CHAVATEANDO!

I take my wine and roach and retreat to the backyard. I take a deep hit on the roach. I love fucking stoned. Combined with the pills, which are having their desired effects, I picture a whirlpool stirring placid waters. Strangely enough, I'm trying to conjure the Apostles up as part of my self-flagellation, but I'm unsuccessful in summoning these dastardly characters. They must have gang-banged Fabiola and like a row of executed prisoners are lying on their backs. The sole difference between them and the condemned, however, is that they were doing the shooting. m now I will be standing under another starry, moonlit sky lamenting the departure of Fabiola and the loss of two more boys. My cynicism lifts me out of the depths of despair. Will I be with another beautiful woman and two handsome sons? To its eternal credit, even though its existence is short-lived, the animal refuses to accept its own death. And neither will I. Though I calculate that we have screwed more than 2,000 times, I want to feel my dick sliding slowly into her tonight as I recreate the first time with one of her lovers. The doctor's successful conquest never fails to excite me. They met at a party. He invited her to dinner in Matamoros and they drank excessively. In his car he fingered her cunt while she sucked him. They arrived at his house where they fell off the couch groping each other. Fabiola confessed that she passed out, only to awaken in a tub of hot water as he revived her. "He wanted to fuck again," she told me one night as I pumped her. She mentioned on another occasion that he was one of those "who I liked the way he fucked me" and their rendezvous were strictly about sex."Whenever I knew whomever I was seeing wouldn't find out, I would give him a call." She once intimated that he was rough with her, but I could never squeeze the details regarding his techniques. There had arrived a moment when she realized that she had revealed too much and her words would come back to bite her on the ass as I'm sure he once did. How big was his dick? I can see her face twisted with pleasure and her mouth half-open, her nose flaring and her eyes sunk back into her head as she came. How many times did the good doctor look down upon that contorted face as he stroked her with increasing fury until he filled her with semen and she lay panting, her mind blind except for the pleasing sensation she had both given and taken. The pills are working as I work myself into a state of hate and horniness. I will explode in her. The physical release will be second to none, but the mental peace will be short-lived. I will have relived a brief instant of the doctor's affair with Fabiola, but the high from the carnal experience will plunge me deeper and deeper into the abyss of my own sexual despair. Is the repugnance that I feel for Fabiola turning me into a misogynist? When I have another woman in my arms, I see Fabiola in the arms of another. When I come in Fabiola, it's another man coming in Fabiola. Who is fucking Iliana? Who is fucking Marisa? Who is fucking Jennifer? The last two are married so one can only assume their husbands. Jennifer married a wealthy jeweler and lives in Dallas with three kids. Marisa lives with her lawyer in an affluent neighborhood. She never had children. I saw her walking a fluffy white thing that I assumed was a dog. I've never seen a cat on a leash. I didn't honk. I don't feel anything although I'm sure I would wince should she die before me. I'm not sure about my reaction should I encounter Iliana with another man. We have never crossed paths during these six years except in passing vehicles or when I have visited the boys. I will cry when she dies. A chunk of myself disappears into the darkness. I will look for pictures of her that Fabiola hasn't discovered and discarded. I will stare at the face that brought me to a standstill when she stopped in front of my hotel those many years ago and I will think of the boys suffering without their mother. And Fabiola? Fabiola who inspired me to change directions in my life; Fabiola who had me begging for her hand after a week's courtship; Fabiola who filled me with such ardor that after a month of romance I had a heart tattooed on my shoulder with her name emblazoned across the red background; Fabiola who three times found herself pregnant by me and bore me a handsome son; We are doomed. In my puerile mind I've reduced everything to the finality of death and the futility of life. I should be an old man dragging a heavy body down deserted downtown streets. Or will an event effect a miraculous transformation that will turn me into a faithful and loving husband? And when the end comes: "You were cheating on me?" "What the fuck are you talking about?" "The results from my tests have come back. I have an infection that causes cervical cancer. And you're the only one who could have given it to me." "Give me a break. It's been festering in you for years from all the unprotected sex you had with god knows how many guys. You used to tell me that you didn't use a rubber because it cheated you of your sensations and your ex-lovers didn't sound like the types who were only having sex with you. You were a promiscuous person. I have been living with the nightmare of your past and now you want to blame your past on me. Leave me. Let me have a moment's peace from your past. You don't love me anymore. I am nothing more than a convenience for you that you will look back upon as an inconvenience when you resume your fucking spree again." The hate that I previously felt for Iliana as our messy marriage slinked toward Jerusalem I have transferred to Fabiola. I have no more hate for Iliana as time has cleansed me and left a scintilla of love in its place. What's the point of resolving a problem when another will promptly replace it? Learn to become comfortable with the problem rather than enduring the unnerving surge of a new one. I must now deal with the enervating hate I feel for Fabiola. Iliana deserved better. Fabiola deserves better. There is a knock at the door. "Daddy-O! Daddy-O!" I open the door. Adrian is standing at the threshold attired in an old soccer jersey and a pair of red flannel pajamas. His hair is wet from the shower. "What's up, big guy?" "Will you sleep with me, Daddy-O?" He is wearing his glasses that he puts on as soon as he rises in the morning and wears until he goes to bed. "Sure, papi. But let me go to the bathroom first." I walk into the bathroom and close the door behind me. Like Rembrandt, I study myself in the mirror. The wrinkles are spreading across my face in the same fashion that the cracks in a car's window radiate in several directions, inching their way forward imperceptibly but implacably. I splash water into my eyes and inhale deeply. I take a piss, flush the toilet and walk back to the master bedroom. Fabiola and Marcos are in the shower. I open the door and Fabiola covers her body while Marcos gives me a big smile beneath a snowy head of shampoo. "Can't I have privacy?" she snaps.