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INDIO GRIS
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001 WE
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
INDIO
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT INDIO GRIS Nº 59 YEAR II EDITORIAL To
take the current citizen, bourgeois, intellectual petit bourgeois, to the limit
of his contradictions is to do him the only possible good. Today
I saw her cry once more She
loved to cry She
cried When
she stopped crying And
before diving into love she would say to me: TO
return,
return, return Return
return return Distant
solitude Nothing
awaits me in this solemn afternoon of the end of summer. I
admit that I have a hope of forgiveness. Mercy for he who facing
Today, among shadows I was a slave of my own fantasies. With
softness and in a low voice, because we were just beginning, I made her notice
that I had said slave, to which she quickly responded (it isn't usual in her): -
Yes, in my fantasy I became a superwoman with the most standing
characteristics stolen from many of your male patients. In my fantasies I had
Romualdo's unquestionable
luck and good judgement. The firmness to defend my thoughts and emotions, the
fanaticism that Ernesto possesses. I was capable of gambling my life in only one
card like your patient, the gambler whose name I don't know yet, and besides, he
was cruel to women imitating your own style towards me, doctor. Afterwards
she walked tranquilly around the room, dressed like a man, the outfit was all
hers. Of course, I always look how she is dressed, when I come in and we shake
hands, I take a photo of her and, later I study it carefully at home. Sometimes
she appeared dressed in a white jacket and in panties, other times in her
trousers but with the fly open. In one of the pictures she appeared all dressed
in white, her white shirt, her white trousers, her white shoes, the same outfit
which one day gave me a terrible headache because I imagined that you had bought
it in Via Venetto accompanied by more than two prostitutes. One time she
appeared bare-footed and with that linen tie which was given to you by that
patient of yours, who lives in love with your verses. When
I told her: -
As happens to you, there was no certainty in my voice. She continued
firmly with her speech: -
The part I told you about was not the most important one, what happened
afterwards was certainly extraordinary. I
felt, with the burden of having theoretical knowledge about what you are doing,
I wanted to stop in the previous statement which she had so splendidly rejected,
but she wanted to go on and once more defeated me. I listened attentively to
what she was saying to me: -
The most incredible part of my fantasy is that, all of a sudden, while I
walked around the room, all the women of my desires started to appear, I mean,
all the women of all my men and they bent in front of me, and kissed some part
of my body and then disappeared to give way to other new women. -
You fantasised that you should turn yourself into a great man for your
mother to stop despising you and to love you. -
No, doctor, the most important, the most incredible aspect of my
fantasies is that all the women, even possessing different bodies, in all cases
had the same face. -
Your mother's face - I said, feeling that this time she had cheated on
me, the monkey had fallen in the trap. -
Worse, doctor, much worse, the face that all the women had was yours,
doctor, and now, please, let me go. I'd rather leave now and continue in the
next session. I feel sorry for you, today I don't feel sorry for myself, how
terrible, during all this time you were my mother, everything we lived
was the journey of the transference, poor little doctor, poor… I
interrupted her to tell her not to worry so much for me, because I had already
thought of increasing my fees. -
How much, doctor? - she said desperately - don't throw me out now that I
had started to love you. Always money, always money, men are terrible, as soon
as one gives
in, they always ask you for the same thing, pussy or money, and now, what will
you want?, because I recognised that you had psychoanalysed me well, you already
want to charge me the same amount you charge those patients of yours, rich, high
society boys. I'm a poet, an artist, I have the bleeding fire of occident in my
mouth, I'm the violence of a children's rhyme defending their rights. Don't kill
me, doctor, I ask you in God's name. Tell me how much? -
I had thought of increasing your fee a seven per cent, the same
percentage as university fees increased, what do you think? -
What do I think? A cruelty, a hundred and forty pesetas more each time I
come to see you, atrocious, that's what I think, an abuse of power. -
We'll continue the next time. And
she, getting up quickly from the couch, and the problem of the raise. -
We could leave it for the next time. She
murmured approaching me lustily: -
How patient you are with me, keeping quiet sometimes when I talk such
nonsense. -
Don't think so - I told her while I moved aside from her body and at the
same time opened the door of the consulting room - sometimes I keep quiet not
because I have no patience, but because sometimes you frighten me. -
How funny, doctor, how funny! And
this way we said good-bye till the next session.
I
touched my dick a little and remembered Clotilde. She liked, above all, to
make love in the bathroom. She undressed in silence, while I finished
washing my ass or combing my hair or washing my teeth. She always caught
me doing something in the bathroom. Sometimes she would bring me coffee
and we would stay chatting for hours. Afterwards she would hold the basin
with both hands, and start to murmur between her teeth, I suppose in order
to be more maddening for me: -
Today, wherever you want, my love. Wherever you want. And
I would get close to her as if I were a cloud, open slightly her but with
my hands and a perfumed song of larks would invade us, and then I did as
if I were fucking her in the ass and I would fuck her pussy and later, I
did as if I were fucking her pussy and I would fuck her ass. I always
cheated on her. -
We are like three thousand, my love, we are like three thousand.
And
she had orgasms like deliriums, like a multitude of men and women making
love in her body. And she would end holding to her tits desperately and
kissing her own face in the mirror. -
You killed me my love, you broke my pussy. And
she would sit on the toilet to rest. And still sighing: -
You are a genial poet! You are a genial poet! I'll give you a
typing machine as a present, - and her face would darken - Of course, you
must already have a typing machine, surely someone else before me
gave it to you. And
while she talked she would put her hand between her legs and let my semen
fall on her hand and, then, she would rub her hand all over her face and
laugh: -
Your semen does good, it rejuvenates. When
she was in this mood I would tell her the truth: -
It was my father who gave me the typing machine. -
I don't believe it, I don't believe it. And
she would dress in a hurry and half-dressed she would come -
Men are sons-of-bitches and I love them. I'm Clotilde, the one who
will never stop making love. Books, poems, writings, renown phrases, I
don't know where we are heading to with so much bullshit. When
Clotilde finished making love, she would feel free. -
I want to kiss a woman in her lips. Berta, Berta, my darling, here
is my beloved's semen in my lips. Kiss me. And
she would go up and down the stairs, shouting to me: -
Jacinto, I want you to fuck my friend Berta, I want your friend
Alberto to pierce my entrails. And
she would run up and down the stairs till I recalled my father's attitude
towards my mother in similar situations and I would give her two slaps on
her face and she would cry a little and go to the kitchen to make some
coffee. Going
up the stairs I would shout at her that the life of a monogamic couple is
nice and that she should prepare me, apart from the coffee, an orange
juice, to entertained her a little longer in the kitchen and give Berta
time to suck my dick and fix up her hair, because I liked to pull
her hair when she was sucking it. Berta was angel like. Clotilde was
divine. Between
the two of them, I thought, they'll make a man of me or they'll turn me
crazy. And I would dream of my uncle Leon and in dreams would ask myself
how it was possible to satisfy six women at the same time, when although I
could with one, I realised that being able to do it wasn't easy. Clotilde
and Berta were two, but were also one. They never bothered me. Both of
them had decided to think that the other one was my whim and they were
ready to bear it. And so that I could be able to unleash the desire which
they attributed to me, to have a different kind of relation with each of
them. One worked on Mondays and the other one, on Tuesdays, one liked the
night and the other one preferred the day. One wrote, the other one
painted. They menstruated at different times in the month and educated
their children at different times in the day, and all this so that when I
would meet with one of them I wouldn't have to bear the nuisance
(according to them) of bumping into the other. There were days in which
the mechanism worked so perfectly that I would have two breakfasts, I
would have lunch twice at midday, I would sleep a nap twice, I would make
love twice, and there were splendid afternoons in which I was able to make
love twice with each one and afterwards, another two coffees. Days went by
this way and I was unable to transform those two women in two women, so
that some day they could be among the six women of my desire. And each
time they were closer, in spite of the life they led, to fulfilling their
desire of one man for each of them, of transforming me in two men. Sometimes
it was a tooth and nail fight . With punches, with insults, shoving, I was
able to lock them together with me in one of the rooms. Always one of them
was menstruating, and not a common menstruation. Torrents of blood in all
directions. I was always ready and some days we ended up in a blood bath.
Those days the other one was in mourning, because of the death of some
close relative. If nobody had died those days she would recall a death
from her childhood or from her adolescence. Between the violence of blood
and the always eternal sounds of death, I did what I could. As when I
wanted to lift up the suitcases that my father lifted and I could barely
pull one with both hands and scarcely a few centimetres. Once
I got them to kiss each other in their mouths. I
remember it as if it were today. First I made sure that each one of them
had ten orgasms. With half-opened eyes, each of them leaned their heads in
one of my shoulders. And it took me fifteen minutes, because of the
slowness of my movements, to caress their heads and
making their mouths meet. And there was a moment in which those
lips broke by the pleasure of the encounter postponed so many times, an
that way, at the edge of ecstasy by the mere fact of kissing each other,
Berta put her finger in my ass and Clotilde squeezed my balls till I
screamed. I was happy, and feeling that I had done good, I remained
asleep.
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