Grove Press
Grove Press
Grove Press

Seven Against Georgia

Erotic Fiction

by Eduardo Mendicutti Translated from Spanish by Kristina Cordero

“Mendicutti’s. . . engagingly outrageous series of linked stories features seven flamboyant drag queens. . . . [These] impudent narrators are flashy, sexy, and oodles of fun. . . . Mendicutti’s rowdy prose, translated by Kristina Cordero, is appealingly aphrosisiacal.” –Richard Labonte, In Newsweekly

  • Imprint Grove Paperback
  • Page Count 208
  • Publication Date November 17, 2003
  • ISBN-13 978-0-8021-4037-1
  • Dimensions 5.5" x 8.25"
  • US List Price $12.00

About The Book

A ribald, erotic, and deeply entertaining work of fiction in which the laws of sexual repression are assailed by an unusual group of testimonials.

Witty, bawdy, and highly titillating, Seven Against Georgia skewers prudish legislation of sexuality by allowing seven flamboyant Spanish gay men to counter sodomy laws by sending their sexual histories and fantasies directly to the head of Georgia’s police force.

Adopting such over-the-top noms de guerre as Herr Betty Honey and Pamela Poodle, the “ladies’ of Seven Against Georgia attack sexual repression with hilarious results. Whether it’s Miss Balcony’s very special relationship with the man who delivers her morning baguette (and who boasts a similar-sized baton himself), or Herr Betty Honey’s passion for a man with a great love of first-­communion dresses, Colette Miss Coco’s comparative study of the sex she’s known in her round-the-world business travels, or Miss Madelon’s ode to a man (or, better, several men) in uniform, the testimonials in Seven Against Georgia provide a sparkling entertainment that can be opened at any point and read with great enjoyment. Collectively they make for a delightful and erotic praise to the individual right to pleasure in all its forms.

Tags Erotica


“Mendicutti’s. . . engagingly outrageous series of linked stories features seven flamboyant drag queens. . . . [These] impudent narrators are flashy, sexy, and oodles of fun. . . . Mendicutti’s rowdy prose, translated by Kristina Cordero, is appealingly aphrosisiacal.” –Richard Labonte, In Newsweekly

“[A] tour de force of voice and language, a turn on in every possible way.” –Sean Kennedy, HX

“Mendicutti pays creative tribute to the power of erotic fantasy in these interlocking stories. . . . Mendicutti proves to be a ribald, accomplished storyteller, and his colorful cast of characters provide more than enough flash to embellish the titillating tales.” –Publishers Weekly



Where Miss Balcony attempts,
despite her multiple bruises and
multiple digressions, to convince
a rather incredulous audience of
the aphrodisiac properties
found in a loaf of bread

Dear Mr. Police Chief of the State of Georgia: get comfortable now, press down on your sphincter, arrange your jewels so they don’t bother you, and fasten your seat belt, just like Bette Davis said. Miss Balcony is my name, and consider yourself lucky that the rules of this game prohibit me from insulting you, because otherwise you’d find out just what Miss Balcony’s little golden spout is capable of spewing forth. But that, sir, is prohibited. I must obey the rules, and my fabulous queer sisters are already telling me enough with the introductions, the tape is rolling.

Baby, even the tape recorder is a member of this union: they call her Boccaccio. Well, all right, forget the “baby” bit, these bitches are telling me to move on and just hit you with my best shot.

Here goes.

Now, before getting into specifics I should explain the story behind my name, Miss Balcony. You probably won’t believe it, but anyway. This humble servant is an architect–okay, so it took me nine years to get the degree, but believe me, I’ve got plenty of imagination and good taste to boot. Wait, wait, these bitches are getting on my case again. Go for the jugular already, they’re telling me. Now, as you might have guessed, I owe my nom de guerre to them: I live right smack in the Plaza de España–note the choice address, I wouldn’t want you to think that all us fabulous queers are dying of hunger. Fuck it, let me embellish a little–because the Plaza de Espa”a is the caviar of Madrid, and when it comes to European cities we all know that Madrid is bad, so very bad. In this town you boys would put on your boots and fill up your jail in ten seconds with all the ladies we’ve got here, some of them quite elegant, take my word for it–like me, for example. Now, Miss Balcony has an apartment you would die for in the Plaza de España–relax, relax, I want to give the boy an idea of the design scheme–completely renovated, like new. The apartment, I mean–my cunt is a total disaster, everyone in Madrid knows that, who am I kidding? With all the characters that have crossed my threshold by now, it’s a well-known fact that my cunt is located out back. But that, shall we say, is a geographic accident, as much as you and your boys may refuse to believe.

All right, girls, I get the picture. They’re nagging me to get to the point. Very well, I will try to tell you my story as briefly as I know how. There I was, walking home from the Plaza de Callao, on foot, like a bitch in heat. And just as I stroll past a movie theater showing a soft-core porn flick, an adorable boy walks out, the kind you just don’t see much of anymore: a gorgeous construction-worker type, blond but with dark skin, taller than me, tight pecs, hard little nipples, arms like tree trunks, hands like a lumberjack and just in case you don’t catch the drift, honey, the package on this guy only barely made it into his jeans. And the way he was walking, pumped up and hard as a rock, struggling in vain against a bulge that was as swollen as the Sunday paper, it made you feel sorry for the poor thing–he was about to explode. Oh, what pain, what anguish–mine, that is. Just looking at him made me want to cry, and immediately I began to pray like crazy that I wouldn’t faint and fall into a coma right there on the street. No way could I let this one get away, I would never forgive myself. He looked ready to come; he could barely walk, with the hard-on he had. His body seemed almost numb, frantic, and from the creases in his pants you could just picture the cock he had on him, it was enough to make you scream. I went wild just looking at him, and then my eyes started stinging and my asshole started to quiver. What a scandalously fabulous package he had, for God’s sake, so perfectly silhouetted against his thigh. . . . Oh, the palpitations, oh, the tremors it gave me. That man was dangerous; he was on the verge of a heart attack, he was so desperate to spill his load. He needed help, he needed release, full release, and he had to have noticed how I was staring at him. And when I stare, it’s for real. My stares are delectable enough to eat, so how could he not notice? Well, of course he noticed–I mean, the look on my face must have been bad, out of control. I could barely swallow, my God, I couldn’t take my eyes off him, so how could we help but cause a major scandal right there on the Gran V”a, with me facing him and him facing me, both of us frantic, him with his hand in his pocket, desperately trying to control his prick, and me with my panties all creamed and my throat as wide open as the arms of Mother Teresa of Calcutta. My God, at that moment my throat was open so wide it could have swallowed the entire population of ­India, the pyramids of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Alhambra of Granada, the complete works of P”o Baroja, but most of all, the abundant offerings of that adorable creature, that masterpiece of masculinity, that stud whose tiny hole was ready to burst, he could barely stand it anymore, he wasn’t going to hold out. And that’s the way the poor thing looked at me, as if he was drowning, beseeching me to rescue him; I felt genuine pity for him–pity, I tell you. What a beautiful way to smile at someone; it was as if he was saying, ‘do what you want with me, sonofabitch, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, take advantage of me now, I can barely move with the hard-on I’ve got.” That’s what the little angel was telling me with his smile and his eyes, even though he couldn’t utter a single word; it was as though he feared total blowout if he dared to say or do anything. So yours truly had to take the initiative, and take it from me, yoga is worth its weight in gold, girls: I exercised restraint, total control of muscles, glands, and cartilage, maintained superior flexibility, employed my deep-breathing techniques, kept my mind in blank, slowed down the heartbeat, relaxed the internal organs–a regular Hollywood performance. But I had to watch it, I couldn’t let the arousal grow soft, either, I couldn’t let anything grow soft. Now, I am an actress, and you better believe I had to employ every last trick in the book, just so that he wouldn’t see the kind of restraint I was exerting. I had to keep the sparks flying, I had to suffuse my voice with enough suggestive innuendo to give him shivers as he heard me say, so brilliantly, so intensely,

“That movie got you hard as a rock, baby.” Finally, at that, he managed to nod his head yes. And then I replied, “Easy, baby, relax a little, try to think of something else.” A look of pure frustration came over his face, only for an instant, but it spoke volumes. That was when, very smoothly, I introduced myself. Naturally I gave him my real name, my baptismal name, my masculine name, because that day I was dressed like a man from head to toe. That day I was the architect, the responsible citizen. And right away I said to him,

“Why don’t we go inside–it will distract you a little.” We were right outside of a huge bar filled with slot machines, one of those places that could turn off the randiest faggot. But he shook his head no, as if to say, “Take those machines and stick them up your ass, honey.” Then he breathed deeply, smiled to himself for strength, took his hand out of his pocket, and motioned with that hand as if to say, “Let’s just keep our cool.”

‘my name is Anselmo,” he then murmured. “Pleased
to meet you.” “The pleasure is all mine,” I said, or at least that was what I was thinking–pleasure was exactly what I wanted to give him, pleasure like nobody had ever given him before. For the moment, however, I was unable to say a thing, and so I kept the thought to myself and went weak at the knees as he admitted that the movie had, in fact, gotten him as fired up as a brand-new Yamaha. To be honest, I don’t remember if he said Yamaha or Honda or what–I don’t know much about motorcycles, but I can assure you that Anselmo was a full-cylinder, top-of-the-line model, what with all those cubic meters the movie had piled onto his frame. The movie wasn’t even that good, he said, but added,

“I’ve been existing on bread and water for God only knows how long, if you know what I mean. It’s been ages since my last little taste treat, you know? Occupational hazard, I guess, sir.” Good God, how I love it when men with rock-hard cocks call me ‘sir,” I love it when a stud starts off like that, so full of respect, only to end up giving me a tongue-lashing like a streetwalker as he comes, as he fills me up with his sweet, sticky yogurt. And I felt myself grow woozy as I fantasized about the kind of pantry that horny ram would have stored away after so much fasting in the interest of his professional obligations. And then I asked him: “What is your profession, anyway?” That was when he admitted that he worked in Villaverde, at the National Guard academy for noncommissioned officers. I almost had seven orgasms, one after the other, right there. Thank God for yoga, though, especially after what happened next. He leaned toward me and with his mouth right next to my ear whispered that he was ready to pump me up right there, hot and sweet. What an experience, my God, the miracle of yoga was the one and only thing that saved me from falling flat on my face. As I started to go weak in the knees, he put his hand around my waist and my hand couldn’t help but graze the tip of his inflamed bud, why, it was just like touching heaven itself with the tips of my fingers. Suddenly I got goose bumps all over and it felt as if all my juices were about to come rushing out of my pores, and that was when he jumped back a bit.

“Careful,” he warned, “let’s not fuck it up now,” and finally he asked me if I knew of some place we could go. Suddenly I felt like a true queen again, rich and powerful, as elegant and exclusive as the C”te d”Azur, and in the most magnanimous way I knew how I told him that I had a marvelous apartment only a few blocks away, at the end of the Gran V”a right on the Plaza de Espa”a: a penthouse, fabulous skyline views from every window. Of course, he could have cared less about the view, but image sells, girls, and in the end the urban landscape did take on a certain significance in this little episode. The whole way there I was petrified that this answer to my prayers wouldn’t be fulfilled in the most ideal circumstances, because it had already been quite a stroll and my archangel had to walk half bowlegged to avoid causing any unnecessary friction that would threaten to end it all on our way upstairs, and God only knows that the hum of the elevator was enough to drive me mad as I worried that it was all for naught and feared that he was going to explode on me right there. But as luck would have it, he distracted himself somehow. Suddenly, he asked me why there were so many people in the plaza looking up. I explained that a group of trapeze artists had stretched a steel cable from the plaza floor up to the top of the Edificio Espa”a building, and that a guy on a motorcycle performed a stunt of going up and down the cable. He didn’t believe me and, like an idiot, I said,

“Don’t worry, you’ll see.” And so, upon entering the house he went straight to the balcony. I placed my hand on the crack of his ass to entertain myself, my pipe on the verge of bursting, and that was when–God, what bad timing–some crazy queer announced on a loudspeaker that in a few moments some brave soul would begin the spectacle. He got all excited, because he had never seen anything like this–he was from Badajoz, and had only arrived in Madrid three months earlier. By now my floodgates were threatening to bust open, but Anselmo, damn him, was transfixed by the circus below. Then we heard the motors beginning to rev up–yes, girls, velocity and vertigo all at once. The boy from Badajoz began massaging the landmass inside his Jockey shorts, that bulbous life force beneath his jeans, the head of his prick as tense as a Republican Party meeting. . . . Ah, the quivering, the accelerated breathing, the shivers racing up and down my spine, the desperation as I bit my lips, my nose twitching, reveling in the danger of it all, Mr. Police Chief, of that man who escaped my clutches by satisfying himself on his own after such prolonged abstinence. As if I hadn’t been ready and waiting for him. The man on the motorcycle solemnly rose up the cable until reaching the top of the Edificio Espa”a building, with all the windows of the nearby buildings opened wide and filled with spectators. You have to understand, the crowd had good reason to gape, for they got a double show, two attractions for the price of one. It was like Eros and Thanatos, as the educated would say, at the same time: risk and eroticism, danger and sex, a very special performance to benefit the National Guard academy for noncommissioned officers. In midair, the man on the motorcycle was on the brink of cracking his head open, and on my balcony a humble servant was on her knees, facing that child prodigy from Badajoz on that narrow passageway. I was a bundle of nerves as I unzipped those indigo jeans that suddenly became army-green right before my eyes. I dove into the folds of a plaid shirt, scaring the flailing arms of the owner of said shirt, tearing his Jockey shorts down like a woman possessed until the light of day finally shone onto that miracle of nature, that privileged prick, that madness, that macrocock the color of corn and as thick as Fred Flintstone’s forearm, straight as a rod, squeaky clean, with its smooth casing, slightly rough to the touch, with an aroma as refined and potent as the very best narcotics, an indomitable consistency, polite arrogance, as brilliant and steely as a Bergamin aphorism, as solid as a Rub”n Dar”o poem, as tender and rebellious as a Brassens song, as sleepy as the Autumn Festival program. It was utterly irresistible and perfectly tailored to the contours of my mouth, resistant to the flow of my saliva, more than worthy of bringing my lips and tongue to the highest of altars, of catapulting my tonsils to seventh heaven. Oh, what great fortune has been bestowed upon my lips, and what a dismal fate is dealt those who will never know the joy of such a glorious Badajoz bulge sliding into the tabernacle of the throat, bathing the juices of Annunciation against a pair of gums, shining like a battalion leader’s pistol against a pair of inflamed lips, flushed cheeks, and beneath the veil of a pair of eyelids, coating everything in its wake with a transparent honey that announces the great arrival, such pandemonium, such hard legs, such a tight ass, such juicy, well-proportioned balls . . . not to mention the talent of one particular lady servant, girls, and that is something I don’t intend to underestimate. That man will never forget the service I rendered him, with such care, such wisdom, such momentum, such a sense of progression, such gentle games played with head and neck, even at the risk of doing harm to myself–that balcony has a stone wall that could have easily decapitated me. But risk was clearly the order of the day, for this was total indulgence. It didn’t even cross my mind, or my palate, to worry about that sort of thing, for sucking away to oblivion is my personal signature–and with that glorious specimen, that flesh that tasted of victory, the nectar of the gods, boccata di cardinale, the pride of Badajoz. . . . Oh, how I recall that cock, how I long for its length, its thickness, its flavor, its scent, its shine. . . . Oh, how I miss it so, there is nothing I wouldn’t do if he would come back to me. I would do everything in my power to lure him back, I would mobilize an army of daredevils ready to risk their lives from the top of that building on the Plaza de Espa”a, as Anselmo would rev up like a motorcycle on the balcony and I, his faithful servant, would get on my knees and risk my neck to eat his prick until my teeth fell out, until my tonsils melted away, like mountains of sugar crystals, in the richest milk I ever swallowed.

So do you understand now, Mr. Police Chief of the State of Georgia, why these degenerate queer girlfriends of mine call me Miss Balcony? Impressive, isn’t it? You can have your way with me, of course. As for your cronies, they’ve already tried. But they can go to hell for all I care. They’ve left me here, in agony, with my leg in a plaster cast all the way up to my soul. And all their pricks will go soft if they don’t have someone to suck them off. I’m sure you know how delectable that is. You’d have to be an idiot to declare such a delicious endeavor against the law. You may call it oral sex, if you insist on being legal about it, but around here we just call it a blow job.

Oh please, don’t be so provincial–have you really never flown in a plane? Please refrain from smoking, keep your seat belts fastened until the aircraft has come to a full stop, and all that jazz? The aircraft is the airplane, just in case you didn’t get that. So don’t get impatient on me, we still have a long way to go. This was just a stopover, if you will, to continue with the aeronautic motif. In reality, this is a disquisition. Everything you have listened to up until now has been a kind of prelude–come on, bitches, chill out; this boy needs explanations. I recognize that I monopolized side A. But it went fast. Oh, did it go fast. My God, I barely had time to breathe. . . . What narrative flow, for goodness’ sake. It’s their fault, rushing me like that. The truth is that these peripatetic stories are much better when told a bit more calmly. All right, then, I will slow the pace a bit for side B. And whoever doesn’t like it can go have a cup of tea or something. Calm down. Now I am most definitely going to need my yoga for this one: yoga can work for me this time around, too, you’ll see. I am going to go very, very slow; you’ll see the effect is much better this way. Questions of the flesh acquire a special intensity when treated parsimoniously. And that parsimony has to be very, very good in order to tell a proper story. Let’s see if I can do it. That brings me to something else: sucking off a lot gives you a strange facility for words. And if you harbor any desire to enter politics, mark my words: sucking off cultivates the oral tradition something awful. So pay attention: if your wife talks your ear off, catch a whiff of her breath. If she isn’t giving it to you, she’s giving it to the milkman, who’s probably a young hunk with a cock to die for.

Calm down, calm down now, ladies. Me, I feel like I just took a Valium. Divine. Totally languid and glamorous. No tripping over myself like before. The story I am going to tell you now requires tranquillity and close attention to detail, so get comfortable and do some relaxation exercises.

I had a contract for a project–and anyone who says that that’s some kind of miracle gets her eyes scratched out. An ideal contract–ideal, I tell you. The brother of one of my ex-lovers–oh, nobody has ever spread my cunt like that little cherub–wanted to build a house in a somewhat run-down neighborhood in an absolutely marvelous town called Sanl”car, in the province of C’diz; this is one place you have to make it to before you die, I swear. So he calls me and tells me that he has always felt that I have real talent as an architect–calm down, girls, don’t start getting hysterical on me again; that is exactly what he said, with that same velvet voice of all the men in his family. He came to see me. Gorgeous. I only remembered him as a wee little thing, but he’d most certainly grown up to be quite big. Naturally he gave me a little demonstration before getting down to business: he asked me, with tremendous style, if I liked to be eaten out from behind, and this lady immediately lifted her ass high up. I rose to the occasion, and rested my forehead against a big pillow, so that I would be nice and comfortable for however long this one was going to take. Now, if any of you girls think you know the meaning of the words “black kiss,” forget it. That man, with such manners, left me so wide open that my entire body was sore, and once he had had his way with me and got up, I said thank you, only to realize that he’d even given my vocal cords a workout. An expert, that one. It didn’t even cross my mind to invite him to dinner, he had such a look of satisfaction on his face. It would have been too embarrassing to offer him a cheese omelette after that.

Then he told me, in detail, what he wanted:

“A small house, but make it original. Something that stands out. My father-in-law has given us a bit of land and I want it to look fabulous. So let your imagination run wild–I know you’ve got plenty of imagination–and get to work with your compass and blueprints and make me a real clever proposal. All right?”

Mr. Police Chief of the State of Georgia: can you even imagine the smooth petals my client’s wife must have?

We should make a pause here, ladies, so that the boys can work up a few orgasms thinking of that little slut’s tunnel, because she’s a lucky one. Oh he was good, ladies. All right. I continue.

I had to move–I had no other choice. It was early spring and the air was so clean and fresh that it made you want to be a turtledove. . . . Oh, I am so poetic. The light was a dream. I rented a little bungalow close to the ocean, with views overlooking the Do’ana nature sanctuary on the outskirts of town–it was all very ecological, mind you–and I produced a set of plans to die for. In a different league from that bland architectural garbage you see everywhere nowadays. All right, girls, all right–if there’s time left over at the end I will give Mr. Policeman a concise, exact description of this masterful creation. A most delightful little house.

The contractor his father-in-law hired was, to be frank, rather vulgar–one of those men who understands nothing, for whom everything I proposed was faggy and ridiculous. So I quickly put the Neanderthal in his place and laid down my ground rules. I should note, however, that my client defended me like a champion, because his wife and father-in-law were on the contractor’s side. That gives you an idea of the kind of people I’m talking about. Outrageous. The poor bricklayers, at least, were good-natured about their complaints:

“But sir, when people see this they’re going to say that we don’t even know how to lay bricks properly. . . .”

There was one young man among the bricklayers, a rather sullen type, who visited me every Friday for a bit of bodywork. And what a body he had, girls; Michelangelo’s David couldn’t hold a candle to him. Prickwise he was fine, nothing out of this world, mind you, but his stamina and temperament drove me wild. Every time, just after penetration, he would lick his lips, slide his hand between my legs, and then push it upward, as if he wanted to break me in two:

“You’re going to have to beg me to stop.”

Ah, my little angel of innocence. By the third time he began to get an idea of what I’m made of. But he kept repeating his remark anyway.

That’s a topic for another disquisition, I know, but I think it’s worth it. And stop rushing me, will you? I can’t take the stress, ladies. This goddamn cast has me completely on edge as it is.

That little bricklayer, who was a mere sixteen-year-old (I’m a regular cradle robber–what a thrill), had one weakness: he would beg me to sit on top of him, fully dressed but with his zipper down and a distended, stiff rod, the kind that only an adolescent could maintain, jutting out. And his balls bulging just beneath the surface, like quail eggs tucked into their little Levi’s nest. It was like riding on the outstretched finger of your favorite guardian angel, naughty but innocent at the same time, and as I obliged him, his baby face would break into a smile of pure joy. He didn’t even let me take his Jockey shorts off, because he liked to be completely clothed, shoes included, whereas I was fully naked except for my panties. Everywhere I go I always carry with me about half a dozen pairs, the high-class hooker kind, the tiniest little things that nonetheless manage to do a damn good job of hiding the spurious gifts nature gave me, just in case a particular evening called for some deliberate confusion. And that was exactly the ticket with the bricklayer.

“Don’t show me your cunt, I’d rather just imagine it,” he said.

He preferred to lie on top of the bedspread, so as not to make a mess of the sheets. I turned the shutters down so that the shadows would help me look more like the woman he wanted me to be.

“You’ve got a bod like a little girl,” he whispered. “Just the way I like it.”

And then, as I sat on top of his legs, he asked me, in the faintest of voices,

“First press that massive cunt hard against my cock. That’s it. . . . Mmm, nice and hot.”

I rubbed it to and fro, ever so slowly. He asked me to stroke his cock with the palm of my hand, without grasping it fully.

“Easy, baby, take it easy. Put a little spit on the head,” he implored, and I obliged with my hand. Just as he requested, just as he liked it. Slowly.

“I’m going to stick it in,” I said. “Slowly.” Without taking off my panties. Stretching the elastic a bit with my fingers.

“That’s it. Don’t move.” With his free hand, he continued to thrust his prick forward.

“A little more spit . . . there. Ooh, that hurts.” It burned him.

“Don’t move.” I let the tips of my fingers lightly skip over his cockshaft.

“Move it a little–ooh, sparks. Move forward a little.” The head of his prick was now almost inside my panties, pressing against the elastic of the leg opening.

“Balance it a little. There, like that. Ooh, that’s good, man.” As if he were talking to some friend. His eyes half shut. Green, as green as emeralds. What eyes.

“Ooh, that’s good. What a whore, what a fantastic whore you make.” What a thing of beauty that boy was. A real gem.

“Move. Move a little more. Let me put it in.” I loosened up a bit for him, rising up on my knees. His hands spreading my tunnel open.

“What a cunt, lady. Oh, that’s good. Stick it in, all the way in.” I did so, but without relinquishing, without letting him take my panties off.

“Move it, come on. I’m inside now. Move, yeah, like that. Move it more. More. Swallow it up, more, swallow it up. Fuck, fuck, that’s good, man, real good. . . .” Now I was moving like a mixer, like a real Moulinex, until the mayonnaise went all the way up to my cerebellum. Then, the little hedonist asked me to run a bath for him, with salts and ­everything, and he soaped himself up, all over, for a long time, very slowly, until it started getting late and he had to go and meet his girlfriend.

There’s Kleenex in the drawer over there, girls. You too, Mr. Policeman, you might want to keep a tissue handy.

What a head I’ve got. I know. I’m getting to it. I’ve still got some tape left.

You see, Mr. Policeman, I still have to tell you the story of the baker, which is what I originally intended to tell you about.

All right, I’ll spare you the introduction. The setting is more or less the same–remember, the little bungalow in Sanl”car, with views overlooking the nature sanctuary, just outside the neighborhood where I was building that house. A jewel in a garbage heap, that was the house that this humble servant made for her almost ex-brother-in-law, that sucker for the black kiss, a virtuoso, if you recall. If you ever get the chance to meet him, don’t miss the opportunity. It’s a small world, after all. All right, here’s the story: Rota, as you may know, is just a few steps away from the house of the black kiss–if you ever get stationed on a sub­marine you must take a stroll through this little military base town. And with a little luck, you just might run into my baker.

He came in a vanilla-colored Citro’n van–every day, after I left a note on the doorstep of the house next door. You see, it’s such a divine treat to have fresh bread delivered to your door–I mean fresh, still warm, just out of the oven, between nine and nine-thirty in the morning. That was when the baker would come around, sometime between nine and nine-thirty in the morning–so amused, so full of smiles, always so happy, that little baker man, who would chirp “Good morning” as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“What will it be today?” he would ask me every day, even though he didn’t really have to since I always ordered the same thing.

One breakfast roll; a medium-sized baguette for lunchtime (whatever was left over was good for making toast to accompany my afternoon coffee); and little ladyfingers for after dinner. Always the same. But it was clear that he was not interested in taking liberties.

Of course, ever since the day I first saw him, I was desperate for him to take all the little liberties that might cross his macho mind. All of us clients must have been thinking the same thing. Yes, ladies–you, who are such movie buffs, remember what a buck that Burt Lancaster was when he was young? Well, that’s what this guy was, only minus the big hairdo, with a little more spunk, and a set of lips that curled up in the most adorable, flirty manner. Naturally, he caught on to me from the start–I had made my intentions crystal clear. Oh, how obvious it all sounds in the retelling. . . . No words, I don’t need words. Specific words, I mean. I said hello, naturally, casual but good and insinuating. I told him that I was thrilled to have him deliver my bread every day–except Sundays, as he reminded me–and I said that it was like a little gift from heaven to be able to start the day with tender, warm bread delivered by a handsome, healthy, smiling young man, without even having to leave the house. I can be quite discreet, as you can see. And don’t think that the little blondie got scared off. You should have seen the devilish look on that saintly face . . . speaking of which, can you tell that blonds are my weakness? I bet you, Mr. Policeman, are a radiant blond. Just like the baker man. And I’m not talking about one of those transparent blonds, no–I like them solid, with bronze, sun-kissed skin and a prick the color of cr’me caramel. Just so we understand each other.

Believe me, ladies, he got hard as soon as I gave his cock the once-over with my evil eye. Quite a stallion, yes sir. One of those men who seem shorter than they really are at first glance. Well-proportioned, consistent, addicted to a single pair of jeans, always immaculate and freshly ironed, frayed in all the right places: to the left of the fly, along the lines of his leg muscles, just above the knee, at the indentation in the middle of his ass.

“Do you plan on staying here long?”

He had a supple, playful voice.

“Five or six months, at least,” I said. “I’ll have to find something to break the monotony, won’t I?”

His mouth broke slowly into a smile, and his thoughts came tumbling from his lips.

“Well, we’ll have plenty of chances to talk when I’m not so rushed.”

“To talk and anything else you want to do,” I said, and anyone could have seen that those were exactly the words he wanted to hear.

We agreed to settle the bread bill every Saturday, to avoid the bother of dealing with exact change every day. “Three seventy-two,” he announced after mentally calculating what I would have to pay him at the end of the week. “That is, if you don’t order anything else.”

And then I warned him:

“Better prepare yourself.”

I never would have guessed he would be such a prude. In certain ways, I mean. There is no understanding young people these days; they are full of surprises at every turn. And the baker is a perfect example. They say that Miss Balcony possesses talents capable of melting anyone’s misgivings. But this kid was beyond that, beyond help entirely.

Every day, I would greet him, looking sensational. The first few days I wore a jogging suit, sporty and casual, specifically so that my little darling would know that all he had to do was say the word and I would be at his disposal in any which way he wanted. I showered, gave myself a nice spray of eau de toilette–a light lavender scent, because the last thing I wanted was to suffocate the poor thing with some steamroller perfume. And I always made sure to satisfy a strategically located itch somewhere on my body whenever he was in front of me. We went on like that for a week and the kid did nothing but smile devilishly and carelessly scratch his package, always at the very last moment, just as he was getting into his van to move on with his deliveries. The conversation, incidentally, was nothing out of this world, either.

“I didn’t sleep so well last night,” I said one day. “I guess I’ll have to take a nap today.” And he said,

“I wouldn’t trade my nap for anything in the world, I can’t think of anything better than taking a nap buck-­naked.” And then I said:

“Well, if you ever find yourself in the neighborhood, I’ve got a huge bed here.” And then he said:

“If I take you up on that, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” To which I said,

“I’ve seen everything in my time, honey.” And then he replied,

“That’s what you think.”

We left it at that, and let me tell you, this humble servant was fit to be tied. So I decided to try lightening up my look a bit, and that first Friday I greeted him in a pair of sporty little culottes, purchased three seasons earlier at one of Ibiza’s chicest boutiques, ladies, and on top, a pink blouse with spaghetti straps that showed off my tummy–you know I’ve got a set of abs on me like nobody’s business–don’t be vulgar now, ladies, come on. With that, he couldn’t help but notice the effect.

“You’ve still got a hot bod, you know that?”

Yes, girls, I know, I could have done without the ‘still” but he said it with such intensity that it came out sounding like a compliment. Definitely a compliment. I murmured my thanks as gratefully as if the Queen had just knighted me. I focused my gaze directly onto the prize. Very slowly I scratched myself in a most strategic location, batting my eyelashes, as if I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I acted as though swallowing my saliva took the most Herculean effort. And then I attacked. Verbally, of course.

First published in the Spanish language by Tusquets Editores, Barcelona, 1987. ©1987 by Eduardo Mendicutti. Translated from the Spanish by Kristina Cordero. Reprinted with permission from Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.