I decided to try to find a heavyset woman because I couldn’t have relations with my little wife. I didn’t know a thing about fat girls. At the bar they said getting it on with one it was like getting lost in a gigantic plasma all night. I wasn’t looking for a special fat girl. I’d be happy with anyone who could reawaken my faith in love.
I had stopped sleeping with my wife because she disobeyed me. It’s curious. The fight started because I refused to take her to a dance where Valentín Elizalde was playing. I told her she couldn’t go alone. She paid me no mind. She and her sister climbed into the Grand Marquis and left without my permission.
At the dance, she ran into the devil. The guy who asked her to dance was born with a goat’s hoof and a rooster’s foot. The place started to smell of smoke, and all hell broke loose. My wife turned up burned to a crisp in the Red Cross emergency room. It was even in the newspaper. I don’t think the devil was on tour with Valentín. I wasn’t there. Nonetheless, the guys at the bar assure me that’s what happened. I’m the laughing stock of the neighborhood. And my wife believes they put the idea in my head. Everybody, including kids, now screams at me, The devil sucked off your wife, güey. It’s as if you dropped a piece of candy on the ground and can’t pick it up because it’s stuck to the dirt. Everything for God, nothing for the devil, my wife reproached me, but I hadn’t been able to find the sweetness in her body again.
Before I decided to try for the fat girl, there were others. But my game was off. I couldn’t get it out of my head that if that guy hadn’t turned out to be the devil, my wife would have ended up in bed with him. What good did it do me to throw myself at pound after pound of woman flesh, at the whole neighborhood, if I couldn’t figure out how to touch my own?
Then I heard another guy at the bar say, That whore weighed two hundred kilos. She stunk so badly, she was disgusting. And in spite of that, I still climbed on her as if she was a pancake and squirted until I couldn’t anymore. You have no idea. I recovered my faith in life. This was the final push to move me to try to win a fat girl’s favors. It’s easy, I told myself. The world is full of fat girls. But I was wrong. There were ten prospective fat girls. One overdosed on coke, and so there were nine. Another one got raped by some cripple, so then there were only eight. Et cetera.
Why don’t you leave her? they asked me at the bar. Find someone else. So many hours on the stool made these drinkers think most men in my position would have gotten a separation. But I wasn’t part of that proud brotherhood. I didn’t dare leave my wife because I had already invested too much. One of my mother’s recurrent complaints about me is that I’m like my grandmother, incapable of throwing anything away. I still have all the notebooks I used in elementary school, my toys, and the lottery numbers I bought from Simón Simonazo. I have a real talent for not getting rid of things.
The perfect fat girl. When I got tired of that bouquet of fatties, the idea of getting a specific fat girl began to tempt me. Who would be my chosen fat girl? Would it be one of the Ultrasonics or one of the Poquianchis? My love life’s welfare depended on the flesh of a well-padded girl. Where would such a wonder be found? How deep would the ecstasy go?
In order to make my search more efficient, I put an ad in the newspaper: Looking for fat girl. Looking for a domestic helper saddled with the yoke of obesity. My wife is very jealous. Don’t even bother to present yourself if you’re not aesthetically unfortunate. But my ad was a failure. My fat girl remained out of reach. Hopeless, I took refuge in a concert by Buki, Jesus Christ to sentimental fat girls. That’s where I learned my first lesson as a hunter of chicharronería customers: Fat girls are expensive. That sentimental prototype exceeded my budget.
Without actually thinking about it, my senses led me to the Olímpico Laguna, the wrestling arena with the greatest traditions here in San Pedrostuttgart. And that’s where the perfect victim appeared. A fragile and defenseless nineteen-year-old fat girl. The lamb, no, excuse me, the cow who would free me from the sins of the world. I tell you, it wasn’t premeditated. I’d just gone to enjoy the fights, and she came and sat down next to me, she just roundly settled beside me.
She was called The Western Bible. At first, I thought that she was pulling my leg. Later, that she was crazy. She swore the crazy ones were her parents and showed me her voter registration card. It was no joke. The Western Bible really was The Western Bible. She was one imposing heifer: tall, blond, and so plump. And she wasn’t alone. She was with her son. I bought two beers and a Coca-Cola for the little calf. She told me they lived alone. She didn’t know who her son’s father was, and she had no intention of finding out. Her parents were in another house, in another city. It occurred to me they had fled from her. That they had left her the house and were supporting her at a distance, so long as they didn’t have to deal with her. The story was perhaps a bit fantastic, like the ones from the bar. Trying to have a romance with a fat girl was making me paranoid. Maybe they just lived apart because of work. But why didn’t they take her with them?
From the very beginning of the show, I began asking myself how I was going to approach this young, fat, blond single mother. How was I going to insinuate to this robust female that I needed her vigor to reignite a carnal desire for my wife? Would I dare to shamelessly ask for her ass? Would I wait for her to offer it in some natural way? Would I appeal to her sense of single motherhood? To a sense of necessary sluttishness given her situation?
I couldn’t take any chances. I decided to rely on my slyer aspects. I ordered two more beers and a mortadella plate for the boy. No chilies. I bought him a Menace Jr. mask and, before the second fight had begun, he climbed up into the ring. The Western Bible focused on her son’s evolution in the wrestling ring as she drank her Victoria beer. She was distracted. Without hesitating, I took her hand and placed it on my fly. She did not complain, but retrieved her hand. Since she didn’t turn to look, I took her hand again and placed it on myself, and she took it back again. I ordered two more beers, and we continued with that same routine throughout the show, me insisting she put her hand on my less noble parts and her refusing to do so, until the second takedown during the last fight, when The Western Bible let her hand rest on my fly. The circle had been completed. I would know the indulgent love secrets of a fat girl’s spacious bed.
As we were leaving the arena, The Western Bible stopped cold. If only she would allow me to explore her and discover for myself the promising pleasures inherent in excessive adiposity. She agreed, but only after we were certain her boy was asleep. It would be inconvenient if he saw me; that’s how it is with fatherless children. Unfortunately, every time somebody decides to screw their mothers, they develop a resistance to sleep.
So while the boy fell asleep, I walked a few blocks, bought some condoms, and, bored, finally, although reluctantly, went into a bar. I considered leaving, forgetting everything, and just going home. But I couldn’t. In some way, The Western Bible was already mine. I’d already spent a fortune on our beers. I didn’t want to later regret having passed up the opportunity.
My cellphone rang, and it was her. It took two hours for the little calf’s battery to run out. During that time, The Western Bible had been hitting the whiskey. She’d taken some good hits. Like a trucker. When I got there, she’d already finished one bottle and had a good start on a second. She offered me a drink, but I said no. She got pissy. She tried to hit me in the mouth and splashed my shirt. I had a momentary doubt but decided I had things under control. Anyway, if the fat girl became insufferable, I could fix everything by slapping her around, she might even like it. Maybe she’d like it and beg me for more.
It’d be better if you took a bath, I told her. She came out covered in powder. She looked like a giant, overactive French loaf. I’ve always wanted to fuck in my parents’ bed, she said, and then crossed the backyard completely nude, the bottle in one hand and a CD in the other. Oh, this is going to get bad, I thought when I saw the king-size bed. I turned on a porn channel, put on the CD, and und
ressed. We hadn’t even gotten to the second song when I realized The Western Bible was drunk out of her mind. No, not out of it, but blind drunk.
Grotesquely erotic, she spread out on the mattress and began to suck me off. My god, she was horrible. She choked. My dick was getting red. Twice I told her to leave it alone. You don’t know what you’re doing, I told her. You don’t know how to suck. But she was determined to show me otherwise and she was hurting me. Hold on, hold on, I finally said. I’m really hot and I want to stick it in you. I screamed, pretending to be on the verge and managing to get away from her teeth. But she didn’t give me a chance to do anything, quickly throwing herself on top of me. Puta madre, that fat girl weighed a ton, she completely pinned me. We began to push and pull, and I thought I would asphyxiate under her mass. It was frustrating. I immediately thought of my wife. Poor woman. She must feel the same thing when I’m on top. It must have taken so much sacrifice and devotion for her to tolerate my corpulence on her rickety little body.
The Western Bible stopped the pulling and pushing. I love that song, she said and got off the king-size bed to play it again. On her way to the stereo, she staggered, crashed against the dresser, and fell to the floor. I helped her up, and we continued with the penetration. I still had not experienced the divine loving grace of fatness when she again stopped to play the song over. Holy fuck, I shouted. Why don’t you just let it play? Concentrate.
Well, no, we’ll hear it a third time. And don’t scream at me, pendejo.
She wanted to climb on me again, but it was useless. I couldn’t take any more. My dick had deflated. We’ll stop here, I said, but she would not give up. She insisted on continuing. And to motivate me, she tried to suck me off again. Listen, puta, I agree that fellatio is an art, but it is not impossible for a mortal to do it decently, I said. Haven’t you ever eaten a popsicle? I asked her. It’s not science. It’s like sucking a Tootsie Pop. She changed tactics and got worse. Stop, stop, I shouted. I know what I’m doing, I know what I’m doing, she said in her defense, and because she was talking with her mouth full, she bit me. She refused to release me. To loosen her grip I slapped her. Then two more times, each time angrier than the other. She got up and hit me. I grabbed her and, with some effort, got her off me. I started to get dressed. She left the room, nude, with the bottle of whiskey in her hand.
When I got to the door, the fat girl came up to me. Don’t leave, cabrón. You’ve exhausted me, you fucking greaseball. You’re like all the others, you think I’m crazy. You’re like my parents.
Just what I needed, puta, the venting. I’m leaving, I said again, but I couldn’t open the door. It had a double lock. It needed a key. Give me the fucking key, I screamed. She didn’t want to give it up. Where is it?
Why don’t you understand? she began pleading. Don’t you understand? She poked my temples with her fingers and kept saying, I’m fine. This is normal, I just get depressed because I used to take drugs.
Stop, stop, I said. That’s not my fault. The key.
It’s not my fault I don’t have friends. I’m normal, normal, but everybody wants to drive me crazy. You want to drive me crazy, she barked, and then came at me. I avoided her fist, but she wouldn’t stop, so I finally punched her in the face with a closed fist.
Now in control and more eloquent, I demanded the key. The Western Bible was strewn on the floor. The key, chingada madre, or do you want another? Weak, she got up and said, You want your key? I’ll get your damn key, and she disappeared. I saw the bottle of whiskey and shoved it under my jacket. I would get drunk to forget this terrible moment. The Western Bible came back and, to make me turn towards her, she said, Here’s your key, culero. She was pointing a gun at me. I felt the blood drain out of me. It’s possible it wasn’t loaded, and she was pointing it just to get my attention, but I wasn’t interested in finding out. I didn’t dare wrestle this drunken mastodon for a gun at three in the morning. The little calf was still not awake. But with so much noise, he should have already been out of bed. If the boy could see us, The Western Bible would calm down and I could probably climb up the roof.
Nobody hits me, hijo de chingada. Nobody drives me crazy. I couldn’t do or say anything. I was shitting my pants. She could easily misfire. I thought about screaming, crying for help, but that was ridiculous. Besides, nobody was going to get out of bed to save an imbecile like me. Fortunately, the little calf began to cry and The Western Bible took off to console him. I immediately started looking for the keys. They were hanging from a wooden cross in the kitchen. I took another moment to reach into her purse on top of the refrigerator and grab as much as I had spent on the two of them at the fights, plus what I needed for my taxi home.
At the bar now, they consider me an expert on fat girls. A luminary. I have told my story to many a tourist, how a succulent fat girl rescued me from a sexual jam. They respect me. In here. But out there as well. People point at me. The devil sucked off your wife, güey. But I don’t care. My little wife and I are intimate again. And whenever we finish making love, I caress her burn scars and she purrs like a kitten under a birch tree.
Notes for a New Theory for Mastering Hair
The Cowgirl Bible had huge tits, a greasy face, and a mess of hair. From preadolescence, she had suffered flare-ups of rebellious hair. She learned early that letting loose those tresses was only possible for gals who could afford certain products. From the time she was just twelve or thirteen years old, as she entered the bloom of puberty, she focused blindly on the wild vertical porcupine that had begun to grow between her legs.
The punkospine, which had transmuted from the armadillo, developed in an onrush, like a flood, and could only be compared to the beards flaunted during certain musical phases by two members of ZZ Top. It could also be equated with the historic materialism of a certain identifiable and renowned pubis. The Cowgirl Bible suffered. She suffered from the folklorish dimensions of that wild bush. Her pubisexy mop could not hide under a bikini. It didn’t matter how many atonal rakes she employed to shave, or how many blades she ordered from the hair-removal industry’s complete catalog of new products, the punkospine always overwhelmed the emergent hairs like shrapnel, as is so often the case with certain honky-tonk gals.
During countless encounters with her mane, she avoided trying to control its erratic growth, until the day she was discovered by a buoyant hair talent scout. Once she found a skilled manipulator for her estimable hair of the loins, The Cowgirl Bible became the most committed participant in the national contest Shave Your Triangle. She won various awards in the ingrown hair category. At fifteen, she won the contest’s most important honors: The Golden Porcupine, the equivalent of the Hotsprings Award for the Radioactive Bud.
When a competitor is awarded the top prize, she should retire. Traditionally, Goodbye My Love plays at these affairs. And because pubic hair was her life, The Cowgirl Bible said that telenovelas and hosting would not be her path. A change of scene meant only one thing: to go under the knife, to invest in plastic surgery the way one does with horse racing. She decided it was better to follow the example of certain ex-baseball players who become minor league coaches upon retirement. She would impose herself in stylology, specializing in the pubis. She had memorized the exact manipulation of the mini mini electric shaver they used to shave her before every catwalk competition.
The Cowgirl Bible was a living legend. She had been inducted into the hall of fame at fifteen. She was the youngest ever to conquer the big screen. No one didn’t know who she was in the Guorl circuit®. But that didn’t keep her from signing up for the hair removers’ union under the snooty alias Ms. Las Vegas. As was tradition with novices, her first razor was a used one. A red Yamaha with white frets.
The secret to being a virtuous master of the blade, according to the first lesson from her virtual instructor on The World’s Great Epilators DVD, not only resides in worshiping the divine mandate of shaving, but also in never forgetting the fundamental principle: that the music is in the wire
s. Handling an acoustic razor is not the same as handling an electric one. Check out the style. The style is the man (or, in this case, the gluttonous little girl, or whoever occurs to me). That’s the trick, the plan, the gift. It might come from heaven or as a spark of ingenuity. Some people say the key is in the tube amp, others lift the strings with their hands as they arpeggio or use a homemade instrument.
From the Yamaha, she went on to a Fender Stratocaster, which she called Lucille. She dreamed of shaving next to the greats. On the wall above her bed she had a giant poster of her hero, her holy moly, her one and only: Jaimito Hendrics. As a pre-celebrity teen, she’d go out on the streets with her razor hanging off her back and get together with her buddies, all aspiring virtuosos, and they’d watch video clips featuring Hendrics, this dude who played the razor with his teeth, threw it against the speakers, and lit it on fire.
Already marked as a product of the ghetto, she made her first public appearance at Cabelo do Porco, the PopSTock! interracial fair. Before, as was the case with all the aspirants, she’d taken part in small jams at highway bars and in neighborhood garages. She’d even had a small trio called Confessions of a Fried-Chicken Peddler. The power trio, rock’s analectic formation, was the gospel she needed to follow. As models there were two of the most reputable groups in history (now gone): Cream and The Experience.
The interracial show consisted of lining up prospects before they went up onstage, as if they were waiting at a bank. On the stage, a group—razor, bass, and drums—was improvising on the pubis of a top model. The novice had to better, or at least equal, the rock and roll rapture of the stationary shaver going at another bush. Whoever managed to advance to the next phase, to be decided by the auditorium crowd, would compete in the last round for a Marshall amp, a car, two thousand pesos cash, and a Sony Ericsson cellphone.
The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories Page 4
