Latidos del asfalto

martes, 19 de junio de 2012

Gay discotheque and gay friends

La vida no es la que uno vivió, sino la que uno recuerda, y cómo la recuerda para contarla.

Gabriel García Márquez

Part I

There were two faggots: Pedro, who had all the manners of a lady but wore the apparel of a man and Pablo, who was attired as a woman and behave as one. The face of the latter did not have any kind of resemblance to the face of a woman, so it was pretty disgusting to see him acting as one. Also, there were two women: one married and one single. The last one had a mysterious past. She had come from a neighboring country where she had lived for few years.

An ugly man was also part of that group. He hated having his face so wide and an imperfect big nose. He wished his eyes were bigger and round. Instead, God gave him everything he did not desire. He was best known as Gabriel Serrano de la Vega Villena.

These five guys decided to party in Miraflores, in a gay discotheque. Gabriel had some distrust about going to a place where men liked other men and women liked other women. Gabriel had always proclaimed not to discriminate anybody who may have different tastes, opinions and beliefs. Being in that place was the proof that he really was a freethinker, a real liberal.

Serrano de la Vega wanted to fuck Patricia, the woman who drew a mysterious past behind her. She was the former girlfriend of Yolanda’s brother. Yolanda was the woman married to Alfonso, Serrano de la Vega’s close friend. 

Since a few days earlier, Serrano de la Vega and Patricia were having some kind of affair. He met her at Alfonso’s small apartment, where he lived with Yolanda. Serrano de la Vega had quitted a menial job where his reputation –if such a thing really existed- fell down to the ground. So he decided to employ his time in reading, sleeping and visiting his friend Alfonso. In one of those visits, Serrano de la Vega met Patricia. She was thin and had a little bit a bobbies –almost nothing- and something round at her rear that could be considered as a butt. Serrano de la Vega saw in that woman some kind of tendency to make up haste relationships with anyone who was willing to. And he wasn’t mistaken. After two more visits, Serrano de la Vega and Patricia were having kind of a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. In his wettest nights, Serrano de la Vega remembered having had his hand inside her pair of jeans, under her underwear, touching daintily that flat butt, while kissing passionately those linear lips of hers, in one of the beds that Alfonso had at his house.

The gay discotheque was in Miraflores downtown. Serrano de la Vega had passed by that place a few times before, but never came to realize that that building could have been the sanctuary of the people who liked to play with their own tools.

He was holding Patricia’s hand. Pedro, Pablo and Yolanda were next to them, standing in the middle of the night, waiting for something to come in. Afterwards, Yolanda told Serrano de la Vega the reason why they all were standing outside; there was a fussing to clear up: he had to pay Patricia’s ticket because she had no money at all. It was thirty soles each. Serrano de la Vega nodded. It was kind of his girlfriend so it was kind of his responsibility to assume that cost. At that time, Serrano de la Vega had money enough to afford Patricia’s tickets and other trifles like that one because the company for which he had worked paid him a good amount of cash for his four month services. That money issue made Serrano de la Vega look handsomer.

The place was dark inside but a feeling of extreme freedom enlightened the atmosphere. It seemed like ugly people was not invited to that fancy conclave. Serrano de la Vega and some of his friends were the only exceptions. The group soon detected a free spot to stand. All of them went there: Patricia walked embracing Serrano de la Vega’s chest, Yolanda behind them, leaving one hand on Serrano de la Vega’s right shoulder, Pedro and Pablo talking away and giving quick glances to their peers.

            -On the second floor, you can see people fucking each other. It’d be great to find a dude sucking someone else’s cock-said Pedro. He was thin, wore glasses and always had a scarf around his neck.

Once in place, they formed a semicircle, so they all could take a look to the dance floor where men were dancing with other men. Most of the people were dressed up as policemen, apaches, cowboys, nurses. Serrano de la Vega remembered that that night people were celebrating Halloween. He was so focused on taking Patricia to some hotel bed that completely had forgotten what day it was. A couple of Roman gladiators passed near the group. They were talking to a cowboy. The formers were walking daintily and their visages were very feminine. The latter had a severe face and some lump at his (or her?) chest.

            -How handsome are those fellas! What a waste!-said Yolanda. Patricia agreed, giving quick glances at the wrestlers’ genital zones.

Gabriel noticed that the cowboy was manlier than him, walking firmly with his shoulders thrown back and keeping a straight back. He thought: some lesbians are manlier than any men and some gays are more feminine than any women.

Pedro and Pablo disengaged from the group to get some beers. Yolanda saw that and said to Gabriel: -I’m thirsty, Gabo. Could you get something for me?

            -A beer?-asked him.

            -No, not a beer. Let me see. Look over there; I want what she is drinking-said Patricia, anxious to have the drink a tall, dark-skinned woman had. Gabriel saw the drink and the woman. The former was a Sex on the Beach and the latter was a beautiful young lady who might have been in her twenties or so. Just when Gabriel was staring at the face of the beauty, she stared at him too. She grinned placidly and gave him a knowing glance. The man was stock still, spellbound. Couldn’t believe such a woman would reply his ridiculous approaches. To top that, the woman gave him a flirtatious wink.     

            -Wow, wow-said Pedro-. Gabo likes that fag.

           -¿Fag?-asked Gabriel-. She is not a …-he looked at her carefully. Indeed, that woman was a “he”. That’s why he succeeded in flirting. A real woman of such beauty would have never winked an eye to him.

            -Hey, I’m with you, don’t you forget that-said Patricia-. I thought you were straight-went on, laughing.

Gabriel went to the bar and ordered Patricia’s drink and a jar of beer. Yolanda followed him. She was trying to play with him, pinching him on his arms or –and this surprised Gabriel- on his butt. He smelled that Yolanda wanted something. Yolanda was a beautiful woman; had a pretty nose, big round black eyes, perfect smile and a slim body, although not the type of body Gabriel liked –a fleshy one-. He tried to behave as if Yolanda’s deeds didn’t cause an effect on him. This, of course, made Yolanda doubled her efforts to capture Gabriel’s attention.

            -Let’s go to bed, right away-Gabriel was saying to Patricia while she was drinking quietly her Sex on the Beach-. Come on, don’t be so obstinate. I know you want that as well.

But Gabriel just received passionate tongue-kisses from her. He’d put his lips all over her neck and she’d close her eyes, moving her body to the melodic rhythms spilled out by the invisible speakers.

Pedro started to dance with Yolanda. Then, both disappeared among the mass of winding bodies on the dance floor. Afterward, Pablo joined them. After finishing her Sex on the Beach, Patricia pulled Gabriel into a free spot on the dance floor. She wanted to dance, but Gabriel was just picturing her naked, her mouth giving him lots of agreeable cock sucks.

Two hours later, a show was being performed on the stage. A bunch of almost-naked thin and burly gays, all dressed up in colorful apparels, were singing and acting a famous gay song. Some of the people drew back from the dance floor and went to their former spots. Gabriel’s group did so. The show was boring.

Pedro suggested going to other place because the music was being quite monotonous. His friends accepted with impressive enthusiasm. Only Gabriel did not show any kind of emotion. He only wanted to fuck and go for a pee. He asked Pablo, who seemed to him a sensible and quiet person, where the bathroom was.

The bathroom was big. There were two: one with the ladies sign and the other with the gentlemen sign. He wondered which one would use a gay guy such as Pablo who thought as a woman and wore feminine clothing; and which one would occupy the cowboy lady he saw a couple of hours earlier. She was so manly that wouldn’t be a surprise to find a dick under her underwear.

Gabriel slightly pushed the men bathroom door, and what he saw first was the visage of the black lady who had winked at him before. Her arms were stretched out to the wall and his head was somewhat tilted.

            -Hello-said the lady, with a faltering voice, breathlessly-, come on, join us.
¿Join us? Wasn’t she alone in that room? For one hasty second, Gabriel imagined that lady giving him that cock blow he was expecting for hours. She looked like a lady, behaved as one, had a pair of enormous boobs –bigger than those of Patricia’s and Yolanda’s together, for instance- so his mind could effortlessly consider her as a real ‘she’. Besides, every bathroom, in self-respected discotheques like the present one, had those square-shaped condoms machines where to get some protection. Nevertheless, the situation had changed. Apparently, she was not alone there.  

domingo, 17 de junio de 2012

Who is an engineer

Sometimes, people address me as “engineer” and, when that happens, I cannot prevent myself from feeling that they are talking about someone else but me. I am not an engineer, although I’ve studied mining engineering and also got a diploma that certifies me as one. Paper can bear a lot of things.

I sure enjoy my job because what I do there requires no excruciating effort at all from me. I like what I do. And as I stated before, I’m kind of a lucky man for I work in Lima, close to family and friends. Well, talking about friends, the only one I regularly saw and visited has gone to Australia where I am sure he’ll find what he is looking for. His name is Nasir. Moreover, he was the one through whom I got my present job. Thanks for that, Nasir. So I have no friends but family only, leastways, in this country.

Engineers are smart and clever. They always have an answer to a problem and often show themselves as determined guys. Their minds are, at any moment, made up to take any risky decision. They are successful guys and have money to party and have sexual intercourse with various ladies.

Engineers are always talking about what they are going to purchase next: a house, a brand new car, the latest and sophisticated cell phone on the market. As well, these people are constantly searching for ways to increase their bank accounts.

Engineers don’t read and certainly wouldn’t waste their valuable time reading this piece of shit that hangs on the internet. They would read papers about financial issues or the sport section.

Engineers like to be called “engineers” and they’d be terribly pissed off if a regular citizen discards or forgets to call him that way. The engineer would confront that motherfucker and would force the poor bastard to address him in the proper manner. “I’m an engineer. You never forget that, piece of shit.”

Glod bless engineers!

But I’m not -not even faintly- everything I listed above. I’m not an engineer. I’m just a regular guy who wants to have the time to write the nonsense that’s in his revolting mind, time to play with and kiss his daughter and, eventually, die in peace.

viernes, 15 de junio de 2012

To be a father

"La paternidad es lo mejor y, también, lo más terrible porque vuelves a ser infinitamente vulnerable" Roberto Bolaño

To be a father is quite complicated. Instantly, you have to struggle against your own ego and put you entirely at the service of the ones that surround you. Sometimes you have the money to purchase those slacks that you know are going to match perfectly with that black tie but, suddenly, a sensation you never felt before seizes your mind and forces you to think in that little baby and that hard-working lady who are waiting for you to come home. So you have no other option rather than to save that money for diapers or for some toy that your wife have been pushing you to buy because media said it’s going to be a useful tool for the infant stimulation.

To be honest, being a dad is not as complicated as being a mom. They –moms- are the ones who spent most of their time with the babies, having –in most cases- no time at all for them, I mean, time for them to do a little shopping, to talk to their friends even on Facebook, to dress-up as they used to when they were single and had a carefree life. Life puts in our way things that we never planned before to encounter with. Those things could damage you or not, could make you feel happy or not. It all depends on the glass you use to look those things. Being a dad was not on my immediate plans but now that I am one I’m experiencing a bunch of new sensations. When you are miles away from your lady and your daughter –who, by the way, has three months old- you only think about them and ask yourself if you could resist or endure one more day without seeing them. Gladly, in this spot where I’ve been thrown in, I can talk to my lady thorugh the cell phone and ask for my little baby.

Fortunately, and despite the fact that I have studied Mining Engineering and, for obvious reasons, have to work away from family and beloved ones, God has given me this job, in Lima, where I don’t have to travel quite often. Of course, I travel to provinces, when a new project comes along, but for short periods only –one or two days- to gather information and assemble data in order to make up a decent report. Being close to your beloved ones is a priceless thing to thank for.

My dad was not so affectionate towards me or my brother. Perhaps, as fatherhood took him by surprise when he was only twenty one years old, he was not prepare for being a playful dad. Indeed, in that time, his top priority was to get through university with the highest scores. And he did so.

Now that I am a father I understand my dad. I remember, when we used to live in our house, in Los Olivos, seeing him studying at his desk, reading enormous medicine books, so concentrated on what those books were saying to him. It was not openly prohibited but me and my brother knew that we shouldn’t disturb my dad’s reading. I know understand why he couldn’t be so playful with us. He had to study because that was the only way he had to be a doctor and provide for his family a decent life.

Now that I am a father, it is clear to me that the role of a son is not to judge your parents. Our role as sons or daughters is to love wholeheartedly mom and dad.

I have an uncle who lives and works in Chile. He also is a dad to me and my brother. When my father started to work as a doctor, the money was not so abundant at home. On the other hand, my uncle decided to start an enterprise with a couple of his friends and that affair turned out to be quite succesful. My uncle, knowing about our economical situation, decided to help her sister and bought us our tools for school: books, pencils and even the monthly payments to school. I clearly remember those escenes: my uncle holding a big bag full of notebooks –the expensive ones-, the books that school demanded, pencils, crayons, and my mom thanking him with joy in her eyes, beaming. But his help didn’t stop there, he also helped economically my father and my mother when I got into university until my father was able to pay the college monthly payments.

I owe a lot to my father and my uncle and to those people who in certain moments played the role of a father to me.

Now that I am a father, I am aware that I have to take care of myself because two beautiful women are waiting for me to come home in one piece, because that little child wants –though she can’t speak yet- me to watch her growing, help her with her school duties, take her to the beach, embrace her and her mother, with all the love I can humbly give.

El escritor y el barbudo

Ese día, el escritor no sabía que no dormiría en la comodidad de su cama en Los Olivos y que, más inesperadamente todavía, cerraría su jornada copulando con una prostituta de la Plaza Manco Cápac.

La oscuridad de la noche se había ceñido sobre el plomizo cielo de una tarde llena de clases aburridas en la Facultad de Minas. El escritor, a las 2 pm, tuvo que abandonar la sala de lectura del tercer piso de la Biblioteca Central -que había ocupado desde muy tempranas horas de la mañana y en donde se solazaba leyendo La Guerra del Fin del Mundo de Vargas Llosa- para dirigirse a una clase más en el vetusto edificio de Ingeniería de Minas.

A las ocho de la noche, con la mochila colgando desganadamente de un hombro, la consigna definitiva de dormir por horas sin preocuparse por nada más en el mundo, y tres soles en el bolsillo de un percudido y viejísimo blue jean, el escritor arrastraba sus pies por las consabidas aceras de esa universidad llena de gente presumida.

Pocos metros le faltaban para cruzar el umbral de la puerta de ingeniería cuando ante él se tropezó la espigada figura de un joven flaco, de barba corta, pelo enmarañado y gafas económicas. Nadie, al verlo, podría decir que ese hombre era el hijo de un empresario de relativo éxito, que vivía en San Borja y, si quería, podía ir en auto propio a la universidad. A primera vista, lo hubieran tachado de vago. El tipo en cuestión tenía apenas 21 años, aunque por la barba se le podría haber añadido unos tres años más.

El escritor y el joven barbudo eran amigos. Se habían conocido hacía un año, en la Facultad de Minas. Ninguno recordaba muy bien cómo se conocieron ni cómo llegaron a establecer cierta amistad. En estos tiempos es mejor olvidar las cosas, buenas o malas, y seguir viviendo, pues queda poco tiempo.

Los amigos se saludaron. A pesar del considerable dinero que podía poseer el padre del barbudo, éste se comportaba como si viviera bajo las angustiosas condiciones socio-económicas que solían acosar, con molesta constancia, al escritor. Luego de saludarse, ambos caminaron hacia la puerta de salida.

Por la mirada y los gestos ansiosos que hacía el barbudo, y que el escritor no notaba porque éste nunca se percataba de nada, se podía barruntar que algo traía en mente. Era su cumpleaños, pero el escritor no lo sabía. Al barbudo, al igual que al escritor, no le gustaba pregonar a los cuatro vientos que tal día era su cumpleaños. Les parecía desconcertante que hubiera gente a la que les satisfacía el hecho de que el mundo anduviese enterado de las fechas de sus nacimientos y preparasen agasajos y saraos al respecto. Para el barbudo y el escritor, las fechas de sus nacimientos eran desdeñables, totalmente carentes de importancia y celebraban, más bien, que nadie supiera de ellas. Sin embargo, ese cumpleaños, por algún arcano motivo, el barbudo quería celebrarlo a su manera. Su plan era agasajarse bebiendo un par de cervezas en el Centro de Lima, alejado de la universidad y de su casa en San Borja.

Cuando estaban a punto de despedirse, el barbudo le ofreció:
    
     -Habla, vamos a chupar por el Centro.

     -¿Tienes plata?-inquirió, maliciando, el escritor. El papá del barbudo podía tener mucho dinero, pero su hijo estaba siempre con la cantidad justa de monedas en su bolsillo. Quizá, era política del papá no otorgar dinero fácil e ingente a sus hijos. Quizá, pensaría que así valorarían mejor la plata.

     -Es una plata que me ha sobrado de la mina-dijo el barbudo, animoso por irse al Centro.

El barbudo había realizado, el verano pasado, sus prácticas pre-profesionales en una mina en la que, si bien tuvo que sufrir duras experiencias, recibió una paga decorosa.

Tomaron un bus que los llevaría al Centro. Entraron en un bar de mala muerte, cerca de la Plaza Manco Cápac. El escritor no estaba familiarizado con esos lugares; apenas si conocía algo del Centro Histórico: el jirón Quilca, la avenida Wilson, el jirón de La Unión.

El barbudo le pidió dos cervezas al señor que atendía. El lugar apenas cobijaba a unos tres o cuatro borrachos consuetudinarios que vestían pantalones y camisas trajinados por días. Las cervezas estaban tibias. El escritor nunca antes había sentido tal repulsión al beber del contenido de esas botellas. El barbudo también sintió cierta desazón al probar la cerveza. No sabían si eran las cervezas de ese bar de mala muerte o eran las cervezas en general las que se habían puesto de acuerdo para aguarles lo que parecía ser el inicio de una curda fenomenal, de esas que continuaban por la madrugada en los bares próximos a la Católica, y causaba que usen el trajinado gramado del parque aledaño a la universidad como mullido colchón.

Se tomaron las dos cervezas, no porque les hubiese encantado, sino más bien por una cuestión de valoración del dinero que tan arduamente el barbudo se había ganado. No se las bebieron con la parsimonia y la fruición con las que se bebe una buena cerveza, sino que se las tomaron como cuando uno apura un par de gaseosas en un concurso de glotones.

La estatua de Manco Capac cogía un cetro con su mano izquierda y con la derecha, el dedo índice recto y severo, apuntaba hacia algún punto perdido en la ciudad. Cuando el escritor pasó cerca de esa efigie, sintió que el rostro del inca –vaya uno a saber si así fue el rostro del verdadero Manco Capac, o si realmente existió este inca- lo escrutaba con rigor, como si le dijera “qué pretendes hacer pendejo, adónde vas, ah”.

Cuando reparó en el barbudo, éste estaba conversando con una joven. La chica fumaba y fumaba mientras hablaba con el barbudo, cubriéndole la cabeza con una nube blanca. Instantes después, la joven le señaló un bar en una esquina de la plaza. Cuando terminó la conversación, la chica echó a andar en dirección al señalado bar y el barbudo le hizo una seña al escritor para que se le uniera. Cuando éste llegó a su lado, el barbudo le dijo: -Habla, vamos con unas chicas para tirar.

     -¿Con quiénes? ¿Con la que estabas hablando?

     -En ese bar-dijo el barbudo, apuntando hacia una esquina de la plaza-, tiene una amiga. Vamos.

     -Pero yo no tengo plata, ón.

     -No te preocupes. Yo invito-dijo el barbudo. El escritor no comprendió de dónde demonios le había salido la generosidad al barbudo. Es decir, una cosa era que una persona le invitase cervezas a su amigo, pero otra muy distinta era que le pagase los servicios sexuales de una mujer. Hasta donde tenía entendido el escritor, el grado de amistad con el barbudo no había pasado de beber cervezas, estudiar –ocasionalmente-, jugar fulbito, tontear por la facultad. ¿En qué momento el barbudo había pasado a considerar al escritor como un amigo al que se le tuviera que pagar la puta? Al escritor no le quedó más remedio que decir, a modo de agradecimiento: -Gracias. Cuando yo tenga plata te devolveré el favor. (Nota: que se haya sabido, hasta este momento, el escritor no le ha devuelto el favor al barbudo).

Caminaron, siguiendo los pasos de la joven, quien ya hubo desaparecido, hacia el bar de la esquina de la plaza. El lugar era más amplio que el bar en donde tomaron las cervezas cuya fecha de caducidad había expirado, pero mostraba el mismo desolador panorama que aquel: mesas sucias, olor rancio.

Acodada en la barra estaba la mujer, hablando con el mesero, como si ultimase algunos detalles. Al ver al barbudo, la mujer se acercó a él. El mesero se dirigió a una especie de trastienda, de la cual surgió, a los pocos segundos, con una joven mujer de cabello negro. La chica caminó como empujada por el mesero.

El barbudo le preguntó a la chica con la que había hablado anteriormente por su nombre. Ella, sin pensarlo un segundo, respondió mecanicamente: Fabiola. “¿Y tú amiga?”, inquirió todavía más el barbudo. “No sé. Dile a ella misma”, dijo.

Fabiola los condujo hacia un altillo en el segundo piso. El techo era bajo. Se tenía que caminar agachado, casi arrodillado, cuidando la cabeza de algún golpe fortuito. Fabiola y el barbudo entraron en un cuarto cuya puerta ella había abierto. Los siguieron el escritor y la chica con quien copularía.

La habitación estaba separada por una lámina de triplay, que dejaba un resquicio para que se pueda acceder al cuarto contiguo. Todo debía hacerse con la espina dorsal encorvada. En ambos ambientes unicamente había sendos y viejos colchones de paja, por cuyos agujeros uno podía ver aflorar, obviamente, paja, pedazos de papeles, retazos de tela. La única manera en que se podía estar cómodamente en ese lugar, si acaso, era sentándose sobre esos colchones. No había cama, ni algo parecido sobre el que se pudiera apoyar el colchón. Eran solamente el frío suelo y el colchón.

En cada habitación, además, había un tachito rojo que hervía de condones usados y papeles higiénicos acartonados. El barbudo y Fabiola se echaron sobre su colchón. El escritor y su chica se escabulleron por el intersticio que dejaba la lámina de triplay y se instalaron en la otra habitación.

La cópula fue más bien un protocolo consabido: la mujer inerte mirando el techo, pensando en cuántos huevones más como ese tendría que soportar esa noche, y el escritor atemorizado porque no se le venía el blanquecino líquido que pusiese fin a esa pantomima. Las condiciones no eran las más propicias para facilitar un sexo placentero. Por otro lado, el escritor no tenía el aplomo para decirle a la mujer: "Lo siento, mejor dejémoslo ahí". Sentía que debía eyacular y dejar sentada, ante no se sabe quién, su masculinidad.

Cuando terminaron y pasaron por la habitación que ocupaba el barbudo, vio que estaba vacía. Éste lo esperaba abajo, sentado a una sucia mesa del bar.

     -¿Qué tal?-dijo el escritor.

     -Bien, ¿y tú?-replicó el barbudo.

     -Bien, también.

Los amigos se alejaron de la plaza. Cada uno albergaba en su fuero interno cierta desazón por la experiencia sexual vivida. No trataron el asunto posteriormente. Quedó olvidado en las altillos de sus inmaduras cabezas.