Let’s start from the beginning, the beginning of life.
Between 3700 and 2500 million years ago, you wouldn’t recognize the planet earth, the continents, the oceans, or the atmosphere.
During this time the atmosphere was bombarded by electric storms and ultraviolet rays of the Sun.
The thunder collaborates with the sun's ultraviolet rays, giving birth to elements via chemical reactions, and turning them into macromolecules able to feed themselves and reproduce.
Life is born.
I was born forty-four years ago thanks to the miracle known as reproduction.
Reproduction is the biological process by which new individual organisms are produced from their parents. It’s the fundamental feature of all known life.
Each individual organism exists as the result of reproduction.
In the heat of the moment, most homo sapiens are so captivated with fornication that they forget it's for reproduction.
My Cuban wife Lucia and I have spent thousands of dollars on contraceptives of every shape, size, and kind.
We don’t want a kid. Lucia’s afraid, and nervous, to give birth. She's apprehensive about— stretchy vagina, stretch marks, and getting fat. She’s vain.
We have two Chihuahuas, they’re our kids, they're tuition and diaper-free, and non-stick-like Teflon.
For a mega-second time travels to a different dimension, you’re two inches tall, inside the TV set and on-screen at the Hooterville General Store— where Sue Drucker is behind the counter, nattering with Ralph, Shiela Burns, Mr. Haney, and Alf Monroe.
Lucia's having an erotic flashback in the shower— she’s fucking Dirk the Lifeguard in the sea during high tide, it’s pleasing, the fine granules of sand grade on her body as he rubs against her.
It’s a flashback, what you desire but isn't— she knows Dirk’s a slut, everyone in town knows.
This town is boring you to tears
Nothing in the world ever happens here
It’s all right hey lawdy mama, it’s all right
Don’t you know you gotta help
Nothing ever happens by itself
Hey lawdy mama
Steppenwolf, Live Steppenwolf
Maxine— How about a rum coco?
Shannon— No, no, I want some cold water. If I start drinking rum cocos now I won't stop drinking rum cocos. (The bus horn is heard blowing from below)
Maxine— Why doesn’t your busload of women come on up here instead of blowing that bus horn down there?
Shannon— Let em blow it, blow it (Bus horn blows again, he sways a little) HANK! HANK! GET THEM OUT OF THE BUS AND BRING EM UP HERE, TELL EM THE RATES ARE OK.
Are they getting out of the bus or staying in it, the stingy daughters of bitches, school teachers at a Baptist female college in Blowing Rock, Texas.
Maxine— here they come, a football squad of old maids.
Shannon—Yeah, and I’m the football.
a segment from Act I
of The night of the Iguana
Tennessee Williams
I was going to write a mini-bio on Tennessee but didn't. If you’re interested, read The Tennessee William's Sugar Bowl, here, on this blog.
Last night, in a dream, I met a girl, a grad student in Seattle on the banks of Lake Washington.
The two of us were queuing at an ATM machine—wrapped in a black cape she crouches and a sagging tit tumbles into my hand, then we're groping.
In no time we’re transported, riding on a mist of air to the entrance of her room on the bank of Elliot Bay, an odd structure, open in the front and covered with strips of thick plastic.
Things feel witchy, I walk a patch of grass to hang my overcoat on a tree branch, and three deadheads show. I disappear into the mist I rode in on, feeling horny.
In bed at my Key West house, half-awake, half-asleep, I roll over and fuck Lucia— one of those fucks you love, a superlunary fuck, neither here nor there.
The same morning over Jack and coffee in the kitchen she asks,
did you fuck me this morning Querido?
Yes, I fucked you thinking it was a girl in Seattle.
Was she a good fuck?
Yes, of course, dream fucks are the best.
Better than me Henry?
Baby, no one is better than you, you’re my Latino sex-machine.
I’m a machine Querido? With no heart and soul?
I adore you, darling, don’t think too much, where are we going today?
Dog Beach,
OK let’s clean up.
We shower and change, choosing beachwear, Lucia picks out a lime-colored thong and wears a T on top. I wear cutoffs with a tank top that reads,
LAZY IS A QUEER WORD
I PREFER TO CALL IT
SELECTIVE PARTICIPATION
Come on, let’s take the Vespa, I’m too loaded to drive.
Lucia straddles the scooter, I hop on the back, at Dog Beach she parks on Vernon Ave.
We're greeted by our friend Lazy Carlos. He slips us a joint and we grab a couple of beach chairs and a large umbrella, dragging the goods to an area between two tall coconut trees, parking ourselves there.
Lucia takes off her T, laying on her back— most of her large chest is exposed, she covers her nipples with loose bits of dried coconut husk.
I light the joint, take a long hit and pass it to her.
After a few hits we're tripping— the sky turns yellow, raining minnows on the shore. The little-bitty fish sprout tiny legs and crawl back into the sea. I ask Lucia,
did you see that? She answers,
see what?
The minnows with little legs crawling into the sea.
No bebe, your tripping, I’ve been playing with my nipples— my pussy’s dripping wet.
I grab her hand, she pulls her top up— her nipples push thru the material as though they're sprouting.
We swim out into the surf until the seawater is at neck level. I drop my cutoffs and bone her from behind, grabbing both tits with my hands, pushing and rubbing.
In a few minutes, seemingly longer, I blow a blistering wad inside her. As she screams as Dirk the Lifeguard blows his whistle, signaling us to come ashore.
Dirk's jealous, he would rather be fucking my wife than playing lifeguard.
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