This is chapter 18, part 1 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.
Chapter 18 – Part 1, Spain, Greece and France
During my work at Lake Atitlán, I completed an innovative process-control software that was critical to the success of the project. By the terms of my contract, the rights to the software were mine, so I became indispensable to the engineering firm. Based on the success of that project, my client firm began to receive inquiries from a few countries around the world. The firm was small, and I owned the critical program, so soon after my return to Mexico, I was asked to give presentations in Spain and Greece, and to start a pilot project in France. I jumped at the opportunity, it would be a welcome distraction from my personal and sexual problems. I decided to go alone to escape from María for awhile. She was sucking me in again and I wasn’t ready for that. This would be a trial separation. She already had more men than she could service, so my absence would hardly be an inconvenience.
We wrote almost daily, talking of small thing and about Brett. María said she was careful with men, and she had primarily settled on one, an American named Mark. He happened to be the first man I recruited to seduce her.
* * *
The economic situation in Spain and Greece was a punch-in-the-face eye-opener for me, shaking what remained of my naive, no, beyond naive, my infantile beliefs in collectivist government to their core. Everything the libertarian Preacher back in San Francisco predicted had crystallized here.
Men wandered the streets aimlessly after losing their jobs. Young people clutching their diplomas and CVs were unable to find any kind of employment. Pensioners sat on the curbs next to ATM machines crying they couldn’t pay their bills or buy medicines. A heavy fog of hopelessness and depression obscured even the brilliant Mediterranean sun.
I realized their economic distress was caused by moral collapse from the subjugation of individual liberty into collectivism. The collectivist systems, political, economic and cultural, are inescapably based on violence and coercion. Such systems inevitably degenerate into a free-for-all to determine who is the victim and who the predator. Testosterone systems.
The Greeks and Spaniards were eager to talk with me, hoping an outsider could give them some hope or solace, while simultaneously blaming me, as an American, for their problems. They had no idea about how and why their world collapsed under them and hated my explanations: unemployment and poverty, both moral and economic, are inevitable consequences of statism and collectivism as manifested in the welfare state and the monetary fraud required to support that type of government.
* * *
My distance from María and the acute moral distress in these countries caused me to rethink entirely my relationship with María. I began to understand the damage I caused her starting with our first date years ago in Antigua. From our first meeting, I defined her as a slut, albeit a trophy slut. My attitudes about her slut-ness and her social position as a woman realigned as I realized I had subjugated her individual liberty into the collective madness of the male chauvinism of my gringo-Latino culture. But as a man of the head, of the rational, I didn’t yet have the rationale to understand sufficiently. I found that later in France.
I thought surely the cultural and artistic artifacts of the European cradle of western civilization, Greece, Italy, France, and England, would show me what had gone wrong. I spent hours in the museums in Greece and Spain trying to understand the meaning of their classical art, and wandered the streets photographing the architecture and monuments.
Without embarking on a long, detailed (and horribly boring) discussion of my thought processes, I’ll just state I came to understand the essence of the Female is embodied by liberty and beauty, and the essence of the Male by power and coercion. Based on coercion (violence), the latter always results in statism, collectivism, poverty, corruption, violence and ultimately, war. Big, centralized government is the tool of the Male to inflict its misery on the people within and without its borders.
* * *
France was a different story, its moral and economic collapse was still in the future. I found the Parisians to be as friendly and personable as New York City residents, in spite of their unease and fear of impending economic doom and social malaise. My French colleagues on the project were among France’s scientific elites. They were educated, articulate, and our animated discussions further informed my impressions of the welfare state.
The French women were at once feminine and aggressive, stylish yet understated, enchanting, if not beautiful by Latin American standards. I spent hours wandering the Louvre and other museums, contrasting the real flesh-and-blood women who studied the artwork with the artwork – representations of royal courts, hunting parties, trappings of power – phalli of all descriptions, the Male essence. Even with my rustic French, I found the women approachable, easy to talk with, and quite casual about the possibility of sex with this strange yanqui. They must have thought I was homosexual because I deflected their invitations – I was still impotent with women other than María.
I found what little sexual pleasure I could in Pigalle, with the obese, gaudily dressed hookers that serviced the city’s multitude of perverts. They took me to walk-up rooms where the beds were stained with ejaculations no doubt dating from before the 4th Republic, and quick-adjust straps were permanently installed on the four corners of the beds. These hookers were totally indifferent to my flaccid penis and knew what I wanted before I asked. I paid double the quickie-fuck rate to be strapped to the bed frame, and while the hookers smoked those foul French cigarettes and watched me with dull fish eyes, they squeezed my testicles against my bangle until I passed out or ejaculated screaming in pain and pleasure. They seemed to derive some small measure of satisfaction from their cruelty – men richly deserved the pain they gave us.
One of the hookers pinched her hand on my bangle, cursed “merde”, and punched my testicles. I floated in a sea of phalli and vulvae … until I came to several minutes later. The hooker said I trembled and moaned incoherently, speaking fragments of Spanish and English. She knew I wouldn’t die from a testicle blow, so she unstrapped me and waited for me to come around. She wanted to charge me for the extra time. When I moved to sit up, my testicles screamed and I saw my scrotum was dark burgundy and swollen. The slightest touch was excruciating. The hooker helped me to a taxi and sent me to a hospital emergency room. I was wheeled directly into surgery, and awoke two hours later. My silver bangle had been stolen. A blood vessel had been ruptured, and I was warned I had nearly lost one testicle. The doctor knew what I had done, and warned if I repeated it, I’d lose my testicles. That was my last visit to the hookers – my testicles belonged to PerfectPenis, and only he could take them.
But no matter. I had found the sexual experience I’d been searching for all my life – a euphoria mixed of pain and pleasure that transported me out of myself. This must be the same effect of heroine or crack, and I was determined to find it again without destroying my genitals. But oh the irony of finding it with a fat, ugly French prostitute while strapped to a filthy mattress – not in the company of a world-class beauty, my María.
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