Hey, this is a story I just read in the supplement SOY of page 12, which I recommend to all*
Fever in prison
There is always a first time for everything. I remember, for example, that my first homosexual relationship was in a juvenile detention center, the Instituto Agote, with the director at the time, who was also my mother's boyfriend. I suppose it must be a skill learned over the years, the ability to detect homosexuality in an asexual adolescent and find the right moment to make a first advance.
R.S. knew how to take advantage of a good opportunity to have a private encounter with me. I had to get my identity card and he offered to take me to the Central Police Department on Moreno Street, where his friend, a police commissioner, would process our paperwork without us having to wait in line.
R.S. came to pick me up at home in his red Fiat 600. We went to do the identity card procedure, which would take less than an hour. We went up to his friend's office, who accompanied us on the way: taking my photo, printing fingerprints on a cardboard sheet and filling out a form. Once we left the Police Department, R.S. and I got back in the car and he started driving through different neighborhoods without a fixed route. It was raining lightly. In silence, R.S., at the wheel, would occasionally turn on the windshield wipers and I would gaze, lost in thought, through the rain-spotted windows, watching the violet reflections of sunset on the wet asphalt.
Suddenly, he pulled out a pornographic magazine from the glove compartment and handed it to me while pointing to a photo on the central double-page spread, an orgy between men and women, showing a man being sucked by another. Do you see this guy? He's screwing his friend, he said. He didn't need to show me many more photos to convince me that sexual relationships between men were normal. My fantasy about R.'s proposed sexual openness was - and at the time I was unaware that it was a common fantasy among many people - and a separate genre of pornographic films— having sexual relations with the boys imprisoned at the Juvenile Correctional Institute. I imagined them as swarthy, muscular, and feverish in their cells, screwing each other.
Besides the guard who opened the correctional institute door for us, it seemed there was no one else around. R.S. took me to an office that I deduced was the guards' because behind it, on the other side of the bars, there was a dark pavilion where I assumed the cells were. R.S. was dressed in a suit and tie. He sat at his desk with his back to the window; and I, in a chair opposite him, we had a conversation that soon shifted from school notes to girls. He asked if I'd already debuted and told him about my experience with a prostitute on Isla Maciel, my first and only sexual relationship until then. R.S. got up from his chair and came over to me. I stood up too. R.S. hugged me and gave me a tongue kiss, the first one of my life. When I felt his tongue inside my mouth, I went dry, it was an ejaculation that lasted several seconds and coursed through my leg and pierced my blue Adidas Lycra pants with three white stripes on either side. Later, I'd feel that first relationship with a man in a juvenile prison had been somehow illegitimate since I wasn't a warden or an inmate.
He said there's always a first time for everything and despite having over thirty years of life and a wild sexual life, I lived a new experience recently. I was at the vernissage of a collective show at Belleza y Felicidad Gallery. Sergio de Loof was showing off his recent trip to Paris, Rome, and Florence through postcards. Gumier Mayer's works unfolded and extended their colorful arms to achieve beauty. Finally, I was drawn to the work From Marcelo Pombo, Fiebre en la prisión: a collage about the box of a video porn called that; and before going on, I must confess that, a year ago, after having seen the previous sample of Pombo, victim of the eroticism emanating from those drawings, I had sexual fantasies with him for several months. With Fiebre en la prisión I also got excited, but this time I could approach Marcelo to share that state in which his work had put me. “Wait a second,” he said, and a little later he arrived with a videocassette. “This is the movie, I'll lend it to you. Watch it, please, take care of it.” “Of course,” I replied, and now that I think about it, I was privileged because if the movie was part of Pombo's work, I was one of the few who could see the work in its entirety. But at that moment what mattered most to me was that for the first time in my life I was sitting down to watch a porn movie, alone, at home.
My body was burning, sitting on the couch, two meters from the TV, watching how a guard was kissing a Latin prisoner. The guard was a tall, corpulent black man with bad teeth and a very ugly face. He had an enormous cock that never really stopped and which - perhaps due to a poor color adjustment on my TV - looked yellow-green when inserted in a condom, not at all exciting. However, the movie reminded me of my experience with R.S. in the juvenile prison and I got so excited that I had to go out to find sex on the street, desperate.
A little later, while preparing my bag for capoeira training, Marcelo called me on the phone to ask if I could return the movie. We agreed that I would stop by his house before the training, and in a hurry I forgot to put a slip in my bag, essential for avoiding the sway under the white Lycra pants tied at the waist, obligatory for the training.
The effect that had been Caused fever in prison, every time I had seen him, it would take possession of me again. On my way to Marcelo's place, I repeated some phrases to myself to introduce into the conversation and also possible responses from Marcelo. I imagined as many lines of dialogue as a chess player reasons out the possible unfolding of his move. Sexual fantasies with Pombo multiplied while I thought about the different variants of the conversation.
When I get out of here, I have to go to capoeira, but I forgot my slip. Can you lend me one of yours?, was one of the first phrases that had occurred to me. Then I thought of a more elaborate and less direct one: When I get out of here, I have to go to capoeira, but I forgot to put a slip in my bag and I won't make it on time to pass by home to get one. Can you lend me five pesos so I can buy one?. I concluded that the latter was the most civilized and that it would depend on Marcelo's response whether or not my fantasy of having his slip came true.
That afternoon, Marcelo was waiting for me with tea and strawberry tart. Through the windows of the living room, so high up that only allowed seeing the sky, entered the rays of sunset, of a beauty that calmed me down. Seated at the table, we looked like two monks conversing in a refectory. Then I decided not to go anywhere for training and stay talking with Marcelo Pombo as long as the conversation lasted.Source:http://www.pagina12.com.ar/diario/suplementos/soy/1-1198-2010-01-26.html
Fever in prison
There is always a first time for everything. I remember, for example, that my first homosexual relationship was in a juvenile detention center, the Instituto Agote, with the director at the time, who was also my mother's boyfriend. I suppose it must be a skill learned over the years, the ability to detect homosexuality in an asexual adolescent and find the right moment to make a first advance.
R.S. knew how to take advantage of a good opportunity to have a private encounter with me. I had to get my identity card and he offered to take me to the Central Police Department on Moreno Street, where his friend, a police commissioner, would process our paperwork without us having to wait in line.
R.S. came to pick me up at home in his red Fiat 600. We went to do the identity card procedure, which would take less than an hour. We went up to his friend's office, who accompanied us on the way: taking my photo, printing fingerprints on a cardboard sheet and filling out a form. Once we left the Police Department, R.S. and I got back in the car and he started driving through different neighborhoods without a fixed route. It was raining lightly. In silence, R.S., at the wheel, would occasionally turn on the windshield wipers and I would gaze, lost in thought, through the rain-spotted windows, watching the violet reflections of sunset on the wet asphalt.
Suddenly, he pulled out a pornographic magazine from the glove compartment and handed it to me while pointing to a photo on the central double-page spread, an orgy between men and women, showing a man being sucked by another. Do you see this guy? He's screwing his friend, he said. He didn't need to show me many more photos to convince me that sexual relationships between men were normal. My fantasy about R.'s proposed sexual openness was - and at the time I was unaware that it was a common fantasy among many people - and a separate genre of pornographic films— having sexual relations with the boys imprisoned at the Juvenile Correctional Institute. I imagined them as swarthy, muscular, and feverish in their cells, screwing each other.
Besides the guard who opened the correctional institute door for us, it seemed there was no one else around. R.S. took me to an office that I deduced was the guards' because behind it, on the other side of the bars, there was a dark pavilion where I assumed the cells were. R.S. was dressed in a suit and tie. He sat at his desk with his back to the window; and I, in a chair opposite him, we had a conversation that soon shifted from school notes to girls. He asked if I'd already debuted and told him about my experience with a prostitute on Isla Maciel, my first and only sexual relationship until then. R.S. got up from his chair and came over to me. I stood up too. R.S. hugged me and gave me a tongue kiss, the first one of my life. When I felt his tongue inside my mouth, I went dry, it was an ejaculation that lasted several seconds and coursed through my leg and pierced my blue Adidas Lycra pants with three white stripes on either side. Later, I'd feel that first relationship with a man in a juvenile prison had been somehow illegitimate since I wasn't a warden or an inmate.
He said there's always a first time for everything and despite having over thirty years of life and a wild sexual life, I lived a new experience recently. I was at the vernissage of a collective show at Belleza y Felicidad Gallery. Sergio de Loof was showing off his recent trip to Paris, Rome, and Florence through postcards. Gumier Mayer's works unfolded and extended their colorful arms to achieve beauty. Finally, I was drawn to the work From Marcelo Pombo, Fiebre en la prisión: a collage about the box of a video porn called that; and before going on, I must confess that, a year ago, after having seen the previous sample of Pombo, victim of the eroticism emanating from those drawings, I had sexual fantasies with him for several months. With Fiebre en la prisión I also got excited, but this time I could approach Marcelo to share that state in which his work had put me. “Wait a second,” he said, and a little later he arrived with a videocassette. “This is the movie, I'll lend it to you. Watch it, please, take care of it.” “Of course,” I replied, and now that I think about it, I was privileged because if the movie was part of Pombo's work, I was one of the few who could see the work in its entirety. But at that moment what mattered most to me was that for the first time in my life I was sitting down to watch a porn movie, alone, at home.
My body was burning, sitting on the couch, two meters from the TV, watching how a guard was kissing a Latin prisoner. The guard was a tall, corpulent black man with bad teeth and a very ugly face. He had an enormous cock that never really stopped and which - perhaps due to a poor color adjustment on my TV - looked yellow-green when inserted in a condom, not at all exciting. However, the movie reminded me of my experience with R.S. in the juvenile prison and I got so excited that I had to go out to find sex on the street, desperate.
A little later, while preparing my bag for capoeira training, Marcelo called me on the phone to ask if I could return the movie. We agreed that I would stop by his house before the training, and in a hurry I forgot to put a slip in my bag, essential for avoiding the sway under the white Lycra pants tied at the waist, obligatory for the training.
The effect that had been Caused fever in prison, every time I had seen him, it would take possession of me again. On my way to Marcelo's place, I repeated some phrases to myself to introduce into the conversation and also possible responses from Marcelo. I imagined as many lines of dialogue as a chess player reasons out the possible unfolding of his move. Sexual fantasies with Pombo multiplied while I thought about the different variants of the conversation.
When I get out of here, I have to go to capoeira, but I forgot my slip. Can you lend me one of yours?, was one of the first phrases that had occurred to me. Then I thought of a more elaborate and less direct one: When I get out of here, I have to go to capoeira, but I forgot to put a slip in my bag and I won't make it on time to pass by home to get one. Can you lend me five pesos so I can buy one?. I concluded that the latter was the most civilized and that it would depend on Marcelo's response whether or not my fantasy of having his slip came true.
That afternoon, Marcelo was waiting for me with tea and strawberry tart. Through the windows of the living room, so high up that only allowed seeing the sky, entered the rays of sunset, of a beauty that calmed me down. Seated at the table, we looked like two monks conversing in a refectory. Then I decided not to go anywhere for training and stay talking with Marcelo Pombo as long as the conversation lasted.Source:http://www.pagina12.com.ar/diario/suplementos/soy/1-1198-2010-01-26.html
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