NOVELA PERUANA EL PROFE BRUTI de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Capítulo 12

 

Te llamó el dueño de la academia, dijo su mujer sin dejar de revolver la cacerola, los golpecitos rítmicos del cucharón semejantes a los de un cronómetro gastronómico.

Gonzalo frunció el ceño: ¿Qué academia?

Para la que trabajas, pues, replicó la mujer sin levantar la vista de la danza espesa de los comestibles. Miró el reloj colgado en la pared y calculó que aún disponía de poco más de media hora para dejar listo el almuerzo y atender al bebé que pronto demandaría su atención.  

Estuvo a punto de volver a preguntar ¿cuál academia?, pero se detuvo a tiempo luego de caer en la cuenta de que su esposa jamás supo que lo habían expectorado de la academia preuniversitaria Venus 3000. Gonzalo mantenía a su mujer en la más completa ignorancia sobre cómo él se procuraba los medios para dejar el diario en la mesa de la casa. La chamba de Gonzalo era dejar lo suficiente para que nunca faltasen el agua, la luz y la comida; en tanto que su mujer estaba a cargo de estirar los dineros que él proveía. Punto. Ese era el tácito acuerdo de convivencia.

Ah, ya, murmuró Gonzalo, el tono indiferente. ¿Qué querían?

No sé, respondió la mujer. El señor que me habló me dijo que lo llames a ese número. Señaló un retazo de papel sobre la mesa.

Hubiera sido muy fácil darse cuenta de que Gonzalo ya no asistía a la academia. A pesar de que aún seguía el mismo ritual: camisa bien planchada, pantalón ajustado y corbata anudada con precisión, salía al amanecer y volvía a la hora usual de las dos de la tarde; ya no llenaba las tardes preparando las clases futuras, o revisando las tareas o corrigiendo exámenes. Ahora, en lugar de todo ello, consumía sus tardes y sus noches (incluso las madrugadas) gritando y exaltándose enfrente de la computadora o, en algunas ocasiones, yendo a sabe Dios dónde para regresar muy tarde en la noche, a las once o doce. No obstante, su mujer jamás le reprochaba cosa alguna. El dinero familiar siempre estaba presente sobre la mesa semana tras semana. Incluso, ella había notado un aumento importante en la cifra acostumbrada, como si una extraña bonanza hubiera llegado sin motivo aparente.

Gonzalo tomó el pedazo de papel y se lo embolsicó. Hoy voy viajo a Chincha. Regreso el viernes, soltó antes de abandonar la cocina. Su esposa devolvió el acostumbrado silencio. Se echó un poco del guiso en el dorso de la mano y probó su sazón. Estaba en su punto, justo como a Gonzalo le gustaba, aunque él ya estuviese camino a otra parte.

***

Lora no era el gordito bajo de cara infantil y voz de mujer que algunos imaginaban. Sí, su rostro tenía la suavidad del de un crío y su voz la delicadeza del gemido de una hembra en celo, pero su estatura de casi metro noventa lo colocaba en otro nivel. La gruesa capa de grasa que forraba su corporalidad no lo hacía ver panzón, sino robusto, hasta se diría que fortachón.

Gonzalo, aunque sorprendido por el recién descubierto tamaño de su oponente, supo disimular su desconcierto; ya que dejarlo expuesto hubiera significado empezar el combate en clara desventaja.

¿Qué quiere, Profe?, dijo Lora, tranquilo, sin exaltarse, conservando la calma. Llevaba un delantal y un gorro de cocinero. Su voz era el epítome de la serenidad: Estoy trabajando. Usted ha venido en plena hora punta. Tenemos muchos clientes esperando atención. Si me va a decir algo, que sea rápido.

Gonzalo no tenía modo alguno de saber que la punta del lapicero que descollaba del bolsillo de la camisa blanca de Lora era una moderna cámara oculta de gran resolución.  Esa cámara iba registrando, en vivo y en directo, cada gesto en la cara del maestro Gonzalo, quien había viajado hasta Trujillo, hasta la mismísima puerta del restaurante El PezCabro -cuyas especialidades eran el ceviche de pescado y el cabro a la norteña- para romperle la cabeza a Lora, a ese traidor conchasumadre que se pasó totalmente al bando del maricón de Monte, que vende el poto en Italia por unos cuantos euros y del maniático malparido del Tío Marley que fríe hamburguesas en Australia, según había afirmado en una de las emisiones de su canal de YouTube.  

La audiencia del Habla, Montecito traspasaba cotas nunca antes alcanzadas: cuatro mil personas atentas a cada pulso de la pelea. El enfrentamiento con el Ciego no había capturado tanta expectación; sin embargo, desde que Lora hubo abandonado el programa de Gonzalo, harto de las interminables mentadas de madre que este le endilgaba por trabajar gratuitamente para Monte y hacerlo para él con apatía y por unos pocos soles, Gonzalo no paró de repetir, con furia, que iría al mismísimo y peligrosísimo asentamiento humano Ramiro Prialé, en el distrito de La Esperanza, en Trujillo, para tocar las puertas del negocio familiar de Lora y partirle la cara al mantenido de mierda ese que, a pesar de que sus padres se partieron los lomos para pagarle la carrera de ingeniería industrial, el muy vago no trabaja de lo que estudió y se la pasa horas de horas produciendo programas cochinos como el del maricón de Monte.

Tanta promoción había desembocado en un torrente de vistas reunidas en el canal de Monte, vistas ávidas por conocer con qué técnica pugilística el Profe Bruti le abriría la cabeza a Lora.

He venido a sacarte la mierda, conchatumadre. A ver, dime en la cara que soy un negro resentido, malcriado y lisuriento, hijo de puta. Vamos, ven, dime que no debería ser profesor porque solo sirvo para hablar huevadas y conchasumadrear a la gente. Vamos, dímelo, cobarde hijo de puta.

No contestes nada, decía el Tío Marley en la transmisión.  Deja que el negro se siga yendo de boca. Todito está quedando grabado para que el mundo sepa qué clase de profesor es este negro. Lora llevaba un diminuto auricular a través del cual escuchaba los comentarios de los panelistas del programa: Monte y el Tío Marley.

Profe, váyase nomás, que tengo que regresar a ayudar en la cocina, dijo Lora, quien, además de pasar horas de horas frente a la computadora produciendo programas de YouTube, también, dedicaba ciertas mañanas a colaborar en el negocio familiar, la cevichería El PezCabro, con cuyas modestas ganancias, el señor Mauricio Lora pudo sufragarle los estudios en la Universidad Particular del Norte, conocida por engendrarle a la patria los más insignes profesionales de esa zona del país. 

Cuál ayudar, oe, vago. Tú no serías capaz de mover un dedo ni para rascarte las bolas que no tienes, cabrazo, dijo Bruti, feroz como lobo en ciernes.

Oe, Lora, dijo Monte al audífono de aquel. Yo creo que sobrao le sacas la mierda al Profe, ah. Métele un combo para cagarnos de risa.

El Tío Marley, que seguía la transmisión echándose una cerveza desde un barcito clandestino en el corazón del Centro de Sydney, comentó: Métele una patada en los huevos al negro y te mando veinte dólares al PayPal.

Lora no pensaba atacar. A pesar de su altura y corpulencia, era consciente de su nulidad para la mechadera. La única vez que cruzó puños con alguien había sido en tercero de primaria, cuando Javiercito Pulgar le arrebató el paquete de galletas que había llevado como lonchera. Lora, hijito mimado, fue a buscarlo para recuperar su galleta y hacerse respetar, pero no contó con que Javiercito, mucho más curtido en el arte de la sacadera de mierda, le extraería un molar con un potente gancho de izquierda. Desde ese momento, Lora no volvió a ponerse belicoso con nadie, ni siquiera con el malcriado que, en su presencia, se atrevió a meterle la mano al culo de la chica con la que había iniciado un romance adolescente, allá cuando contaba apenas trece años.  

Te llegó tu hora, maricón traicionero, dijo Bruti, llegándole al pincho que Lora se mantuviese impertérrito y calmado.

El terreno no era plano. Siempre había que ascender. Para alcanzar la puerta de El PezCabro, Bruti tuvo que enfrentar una loma de doscientos metros de altura, surcada por angostas escaleras de cemento. Muchos de los escalones, para complicar la ya agobiada vida de los habitantes de la zona, estaban carcomidos por el viento, las pisadas y la desidia de las autoridades. Entonces, a mitad de camino hacia su objetivo, Bruti se detuvo. El rostro se le deformó en una expresión de franco terror. La sorpresa alcanzó los predios de Lora. ¿Qué pasa, Profe?, dijo, verdaderamente intrigado.

Temblando, blanco del susto, Bruti extendió su largo y grueso dedo hacia el pecho de Lora: Tienes una arañota ahí.

Lora se miró el pecho, cándido, porque podía tratarse de una estratagema de Bruti para que bajara las defensas y pudiera él arremeter con todo; pero no: efectivamente, una araña de considerable tamaño, con un vientre redondo, negro y mate, que brillaba al resplandor de ese potente sol trujillano, merodeaba a la altura de su bolsillo, acercándose a la cámara que también captaba el rostro temeroso de Bruti. En la transmisión, los dibujitos empezaban a hacer escarnio de él: ¿En serio es una araña? ¿El grone le tiene miedo a las arañas? ¿Y así quería sacarle la mierda a Lora cuando no puede ni aplastar una araña? Las carcajadas podían oírse a través de la potencia y causticidad de los comentarios denigrantes sobre la masculinidad de Bruti.

Sin temor alguno, Lora cogió al arácnido de una de sus patas y lo lanzó al aire.

Así como el sol en Trujillo es potente, el viento también lo es. Los cronistas más cercanos a los acontecimientos de la Conquista del Tahuantinsuyo, y más específicamente a las andaduras de Diego de Almagro, dan cuenta de que el germen de su desgracia se debió a ese viento fuerte y errático, pues luego de fundar Trujillo de Nueva Castilla, Almagro se echó una meada. Sin embargo, antes de sacarse la pieza para liberar toda la pichi que llevaba contenida tras haber celebrado la ocasión con el vino de uno de los odres que acarreaba, dibujó sobre el suelo un boceto de lo que se conocía de América del Sur hasta ese momento. Esbozó al Cuzco y a Chile. Dijo: adonde caiga la meada me dirigiré con mis huestes a reclamar lo que es mío. Y él se apretó fuertemente la pinga para que el chorro cayese en el círculo que representaba al Cusco, donde planeaba asegurarse la mitad de los tesoros que su socio Pizarro ya se estaba embolsando en nombre del Rey, cuando ese potente viento trujillano desvió el chorro hacia el círculo que simbolizaba a Chile. Y, puesto que había jurado ante Dios dirigirse a donde cayera su meado, así lo hizo, y así se cagó, puesto que la expedición a Chile lo sumió en la pobreza, en la depresión, en el rencor, y apresuró su muerte por garrote vil a manos del cachaciento y crudelísimo Hernando Pizarro.

Ese mismo potente y travieso viento trujillano condujo el cuerpo de la araña hacia el rostro de Bruti, quien, cegado y presa del pánico, sin saber qué hacer y dando alaridos de terror, se desbarrancó por la escalera por la cual había ascendido tan penosamente hacia los fastos de la cevichería de los padres de Lora.

Fueron los peldaños treinta y cuatro y sesenta y ocho los que se encargaron de romperle la columna y quebrarle el cráneo, respectivamente, al Profe Bruti. Esos escalones fueron los encargados de segar la vida del ignoto maestro de academia preuniversitaria trucha transformado, gracias a la negra magia de las redes sociales, en el más renombrado youtuber de la Brutalidad.

***

Esta vez, el dueño y director de la academia preuniversitaria Venus 3000 sonreía de oreja a oreja, con una repugnante expresión de servilidad. Gonzalo tomó asiento con cautela. ¿Qué querrá este mugriento?, pensó.

Voy a ser franco contigo, querido Gonzalo, empezó el director. Luego, extrajo de uno de los cajones de su escritorio una chata de ron y dos vasos de plástico. Con calma, vertió en los vasitos el blanco líquido en similares proporciones. Gonzalo, tras los finos tragos que había degustado durante las grabaciones de su vídeo con la Golosa y los que adquiría gracias a los ingresos que su canal de YouTube le proporcionaba, hizo una mueca de repulsión ante la visión de aquel ron vulgar.

Quiero que regreses a la institución, dijo el director, extendiéndole uno de los vasitos.

No, gracias, dijo Gonzalo, rechazando el vasito. No tomo huevadas, acotó, firme y decidido, consciente de que el dinero en efectivo que le habían entregado por la grabación del cache a la Golosa lo erguía por encima del director y de su academia pedorra, miserable, angosta y con el mobiliario cayéndose a pedazos.

Comprendo, comprendo, querido Profe, dijo el director, lanzándole un guiño cómplice: lo estaba llamando por su famoso apelativo.

Gonzalo, que comenzaba a irritarse, apuró la situación: Mira, Maicol -era la primera vez que se dirigía al señor Maicol Huapaya por su nombre y no por su apellido y anteponiéndole el debido ‘señor’-, me tengo que ir. No estoy para huevadas. Y tras mirar la hora en el reloj de pared de la oficina de Huapaya, agregó: Por las huevas perdí mi tiempo viniendo hasta aquí.

Profe, tranquilo, dijo Huapaya, con una sonrisa apaciguadora. Voy a ir directo al grano. Se tomó de un trago su vasito de ron y continuó: Me acabo de correr la paja con el vídeo suyo y de la Golosa. Gonzalo respingó las cejas, sorprendido por tal declaración. Usted es un éxito, querido Profe, prosiguió Huapaya. Quiero ofrecerle el puesto de director de esta institución y, a cambio de usar su imagen en el frontis de la academia, le cedo el cuarenta por ciento del accionariado.

Gonzalo observó con atención al zalamero hombrecito que tenía enfrente: ¿era el mismo que hacía unos meses lo había botado de la academia como a una rata carachosa?

PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 03

 

Only forbidden pleasures are loved excessively;

when they become legal, they no longer excite desire.

Quintilian

 

I like you, mate, Gonzalo Farfan, a forward from Sport Huanca's reserve team, said to him, grabbing his cock, still wet from the recent shower. Farfan was a slim, dark-skinned bloke from Chincha with big hands. His fingers wrapped around Mote’s long, thick cock like climbing vines.

Despite the forward's dark skin, his left eye still showed the remnants of a recent bruise.

***

Getting into the National University of Central Peru to study Economics wasn’t easy. It was almost as hard as getting into any program at the National University of Engineering in Lima. So, when the group found out that Mote had secured a spot at such a demanding university, the celebration was massive.

This time you're gonna get laid for free, mate, Gonzalo Farfan told him. We’ve all chipped in so you can have a go at Claudita.

It was Sunday night. The team went to Waka Lounge, the most popular nightclub in Huancayo. The team’s coach, Pelao Sanchez, was one of the leaders of the group. His coaching style was about being a real mate to his players. He knew exactly what they were up to when they weren’t training. And if they were going out partying, it was better to join them, even take the lead. He didn’t believe in punishments. When there's friendship and trust, there's no harm or jokes, he’d often say.

Pelao Sanchez had reserved a table on the second floor of the club. Despite his modest salary from Sport Huanca, he was the one who chipped in the most for the collection. Pelao’s heart was bigger than his problems. Gonzalo Farfan, the star forward, made the second-largest contribution.

There were seven young men and Pelao Sanchez. He got up from the table and returned with four beers. No one’s leaving. Either we all go, or no one goes, Pelao said after opening the first bottle and starting to fill his players’ glasses. After two hours of stories about Mote, laughter, banter, and non-stop drinking, Pelao Sanchez, as was his habit, passed out into the deepest sleep. Julio Chavez and Patricio Zamora offered to take the coach to the club’s office, cause there’s no way we’re leaving him at his house, mate. His missus will beat us with a broom.

The rest of the team, already tipsy, and a few of them having had a bit of coke, headed to the brothel.

Wait, wait; one last quick one and we’re off, Mote said. Even though Sport Huanca was a Huancayo soccer team, the players actually born and raised in Huancayo were few and far between. Mote was one of them. The other players came from different parts of Peru’s coast.

Hurry up, mate, urged Bala Rodriguez, a promising midfielder from Chimbote, who, along with top scorer Gonzalo Farfan, was one of the strongest contenders for making the first team the following year. Hurry up, I want to get laid.

Maybe I’ll go too, Farfan said quietly. It wasn’t clear whether he said it to Joel Utani, the sly and untrustworthy defender on his left, or to Luciano Alvarez, the goalkeeper’s eternal substitute, on his right. I wanna get straight to wetting the clown.

Taking a piss at Waka Lounge on Saturdays, or more precisely, in the early hours of Sunday, was a near-impossible task. The line was long, and the toilets were packed with blokes. You had to squeeze through sweaty bodies to reach the urinal or one of the two cubicles where you could relieve your bladder. But Sunday nights were much quieter; it was the perfect time for a chat and some banter, to move freely on the dance floor, and to use the bathroom at your leisure. That’s why, when Farfan reached the toilets, he only found Mote standing in front of the urinal. His cock was limp, but still thick and long. Farfan stood next to him. Mote’s stream was powerful. Farfan began to feel uneasy. The sight of Mote’s cock, its proximity, disturbed him. Now, with his body flooded with alcohol, the feeling was much stronger, much more destabilising. That’s why, as Mote tucked himself away after shaking off the last few drops, Farfan couldn’t help but comment: Nice one, mate.

Mote didn’t take the forward’s comment seriously. He assumed it was just part of the banter that ran through the Sport Huanca reserves’ camaraderie. Now I’m gonna give this cock to Claudita. She better watch out, Mote said, laughing. Gonzalo waited for Mote to leave the bathroom and quickly tucked his own cock back into his pants, not having taken a single piss.

***

Mote had taken the precaution of burying most of the money he was embezzling from Caja Huanca, the financial institution that had hired him thanks to the prestige he had gained at his previous jobs: first at Banco del Continente, and later at Banco de Creditos.

The idea had come from Gonzalo Farfan, his close mate. At first, Mote thought it was crazy. Crazy, mate? It makes perfect sense. Are you going to keep stuffing your mattress with cash? Your lounge furniture is almost full. What’s next? The kitchen? Your missus is gonna find out, mate.

And where the hell do I bury the stuff? Mote asked.

Sixty thousand soles were necessary for Mote to buy a house with a hundred square metres of living space and a garden, or farming area, of three hundred square metres behind the house.

There, mate. Come on.

They both went out into the garden.

You’ve got heaps of space to hide your treasure, mate.

From the ploughed field, a few shy, lance-shaped corn leaves were sprouting. A few months ago, Mote had harvested a tonne of broad beans from his land, which he had sold at a good price to several of his contacts at Huancayo’s Mercado Modelo.

Mate, you know I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Mote said. You were the only one who visited me in jail. The rest of those bastards who used to hit me up when I was on top disappeared as soon as they saw me down and out. I really appreciate you, mate, but I’m not going to tell you where I’m burying the money. Yeah, I’m gonna bury it here, but I’m not telling you where.

Don’t worry, mate. I’ve already shown you how much I care for you. You know I’ve got your back. I just want to see you relaxed, mate, and he gave him a pat on the shoulder.

***

Claudia had just finished rinsing her mouth with Listerine (she had just swallowed the semen of Paco Jerte, a guy in his sixties, retired from teaching, who spent his pension on a few roll in the hay with her three times a week) when Mote knocked on her door, room fifteen. Gonzalo Farfan was with him. He was carrying a hefty amount of alcohol in his system. If he wasn’t falling over, it was because he was leaning against the walls and Mote.

Oi, mate, look at you, bringing company. The trio costs a bit more, eh.

No, nothing like that, Gonzalo clarified. This guy’s going in alone. I just wanted to make sure I left him in the hands of his gift.

And what are we celebrating? Claudia asked, pulling away a bit from Gonzalo. The smell coming from her mouth was pretty rough.

He's just gotten into university. He’s going to be a great economist, Gonzalo explained. So make sure to drain him dry because he deserves it. He’s worked hard, bloody hell.

Oi, how those balls must be! said Claudia, giving Mote’s package a gentle stroke. Yeah, they’re all swollen, bursting with milk.

Well, it’s all you then, said Gonzalo. I’m off, mate. I’m going with the lads. We’ll be at the bar.

When Gonzalo stepped away a few metres, still leaning against the hallway walls, Claudia shut the door. Your mate’s a bit of a mess, eh? she said to Mote.

***

It’s six forty-eight in the morning. Mote quickens his pace to catch the bus that will drop him near the Navigli neighbourhood, where he works as a bricklayer on a construction site. Today, he’ll be carrying bricks. The pay is good, but by evening, he’s absolutely knackered.

That’s why, after work, he grabs a cold Moretti at one of the nearby parks, Baden Powell. He often does this alone; sometimes, he shares a beer with one or two mates from work. Whenever he’s on his own, like today, he can’t help but reminisce about Huancayo, his childhood, his university days, and his time as a soccer player with Sport Huanca. And that’s where he pauses.

Baden Powell is a park filled with slender trees and sparse foliage. The shadows they cast are a joke. Thank God it’s not hot. The day is pleasant. Looking up at the sky gives him a déjà vu. It’s the same sky, the same clarity that witnessed him mark the spot on his land where he’d bury his treasure (over half a million soles in cash), carefully wrapped in several layers of black bags. And while he was digging the hole, his close mate Gonzalo Farfan, who by then was retired from soccer and working in informal urban transport, was having lunch with Roxana at a restaurant in town, pretending to discuss a project that Mote had asked him to consult with her. Just make up any old rubbish, mate. You’re a charmer like no other. Gonzalo was a trustworthy bloke, a loyal mate.

During the first few months in Italy, Mote kept in regular contact with Gonzalo. Over time, their communication dwindled to nearly nothing. Despite this, Mote knows that his bond with Gonzalo is unbreakable. What’s that bloke up to? He opens the messaging service on his phone, finds Gonzalo’s number, and sends a message. Hey, mate! What are you up to I’m here, having a beer, reminiscing about the good old days. He attaches a photo to the message, smiling with his half-empty Moretti.

He’d just finished drinking when his phone buzzes. It’s Gonzalo. A voice message from Gonzalo. Mote hits play. Cholo! Cholito! the message says. The sender is crying, sobbing like that time he confessed, in the hazy atmosphere of that Huancayo bar, that he was in love with him and it hurt like hell to hand him over to the promiscuous arms of that bitch Claudia. Cholito! Your message has been a sign from Heaven. I begged God for a sign, made so many sacrifices for this, and look, here’s your message, the answer from the Lord.

Mote can’t comprehend what kind of distress Gonzalo could be going through. Once the message ends, Mote texts back: Can I call you, Gonzalo?

No reply. He walks around the park, killing time. He gives Gonzalo a chance to send a “yes,” but nothing. The silence is worrying. What could be happening, for fuck’s sake? Baden Powell Park is large, like almost all parks in Milan. Mote walks around once, twice, three times, and still no message comes through. He decides to call him.

Hello?

Hello, mate, sorry, Gonzalo’s voice breaks up, mixed with sobs that could shake anyone to their core. What’s wrong, mate? Mote tries to calm him. Take it easy, take it easy. Just tell me what’s going on so I can help you. Gonzalo keeps saying that his message has been a sign from Heaven, with a capital H.

***

He thought it was a joke, but the tears streaming down Gonzalo’s face, there in his arms beside three or four beer bottles, made him doubt. I’m in love with you, you bastard. I like you, you fucking hillbilly.

He took the chair next to him. He tried to revive him; they had to get going. La Bala and the lads had already left. Training was on Mondays. Coach Sanchez would be at the club, probably already showered and well into a couple of good cups of coffee, ready to start the drills.

Oi, mate, we’re off, you idiot. Get up, Mote said.

I told Cinthia to get lost, you bastard. I called her up and told her to get stuffed because I can’t get it up with her. It only works when I see you pissing, you bastard. He had lifted his face from Mote’s arms. He spat this out straight in Mote’s face, without filters, without beating around the bush. Was it true? At least the part about not being able to get it up was accurate. Just a few weeks ago, the same Gonzalo, sober and in his right mind, had privately mentioned it to him.

Alright, you bastard, come on, come on. You’re talking crap now. Come on, mate, Mote lifted him up.

Look at me, you idiot, Gonzalo said, surprisingly recovered, pinning him against the wall. Look at me closely. You’re never going to be mine, are you? I’m never going to be a Claudia to feel your cock, am I, you bastard? Mote, overwhelmed by his friend’s sudden and disorienting reaction, and precisely because of that, docile as a rag doll, felt Gonzalo’s scorching breath. Fueled by euphoria, he kissed Mote. He pressed his lips into Mote’s half-closed mouth and, with full intent and plenty of advantage, buried his tongue deep.

This felt like a hit of heroin (the kind of hits he would witness thousands of times during his time in Huamancaca Prison) that made Mote react like a wounded rat and, bam! he slammed a right hook into his drunken mate’s eye. He fell backward to the ground like a sack of cement, unconscious.

***

You must already know that I like you, Gonzalo continued. Mote recalled what had happened in the bar. It was true, he thought. Gonzalito is a queer.

Gonzalo had planned this situation. He knew the lads would immediately rush home so they wouldn’t miss the Champions League semifinal. To keep Mote around, who also wanted to watch the match, he promised they’d go to a restaurant to see it. The grilled chicken’s on me, mate, he had said hours earlier. Despite being smart, Mote was a bit of a freeloader: a grilled chicken wasn’t something he could just casually afford.

Gonzalo let go of his cock. I was dying to touch it. Sorry about that. It won’t happen again. I’ve fulfilled my fantasy now. From now on, I’ll keep my feelings for you at a distance. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. He stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel.

Do you really like me, mate? Mote asked as he emerged from the shower, tying his towel around his waist and sitting on the same bench where Gonzalo was already drying his feet. So, was it true, what you said the other day at the club? Did you break up with Cinthia because you’re queer?

Gonzalo’s feet were long and covered in calluses like any soccer’s. Yeah, he replied, it’s true. I like you.

So, you’ve discovered you’re queer with me, huh? Mote let his towel drop to the floor, so interested was he in uncovering the truth.

No, mate, it’s just that since I’ve had this fixation on you, I can’t get it up with anyone else. I don’t know what’s going on, mate. This has never happened to me before, he said, drying his balls. They were big, but his cock was pretty average, way too average for a black guy.

What do you mean ‘it’s never happened before’? The curiosity was immense, immense and big like the cock he had there, naked and thickening, slowly getting hard like a cat settling down to pounce on its prey.

I’ve been with other blokes. Not far off, two from the reserve team and three from the first team, Gonzalo detailed.

What? This was unbelievable.

Yeah, mate, but with none of them did I feel this sick attraction I have for you, Gonzalo cupped his face and started to cry. Shit, mate, my life is messed up.

Mote moved closer to Gonzalo. What if I let you give me a blow job? Mote suggested. Maybe if you fulfill your fantasy, everything will go back to normal in your life. But, Mote got serious, if nothing happens, I won’t help you anymore, mate. And don’t even think I’m going to stick my cock in you or that we’re going to kiss. I’m not into that crap.

Gonzalo saw a light. He knelt in front of his mate and, with the same devotion as an old lady approaching her favourite saint to touch it for good luck, leaned in towards his mate’s erect cock.

***

I’ve got AIDS, mate. They’ve detected AIDS, man. I’m gonna die. A jolt of terror surged through Mote's body. What, mate? AIDS? Without stopping his sobbing, mucus surely smearing his mouth and dropping to the floor like thick oil, Gonzalo continued: I need money, mate. I’m going to Huancayo to dig up your treasure, mate. I’m really sorry, but I can’t die and leave my family on the streets, mate. I asked God for a sign, and see, he gave it to me: you messaged me after all this time, man. That means I have God’s permission to go for that money that ‘I’ helped you protect, mate. If I hadn’t given you that idea, the cops would’ve blown all your treasure. I know you’ll forgive me, mate. I know you will.

Mote couldn’t finish his Moretti.

PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 02

All the sacrifices that poverty demanded,

they endured with resignation.

Franz Kafka

 

Posso tocarla? (Can I touch it?)

Mote looked at the old man, then down at his lifeless, limp member; and, reminding himself that every moment was part of a great sacrifice, he pulled himself together, put on his best face, and told him yes, it was fine, he could touch it.

Giacomo Ferrini, Italian doctor, retired, seventy-eight years old, wealthy, and solely concerned with enjoying the fleeting pleasures of life, extended his white, thick, hairy arm towards Mote's exposed and downcast bulge. How the hell have I ended up in this situation? thought the Peruvian as Giacomo began to rub his genitals.

***

It was a Monday; a day off for Mote, though he would have preferred to spend it working, earning money. Unfortunately, the odd jobs he'd been given (and the ones he’d found himself) had ended the previous week. He was supposed to spend that Monday looking for more gigs. In his situation, he couldn’t afford a day off. In Peru, Roxana, his wife, and Alice, his daughter, were counting on the money transfers he had been sending them regularly for the past six months. However, he felt an existential exhaustion. I deserve a little break, he told himself. Breaks are useful too. If you’re smart, you can use them to plan ahead, mate, to study your next moves and not screw things up, he convinced himself.

He was sitting on one of the benches in Sempione Park, one of the largest in Milan.

Mote sat at one end of the bench. He was drinking a Moretti, a beer that reminded him a lot of Peruvian Pilsen, a drink he had consumed to excess during his wildest nights in Huancayo, back when he had loads of dirty money and was living the high life.

Suddenly, an older man, tall but slightly hunched, sat at the empty end of Mote’s bench. He crossed his legs and fixed his gaze on the people happily strolling by.

Mote didn’t pay him much attention and kept drinking his beer. But soon enough, the man, shifting his position and leaning slightly towards Mote, asked him: Non sei di qui, vero? (You're not from around here, are you?)

The Peruvian had already mastered Italian. Mote was brilliant with numbers and finance. That had allowed him to unravel the secret mechanisms of the financial institution where he worked and pocket money that would have taken him centuries to earn honestly. But his six months on Italian soil had revealed another remarkable talent: mastering languages. Few South Americans managed to learn the basics of Italian in six months. Mote not only grasped the basics in that time, but also the more complex aspects. Italian was now added to the languages he had learned from birth: Spanish and Quechua.

No, sono peruviano. (No, I'm Peruvian)

They chatted. Mote exuded good vibes. Just looking him in the eyes, hearing two or three words from him, you could feel he’d be a good friend. In Huancayo, he was much loved. Even the cops who arrested him when his embezzlements were discovered had been his schoolmates, with whom he had built a strong friendship over the years. In his role as a financial analyst, Mote had approved every loan they asked for. He wasn’t too picky with the requirements when it came to helping a mate. That’s how Mote was. Thanks to these cop friends, in the obligatory press photo, Mote appeared with his head down. Every detainee had to look straight at the camera, and if they didn’t, the cops guarding them were supposed to force them to. Mote wasn’t forced to do anything. His mates let him hide his face.

Angelo Facchetti, a retired industrial engineer, seventy-nine years old, filthy rich, and an incurable traveller, was charmed by Mote. He immediately empathised with the sad story Mote told him: a South American immigrant surviving on brief and tough jobs in Dante’s homeland.

Ti pago cinquanta euro per pulire casa mia. Che dici? (I'll pay you fifty euros to clean my house. What do you reckon?)

It was an offer Mote couldn’t refuse. Angelo gave him his home address. The next day, Mote was to show up at nine in the morning to start the job.

***

Angelo Facchetti and Giacomo Ferrini were very good friends. They had met on a gay virtual forum. Both had bid to sleep with the most beautiful youth ever offered on the forum. Angelo and Giacomo reached the peak: one thousand euros. They asked the forum administrator to facilitate their internal communication. The administrator provided them with phone numbers. They talked. A coin tossed in the air decided that Angelo would be the first to sleep with the lad. Then it would be Giacomo. After that, they both built a solid friendship.

Angelo knew that Giacomo was dying to try a South American cock again. It was one of his biggest desires. But it had to be the cock of a reliable South American, one who wouldn’t steal from him or do him harm. The first and last South American he had tried had been an Ecuadorian who stole part of his watch collection.

Non preoccuparti. Questo sudamericano è un angelo. (Don’t worry. This South American is an angel), Angelo told him.

Un angelo come te, caro. (An angel like you, darling), Giacomo replied, and they laughed.

Giacomo couldn't stop asking his friend if he had already hooked up with Mote.

No, caro. L'ho visto fare la doccia un giorno e ho visto che, sebbene la sua pelle fosse lattiginosa, la linea del suo sedere era marrone. Ma so che ti piacciono quelle rarità sudamericane. (No, darling. I saw him taking a shower one day and noticed that, although his skin was milky, the line of his backside was brown. But I know you like those South American rarities), they laughed again. Giacomo confirmed that yes, he was indeed melted by those rarities, that he liked to bury his tongue in those South American brown stripes. And he sighed as he recalled the brown stripe of his wicked Ecuadorian.

***

When the door of that enormous house opened, Mote confirmed his suspicions: Giacomo Ferrini, the doctor who claimed to be a close friend of engineer Angelo Facchetti, was a real faggot. It was enough to see how he had welcomed him; wearing white briefs and a completely unbuttoned silk shirt.

Since entering the splendid home, Giacomo hadn’t stopped showering him with attention.

La casa è molto grande. (The house is really big), Mote said, while Giacomo guided him through his palace. The doctor, who wasn’t stupid, picked up on Mote’s veiled message: the bigger the house, the higher the payment.

Nessun problema, caro. Pagherò quello che ordini. (No problem, darling. I’ll pay whatever you ask), Giacomo said.

After the tour, Mote estimated that the fair payment for cleaning the house (which, by the way, sparkled with cleanliness) should be around seventy euros. Giacomo agreed with the figure.

Ma prima di iniziare, perché non ti fai un bagno rilassante nella mia vasca? Fa molto caldo fuori e ti ho visto mezzo surriscaldato. (But before you start, why don’t you have a relaxing bath in my tub? It’s really hot outside and I’ve noticed you’re a bit overheated), Giacomo suggested. The white, curly hairs on his chest fluttered with the gentle breeze that refreshed the room with its large windows.

Oh no, Mote thought, this old mate wants a root. Confirmed. I won’t touch the broom, not even by accident. I’ll earn those seventy euros, and maybe more, in another way. I’ll figure something out.

Mote completed his degree in Economics at the National University of Central Peru, NUCP, ranking among the prestigious top five of his class. He was a very clever bloke. The strategies he applied to solve any type of problem were formulated in his mind with unusual speed. It was no wonder Mote emerged victorious in every university chess competition held. He had the unique ability to foresee four or five moves his opponent could make in any given situation.

Thus, it was easy for Mote to devise a master move that would unleash the fervent passions of the good doctor Giacomo.

Ottima idea, signor Giacomo. Ma ti dispiacerebbe se mi spogliassi nel tuo salotto? Qui è più fresco. (Great idea, Mr. Giacomo. But would you mind if I undress in your lounge? It’s cooler in here)

There was no need for Mote to repeat his proposal; Giacomo, eager as a YouTuber promised a few bucks to shave an eyebrow, gladly accepted the idea and offered to help him undress. He approached Mote and unbuttoned his shirt. When it finally fell away from Mote's body, his firm chest was exposed, along with abs sculpted from years of soccer training in Peru, when he was part of the reserve team for Sport Huanca.

Sei forte! (You're strong!), Giacomo exclaimed, filled with enthusiasm and excitement; he had a beautiful South American body before him. This time, he set aside all the manners he had learned at the exclusive and ancient Catholic school, Francesco Cicognini, and dared to place his hand on Mote's solid pectorals without asking for permission. Mote wasn’t annoyed. He knew things were flowing just as he had in mind. Even more so, he took Giacomo’s adventurous hand and directed it towards his abdomen, closer to the pubic area. Mi ci è voluto molto lavoro per ottenere addominali strappati. (It took a lot of work to get these ripped abs), he told him.

Permettimi di aiutarti con i pantaloni. (Let me help you with your pants)

Mote sat down on Giacomo's favourite armchair (an action Giacomo found adorable) and unbuckled his pants. Giacomo, grabbing the hem of the garment, pulled it towards himself, and voilà, his future employee was left in mere underwear.

Desire consumed the Italian; it made him drool. Driven by it, he knelt before Mote, who, lounging in his armchair, looked like a young Alexander the Great about to receive an intimate caress from his teacher Aristotle.

Those little eyes are begging for cock, Mote thought, looking at Giacomo in front of him, kneeling, his eyes eager like a dog staring at a steak swaying before its gaze.

Vuoi vederlo? (Do you want to see it?), Mote suggested.

Once again, repeating the proposal wasn’t necessary; Giacomo dug his fingers into the edges of Mote's underwear and pulled it down, sliding the garment down his hairy legs. The limp cock of the Peruvian was at the mercy of the cool breeze that swept through the room.

Che bel cazzo sudamericano! Che bel cazzo sudamericano! (What a beautiful South American cock!), Giacomo repeated. Posso tocarla? (Can I touch it?), he sighed, yearning, without taking his eyes off the exposed sex.

Prego (Go ahead), Mote said.

For twenty minutes, Giacomo stroked the member of his little South American Alexander when the situation called for something more intimate. He glanced back at Mote. Mote understood.

Prego (Go ahead), he told him again.

The conspicuous Italian doctor took the South American cock into his mouth.

***

On the bus home, Mote reminisced about certain scenes from the curious interview he had had with the retired doctor Giacomo Ferrini.

This old mate really sucked my cock, bloody hell. No one has ever done it like that. Not a tranny, not my soccer mates from Sport Huanca, not my girlfriends, not even the Italian hookers—no one, no one has done it like that, with that delicacy, with that harmony, running his tongue over it like it was the delicate wing of a light fan, Mote recalled, indulging in the famous Rubendarian alliteration.

The Peruvian still couldn’t believe he had gotten hard in response to the stimuli of an old, hairy, bald bloke. A great blow job, from whoever it comes, man, woman, or tranny, can revive even the most lifeless cock, he concluded.    

***

Mote had promised Giacomo (while the latter handed him a hundred shiny euros) that he would return the next day to “continue” with the cleaning work. But that didn't happen. He didn't go back. He made excuses, claiming to have colds, hangovers, and a whole slew of alibis he had never imagined he could come up with.

Looking in the mirror as he put on the little gold earring in his left earlobe before heading off to one of the jobs that, thanks to his contacts, had come his way again, he reaffirmed to himself that he wouldn’t return to Giacomo’s house: That old mate is going to want to get it on. He won’t be satisfied with just a simple blow job. No way. Stuff that. I’m going to wear him out with my rejections until he stops pestering me.  

***

Mi sei mancato, caro. (I’ve missed you, dear), said the retired doctor Giacomo Ferrini, filled with joy, when he opened the door for Mote. He hugged him, and the Peruvian couldn’t help but feel the old man’s enormous belly.

Mi piacerà sentire il tuo enorme cazzo sudamericano dentro il mio culetto. (I will love feeling your huge South American cock inside my little bum), Giacomo said after giving Mote two kisses on the cheek.

The doctor invited him in and to make himself comfortable in the armchair where, two months ago, that wonderful fellatio had occurred.

Assaggerai il mio miglior vino, caro. (You will taste my best wine, dear), Giacomo said from the bar. Mote watched him intently (a repulsive fat man in his undies and wrapped in a silk robe, who was about to fulfill his dream of South American penetration in exchange for four hundred euros), but his mind kept replaying the message from Roxana, his wife in Peru, informing him that Alicita, his daughter, had had an accident at school and needed an urgent and hefty sum of money to be treated at the most reliable and safest clinic in Huancayo.

He would have liked to tell his wife where he kept the treasure of Catalina Huanca, as he called the money he had taken, in considerable amounts, from Caja Huanca, the entity where he had been a daring financial analyst. But revealing the hiding place could land his wife in legal trouble. And Mote, above all, lived to protect his family, whether he was near or far, as he was now in Milan. No one should know where the treasure was buried. Only he, if he returned to Peru, would be in a position to dig it up and use it for the wellbeing of his family.

Muoio dalla voglia di affondare la lingua nella tua linea marrone del culo, mio ​​amato sudamericano. (I’m dying to plunge my tongue into your brown line of your bum, my beloved South American), Mote heard Giacomo say as he handed him a glass of wine, interrupting his family musings.

PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 01

 

If I don't know something,

I'll look into it.

Louis Pasteur

 

How much cum do I shoot in one go?

That question had started circling in his head since that time, back when he was still living in Peru, when he covered Jacky's whole face in cum—Jacky, one of the two women he was secretly seeing behind his wife’s back. Her sharp-featured face had disappeared beneath a dense, milky, bubbling layer. With his right index finger, Mote scraped the surface of the cum dripping down one of Jacky’s cheeks. He sniffed it, thought about tasting it, but held back; instead, he directed the finger towards her mouth.

Bloody hell! the woman exclaimed; her vision blurred by the gooey clumps streaming down over her eyelids. How long have you been holding that in?

Jacky wiped the cum from her eyes and noticed Mote’s right index finger hovering a centimetre from her mouth, waiting to enter.

You want me to drink it too? she laughed.

Open up, will ya; drink your husband’s milk, Mote ordered, dead serious, like a cop finding out his bribe was about to be snatched away. Jacky opened her mouth and sucked her partner’s finger. Mote watched her swallow the load.

What does it taste like?

Nothing, she said, standing up from the floor. She grabbed a towel, tied it around her waist, and left the room. Mote was left pondering.

Are you going for a shower? he shouted.

Yeah, his partner shouted back too, her voice muffled by the distance (the bathroom was at the back of the house) and the closed door.

Mote didn’t want her to shower. He wanted the cum to stay on her face, to seep into her skin. He’d heard that semen had rejuvenating properties when applied to human skin.

Oh well, he said to himself. She’s not going to agree to the experiment, the bloody idiot, he thought.

About eight years had passed since that day, and just as sudden memories tend to arise, his scientific curiosity had reawakened, and he now wanted to know exactly how much semen he had in his balls.

This time, the setting was different. Mote lived in Milan, Italy, in a little room tangled up in the suburbs of a working-class neighbourhood. He’d had a late-night kickabout with some of his workmates, and now, freshly showered, he was lying on his bed, ready to rest up and regain the strength he’d need for the next day’s work.

And so, the question that had been lingering for more than eight years returned with force: How much cum do I shoot in one go?

This time, the question demanded an urgent answer.

Mote jerked off every day, or almost every day. Even if he’d had sex with someone, he’d still wank afterwards, replaying the scenes he liked best from the act. Tonight would be no exception, especially since there was now a scientific mission at hand.

He got up from bed and went to grab one of the little bags he used to wrap the apples he ate during breaks at work.

He lay back down, the bag beside him, within reach of his left hand—the non-wanking one. The fewer accessories involved, the better; that’s why he decided not to grab his phone, the device he sometimes used to stimulate himself with porn videos. His mental capacity to vividly recall his favourite sexual scenes was astounding.

He started masturbating. It hadn’t even been three minutes when he felt the load building up. He grabbed the bag and placed it over the tip of his cock. It caught the entire load. After closing his eyes for a moment and letting his soul wander around the room, he snapped back to reality. The experiment had to continue.

He switched on the light in his room. He was surprised. He’d almost filled the entire bag. Now how do I measure this bloody thing? he asked himself. He looked around. He scanned the room for something that might help him quantify his cum. A spoon, he thought, as his eyes landed on the little corner that served as his kitchen. He rushed to the plastic container where he kept his cutlery: a couple of knives, three forks, three spoons, and two teaspoons. He grabbed a spoon.

Now how the hell do I spoon this thing? he thought.

In Italy, Mote had worked as an aiutante del panettiere (baker’s assistant), one of the many jobs he’d taken up as soon as he got off the plane that had brought him to this European country, the country he’d chosen to rise from the ashes, to redeem himself from the fall that had been his nearly year-long stay in a cramped cell at Huamancaca prison in his hometown of Huancayo.

When he decorated cakes, he prepared the piping bags: he’d take a medium-sized bag, fill it with the chosen whipped cream, and with his teeth, bite off a tiny piece from one of the corners at the base of the bag. He’d tie up the top and, through the little hole he’d created with his tiny bite, the cream would come out in a controlled, linear flow, ready to decorate the cake to the artisan’s liking.

That’s it, he thought excitedly, just like at the bakery.

With his teeth, he opened a little hole at one end of the bag. He couldn’t help but accidentally taste some of the semen that came out of the hole (it tasted bloody bitter, he thought, grimacing), which he quickly plugged with two fingers.

In that way, he filled the spoon. He was about to dump the contents into the sink (so he could keep measuring the rest of the cum) when he stopped: If I dump this, I won’t be able to do the next experiment. He grabbed the cup he usually enjoyed his coffee in after a night of boozing and poured the first spoonful into it.

Seven spoonfuls, he said, pleasantly surprised and satisfied, after emptying the bag.

He washed the spoon and put it back in its place. His mum had taught him the importance of order and cleanliness, habits Mote hadn’t forgotten.

He returned to bed and, beside him, on the nightstand, placed the cup of semen. Illuminated only by the soft white light of the Milanese moon, he spread the cum over his face. He left no spot dry. His skin was completely moisturised.

We’ll see the results tomorrow, he thought before closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep.