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One night in a clip joint
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One night in a clip joint 'No te preocupes. Mañana no recuerda nada.' 'No worry. Tomorrow he'll not remember anything.' It was a whisper in Spanish, in female. He looked up in the direction of the voice, and saw. Claire Danes. In a brunette version. With a fiercely charming expression in the face. So candid as provocative. Standing in front of him, with a smile, waiting. 'You think so?' he asked in Portuguese. 'Sí, por supuesto' 'Yeah, for sure' said the brunette version of Claire Danes, who was still standing in front of him, with a gentle smile on her face, apparently waiting for the invitation from him to sit in the place that his friend was forced to leave after lo siento mucho, putedo que não vale um corno, muy borracho, vámonos, para a puta que te pariu, ahora (I'm sorry, worthless whores, too much drunk, let's go, you of a bitch, now), and other similar words. With cabras and muchas madres (bitches and a lot of mothers), to the mix, all whores, all daughters of a big bitch. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, took another sip on whiskey and finally made her a sign with his head to sit, if so she wished, when it was all more than well understood. 'En una casa de copas, es la regla de oro: no beber mucho.' 'In a clip joint, is the golden rule: don't drink too much' she said in a soft tone, almost neutral. 'To not fuck out the money and end up without get a fuck, right?' 'Antes o despues, la plata siempre se gasta.' 'Sooner or later, you always spend your money' said the brunette without accusing the attack. 'Pero el problema es saber lo que quieres. Si quieres las cosas bien hechas.' 'The point is know what you want. If you want things right' she resumed while falling on the cushioned couch, giving him the sight of her legs and nothing else, because instead of using a miniskirt, for example, through which she could suggest what she had or hadn't dressed underneath, she had chosen short shorts of faded jeans. Denim shorts and a transparent top, that yes, not insinuating but showing off, and ostentatiously, the absence of bra: spiky nipples and breasts in all its volumetry, exposed beneath the cotton fabric, although they were relatively small. In truth, in the fair proportion of the body that he divined, far from possessing the sumptuous curves of latin genotype. there was a lack of meat, something to cling to. Instead, what she was full of was a constellation of bones coated by membranes and muscular tissues – for more aesthetic harmony that it could have under the eyes of who dictates the rules of perfection and beauty, with its various female geometries, graceful, charming and perhaps seductive – which definitely was not his type. 'And for that what it's need?' 'Mira, si te agrado y estás borracho no es difícil hacer dinero contigo. Es sólo un trabajo de paciencia. Es lo que tu quieres de mi?' 'Look, if I pleased you and you're drunk isn't hard to make money with you. It's just a matter of patience. That's what you want from me?' she asked, keeping the same tone as she pulled out a cigarette from her purse. He leaned on the table with a glass top that stood between them and held out his hand with a lit lighter. A small flickering flame that the brunette used to fire the nicotine and aspirate a ball of smoke, causing the tip of the cigarette lit up. With the momentary flash of glowing red, one blip of light that blazed for scarce moments, as if to assert its liveliness among the steam wires of the carcinogenic combustion, to glorify its active uniqueness in the middle of the same tone, if though not so fiery, it's good to realize, that was being spread throughout the dimly lit barroom. It was her turn to lean against the couch and crossing the legs, never taking her stare from him. 'I don't know what I want from you! We barely started talking. For now that's it: just talk.' He put back the lighter on the table and thought he probably would have drunk too much: first, he had been bothered by the absence of sharply female curvaceous geometries in the woman who sat before him, though something told him in that case it shouldn't be the most important, a unusual concern because the forms had never been impeditive of whatever it were; then, there was that weird feeling of a sudden silence, a kind of sudden blackout, a total deafness while the brunette was doing no more than light a cigarette, a gesture so mechanical and spontaneous that, paradoxically and strangely, seemed to him to be an acting scene in slow motion, a silent film but colored, showing off a common moment with touches of poetry, poetic gestures and euphemistic as if it were possible to see in the glowing tip of a tobacco tube a flash of excitement, of heat, reverberations of ardor, impulsivity and rapture, everything under the visual dominance of the red, the color of power and passion, the color of desire and life on fire. 'Hablar aquí cuesta dinero. Puedes gastar la plata en otras cosas.' 'Having a conversation here costs money. You can spend it on other things.' The tall, robust brunette on service to the tables, that one wearing transparent black leggings of lycra, with nothing underneath, appeared again to collect the empty glasses and pointed to the only one which still had some whiskey, as if she was asking him if he wanted a reinforcement, it might help. How to resist to the portentous world of hormonal assault stuck in only one woman? He knew he already should have drunk too much, but if he was still thinking on it he certainly had not lost yet the sum, so he could take a few more laps, few of course, in the wonderful carousel of the fatted distillates. And that's what he did. Ordering another whiskey. Even feeling confused. He had discarded the possibility of hiring the services of two chosen à la carte in favor of a Madrid exploration by night with his friend, they stopped in that fleshpot to have a few drinks, relax, maybe fuck some , if it happened by chance because in these things of the lost pleasures you never know, the fuck was that his buddy was soaking himself in alcohol, and was eventually expelled out, in a polished way, that's right, as an invitation, but expelled, which hadn't been so unreasonable since that's what his friend was asking for, and he needed a few moments alone, without much conversation or boastings, alone it's a way to say, perhaps it loomed something tasty he could buy, but happened to be a brunette who definitely was not his kind and now he was having an argument. But discussing what? And what for? And why? There was that look on her face. Demolisher. Burning. Fiercely seductive. But the clothes, the clothes didn't help much. The woman didn't realize that those denim shorts were useless to the exaltation of attributes that she could pretend to have, possibly hidden? It wasn't enough showing off spiky nipples and no bra through a transparent top. Also because the boobs weren't big deal. Small. Meatless. And in this he was adamant. He had always insisted. Rule of thumb: something you can grab. What's the pleasure to fondle bones? But more: there was also the obligation of having a conversation in Spanish, from her side, because he just spoke Portuguese and nothing else. As wasn't enough the crosstalk between Spanish and Portuguese, there was still the need to be cautious, as he was guessing, that this lady was a delicate bitch. A nonsense was what it was, a perfect and complete nonsense; folly, absurd, foolish, imprudent, only absurdities for who was paying the bill and didn't know how to demand the rights that the disbursement of cash gave him. What the hell! Doesn't say the tradition of good business practices that the customer is always right? It wasn't he who would have to pay the bill? In fact, it was not quite what he wanted to at that moment. However, he couldn't hide that there was there something of deeply tempting he couldn't define. Maybe it was the whiskey. 'I see. So, tell me: how much do you cost?' he shot, barely the lycra employee pulled away, staring with intensity, and some aggression, the eyes of Claire Danes in brunette version. The feeling of silence had disappeared completely. It could be heard again the buzz of the guests, and non-guests, and the chords of gypsy songs of Andalusia. 'No es la pregunta correcta. Lo que deberías querer saber es si me gustas.' 'It's not the right question. What you should want to know is if you please me' she replied with a smile, keeping the soft voice, so soft it was beginning to irritate him. 'But isn't it your job? I'm just a who has to pay if I want certain services?' 'De esa manera, tenemos el primer gran problema: no le quieres saber.' 'Thus, we have the first big problem: you don't want to know' sentenced her, putting out the cigarette in an ashtray jammed of butts while he lit, by his turn, another one and capsized the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, waiting for that distinguished lady of transparent black leggings of lycra, with no underwear and almost showing off the pubic hair, kneaded by the fabric, brought him another scotch. 'Hold on. I'm confused. I have to please you?! I have to know... to know what? If you like me? Damn, aren't we in a fleshpot?!' His voice, slightly exaggerated, called the attention of the security man, who shot him an unfriendly stare, as had happened with his buddy before being expelled from the bar. 'Una casa de copas.' 'A clip joint' she insisted, almost whispering. He realized he had to calm down and lowered the sound of the voice, without ceasing, however, to express his impatience. 'And you keep calling it a clip joint. What's this about? Sex from Far-right? Spanish nationalist sex?' 'Lo siento. Soy del Ecuador, de Quito.' 'I'm sorry. I'm from Ecuador, from Quito' and she laughed. 'España es un accidente de la vida.' 'Spain is an accident of life.' He leaned against the couch and sighed. Surrendered to the charm of that laughter. And he smiled. And she laughed too. 'Que quieres saber?' 'What do you want to know?' she returned to mutter, with an unexpected inflection in the speech. She kept the smile and the fiercely charming expression in the face. But now there was complicity, that blended with proximity, as though suddenly the two had started to speak the same language, without geographic or social barriers, as thug they were lovers and not just two unknown beings who had just cross, he with the desire of leave, or maybe not, she with the desire of arrive, by accident, as though everything had not been a small pretest, some foreplay of lost loves, before the dance of passion, wild sex in a pure state, as intense as short, just passing by, in exchange for so little change, preferably in euros. If it was the case of sluts can love. Everything and nothing, he would have thought, the answer he didn't give while they ended up to spend the night at the hotel where he was staying, near the Puerta de Alcalá. Fucking, of course. In a hot, stuffy room with a ceiling fan and the constant hum of the blades sweeping the air. But also with the exchange of affections. Because sex was no big deal, it's not that the Ecuadorian woman hadn't used all her efforts or didn't have her a certain mastery in the forced pleasure, in the arts of causing the delight learned by force by the strength of so many and repeated encounters with strangers, but she lacked in the body what she had in the face, the intense breeze of seduction, ecstasy and brightness, in the absence of curves and meat he could grab, that love is a thing of the soul, but at the hour of the primary instincts is the animal that is revealed, and only with savagery can be sated.  |
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