Without even daring to admonish her wards: You can look, you can listen, you can even sniff, but around here you can’t touch anything.
They touched everything I had, the seven demonic dwarfs of Acapulco. The seven whores of the marvelous Apollo who had outdone himself, who had completely realized his capabilities in that moment when I lost the notion, which I’d just attained, of the individuality of each one of them. They were only what I had said they were: dopey, dreamy, sneezy, diligent, and wise, enterprise and sensuality. They were obscure angers and palpitating desires, all together. They lacked faces, and I imagined my own under the sun, under the shadows that covered me, naked on a ketch that was heading straight for the middle of the ocean, farther and farther (Snow White never changes course, doesn’t protest, doesn’t say a word, an argonaut, a whoronaut, an argoinvalid paralyzed by the sea, the breeze, the sun, the adventure, the danger, our increasing distance from terra firma), and I only know that seven eighteen-year-olds (on the average) are making love to me.
I see seven asses that sit on my face and offer themselves to my touch and my mouth. I want to be honored and to notice differences, to individualize. I want to glorify them in that culminating moment. I don’t want them to feel bought. I don’t want them to think they’re part of a pack. I want them to feel the way I felt when I got the Oscar, king of the world, and they, my seven dwarfs, my queens. Asses as hard as medlars and smooth as peaches. Asses as vibrant as eels and as patient as squid. Asses that protect the dark essence, the smooth, slight hair of the Indian woman. The impossible protection of the wide hips, the impossibly slim waists, the thighs of water and oil that surround, defend, and protect the sacred place, the sanctuary of the vagina, my seven asses this morning which I smell, touch, desire, and individualize.
Seven cunts seven. Cunt the flesh of a freshly peeled papaya, rose-colored, untouched, like a carnivorous, perfumed pearl. Palpitating cunt of a wounded pup, just separated from its mother, pierced by the damned arrow of an intrusive hunter. Cunt of a pure spring, water that flows, without obstacles, without remorse, without concern for its destiny in the sea that will drown it like a salt gallows. Night cunt poised to spring in full daylight, kept in reserve for the weakness of the day, vaginal night in reserve for the day when the sun no longer shines and the woman’s sex should occupy the center of the universe. Fourth cunt of the Acapulco girls, fourth, fortress, cunt like a furnished fortress, warm, inviting, expecting its perfect guest. Fifth cunt, the fifth the best, a metallic cunt with veins that refuse to be mined and give up their gold, asking the miner that he first die of suffocation in the heart of the tunnel. Glorious cunt of eucharistic libations, sixth, sexth, religious cunt, Irish, black, what would my waspish WASP wife Cindy say, whiteanglosaxonprotestant who tries to hand me her boring genealogical charts: You don’t know how to enjoy yourself, Vince, unless you think you’re sinning, miserable celluloid Apollo, inflammable, perishable, take me as a woman, as a human being, as your equal, not as a symbol of your spiritual odyssey, son of a bitch, I’m not your communion or your confession, I’m your woman, I’m another human being, why the hell did I ever marry an Irish Catholic who believes in the freedom of sin and not in the predestination of the flesh!
I flee from that: I want to enjoy the final cunt, the seventh seal, the cunt without qualities, the sexual purgatory without heaven or hell, but with my name tattooed on the entrance to the vagina, Vince Valera, conquered Apollo: the seven on my dick, the seven sucking me, one after another, one sucks, the next sticks her finger up my ass, the third kisses my balls, the fourth shoves her cunt in my mouth, the fifth sucks my tits, the sixth licks my toes; the seventh, the seventh rubs her huge tits all over my body, tells the others what to do, bounces her breasts in my eyes, drips them on my balls, glides a nipple over the head of my dick, and then each one sucks me. But not only them: the sun, the sea, the motor of The Two Americas—they all suck me.
The impassive stare of Snow White sucks me as she continues in her useless pose with her hands on the tiller. Uselessly, because all the rules of her kingdom are being broken and she can do nothing but stare at us with an indifferent absence which must be that of God Himself when He sees us revert to the condemned but indispensable condition of beasts.
Uselessly, because The Two Americas has already attained its inertia and only goes farther into the sea, just as my sex goes farther into just one, just one of the seven holes offered this morning to my absolute surrender, the demand that I be given everything, that nothing be held back, that I not find a single pretext to be here or flee, marry or divorce, sign a contract or aspire to a prize, impress a boss, smile to a banker, seduce a columnist as we have dinner at Spago’s, nothing, nothing more than this: the simultaneous ascent to hell and heaven, the unleashed palpitation of my chest, the awareness that I drank too much, that I idiotically did not sleep, my heart gallops and my stomach twists, I haven’t shaved, my cheeks scrape the divine ass of Dopey as the thorns scrape Christ’s face, the sun falls on us like lead rain, the breeze stops, my pain becomes ubiquitous, the sound of the motor disappears, the sun goes out, my body runs out like water, the laughter of the seven dissipates, there are no longer seven holes, there is only one hole into which I weightlessly fall, there are not seven nights, there is only one night, I softly enter it without vacillation, predestined as my wife, Cindy, wanted, without a heart or a head now, pure erect penis, pure phallus of Apollo in the mouth of a bordello muse who caresses my face and whispers in my ear: “This is your ideal face. You’ll never have a better one. This is the face for your death, Daddy-o.”
12:01
I just died, when the sun passed its zenith. I just died screwing. I was just killed, aboard The Two Americas, by the biggest blow job in the history of sex.
12:05
“What are we going to do?” asks Snow White, her hands wrapped tightly around the tiller, as if our not capsizing really depended on it, not daring to sweat, her hands more rigid than my sex, which refuses to die with me.
My dick is still stiff, expecting the second coming, but in reality, I realize, it only predicts, with its excessive hardness, the total stiffness, the rigor mortis that will soon take control of my body, which is still limp, tanned, and unshaven. Is every man’s secret dream to have a permanent erection, the thing doctors call priapism? Well, God’s just given me one, as much an act of grace as giving military genius to a conquistador, a poetic star to a writer, a good ear to a musician, language to a translator …
The dream into which I sink tells me many things, and one of them is this: Vince Valera, you no longer have to prove your masculinity on screen. You’ve proven it in life. And now, in death, you are going to be the hardest, most unbendable slice of cold cuts that ever descended from an Irish mother. Only the worms from County Tyrone will be able to deal with you!
Shit, I tell myself, I’m talking about my body from the outside. The voice of the Lord is right. Inside, what’s going to happen to me inside? Everything that happens to me is passive, a final consequence, a last sigh. My nails and hair keep on growing. This is the first thing I know for a fact: I listen to it. The gastric juices flow, but the blood begins to stagnate, finding its eternal inlets and ponds. They are the puddles of eternity. I fear postmortem flatulence. I fear it, and, of course, I convoke it. There’s nothing like thinking about a fart to make you fart. My dead body farts.