón ingeniero? Es muy complicado para mi corazón caótico.

Aunque... calma... creo que lo escucho... late al ritmo de unas hermosas caderas; se exalta al oír la palabra Gaby; y creo que está algo robotizado... automatizado para bombear sangre extra ante tu presencia. Te metiste en mi sistema y lo modificaste irreversiblemente... ingeniero tenías que ser.

El título que hoy te dan es simplemente una certificación redundante a tu capacidad.

Lo único que no lograrás es hacer que mi corazón hable en código binario... lo siento, preciosa... los ingenieros no son tan chingo10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010
10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101000000000000011
111111111111

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System Error

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Gaby.exe needed

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¡Felicidades en tu graduación, cabrona! Estoy orgullosísimo de tí.



"Es una mujer bonita, la que anduve pretendiendo,
la seguí por ocho meses, y apenas me está queriendo.

Chaparra de mi amor,
no me hagas sufrir ya tanto"

-Ramón Ayala

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Why?

I don’t know how it started. I love porn, like any normal guy. I used to hear things about it being addictive, and that there were this “porn-addiction therapists”. I never got it. Ridiculous, childish, stupid. Another fucking invention to bring paranoia.

Why mess around with sex? It is the most perfect relationship humans can aspire to. That bond, the sudden change of atmosphere it produces. Moods, context, crisis, depression, and the now famous “stress”. All those concepts are minimized almost to the point of extinction if you have a partner. A guy or woman that wishes to share a sexual encounter with you. It is perfect. Rosanna was perfect.

I love sex. Its infinite, hedonistic, magical, and animal values. When both souls share that moment, a strange scent fills the air. And those souls are naked, really naked. They stand side by side: human, vulnerable, and fragile. But sometimes, to some people, sex becomes something infinitely sick, hedonistically nasty, magically perverted, and devolutionary animal. Rosanna embraced sex.

I never understood the almost inherent repulsion to sex and sweat and flesh. People start giving other names to original, beautiful words. “Your thing”; “your private part”. Makes me sick. Penis, vagina, anus, breasts, semen, clitoris. People are constantly trying to dismantle, to castrate all these beautiful, noble words. Suddenly everything related to the coital act becomes dirty, shameful, and overwhelmingly evil. Rosanna was overwhelmed by my appetite.

I love sex, real sex. And real sex introduced its beautiful cousin to me. Her name: amateur pornography. I don’t know when I got into this. I’ve always been attracted to voyeurism. There’s some magnetism when it comes to open windows, open doors. I have to look inside. I’m not the kind of person that will repress any instinctive emotion or action. If they exist, there is a reason. There must be a reason. I’ve followed my gut and my instincts my whole life, and I don’t regret it. Rosanna was my whole life, and I regret it.

Someone enters your life, and something changes. Something primal, deep. I feel that it is a permanent, irreversible change. You leave a door or a window opened and the intruder, voyeurist, peeks in, and enters. But it was fine with me. And Rossana seemed to be ok with me. She seemed happy. Many women spend their days complaining about a fucked up sexual life. It is ridiculous. More ridiculous is a sexual free spirit like Rosanna to betray her essence. The fucking intruder came in, fucked you, and suddenly left. Just like that.

Now I remember. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring another woman to bed, ever again. Everybody looked at me really weird. I felt an outcast, a misfit, a leper. I never had any trouble seducing women. That was, I can say, my only real natural ability. I had the power to lure, to seduce, to entice. And Rossana left, and I guess my powers couldn’t stand the fact of losing her. They vanished.

And since then, every night, I would see myself alone, defeated in bed. And I would start jerking off. And my penis would stay flaccid. I would concentrate on her image, on those nights. But there was no contact, with no flesh there is no blood, and with no blood there is no hard on.

One day there she was, in my favorite bar. She never went there! Why the fuck would she come here!? Rossana’s right hand met a male hand that was not mine. The male hand made its way delicately, up her arm to her shoulder, then to the neck, and dived all along her back to her ass. That ass I had caressed, kissed, and adored just a couple of months back.

I was there just drinking my pain away. But I never had the balls to get up and talk to her. The beer cans became all kinds of weird words and symbols. The couple, Rossana and the guy of the hand, left. I paid and followed them.

They were touching each other as they walked. The motherfucker would not keep his hands to himself. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know where she liked to be touched. I knew.

I watched the paint peeling off the walls, the roof, my skin started peeling off my body. Waves of cockroaches started invading the house, slowly first, massively later. I got used to share everything with them. Yeah I was not alone...

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Latex

And after a devil-sized drinking reunion, just in the middle of Downtown Vancouver, I saw them again. A reunion that, according to me was not going to happen, because of my weakness and lack of sleep. It was a Friday after school. All week long I had been surviving with the help of coffee and in a constant state of zombiefication which I still don’t understand. I really didn’t have great amounts of work, there was simply something inside me that made my movements weak and clumsy, and my walking slow and confused. There were moments in which I simply stayed lost in a white, blue, green, or black limb of my laptop’s screen.

Ok, after that devil-sized drinking reunion just in the middle of Downtown Vancouver, I saw them again. And I say devil-sized because it really was. In fact, every drinking reunion in Vancouver on Friday is, irremediably, devil-sized. If the responsibilities end at 4 p.m. or earlier, at that time we are in the most-voted bar asking for the first pitcher. That night we started a bit before 4 p.m. in one of the cheapest bars of the area. There were all kinds of chats. That we’re so fucked; That we all need to sleep; That we should go to Vancouver Island next weekend; That there are some motherfucker friends with black vibes; That I am a socialist and that if I inspired my look in Che Guevara. They’re writers but oh, they sure talk.

Well, after that devil-sized drinking reunion in the middle of Downtown Vancouver I saw them again. I’ve already seen them a few weeks ago. It was Saturday or Sunday, there’s no other way. But in a Saturday or Sunday I realized that Vancouver was a city of condoms. Just like that. There were condoms everywhere. There was a pink one stuck on a fence by the Waterfront; There was a yellow one thrown on the street on the way to a pizza place that sells 2 slices and a coke for $3.50. There were many others thrown all around in Gastown, transparent, rotten, fresh. They were everywhere, like Saba in Y Tu Mamá También. But there was one that got my attention. It was in Melville St. It was a condom in an intense yellow color that looked as if it was just dumped on the sidewalk, with the ring bending towards the street, dripping semen. The semen strained by a small crack in the pavement. For me, it was like an image taken from The Wall.

Then, after that devil-sized drinking reunion in the middle of Downtown Vancouver I saw them again. There they revealed before me, in a road parallel to mine. Everybody walking around Downtown, stepping on them, kicking them, dragging them along, and suppressing them. They were there, but they didn’t move. People moved them. They didn’t let them establish their condomistic colony. Among those streets under construction, the condoms were victims of uncountable abuses.

But, when turning left on Melville, I had no choice but to stop and admire. From a crack in the pavement, close to the sidewalk, came a thin green stem that ended in a strange flower. On top of the flower was, clean, with no bothers, a condom in an intense yellow color.