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Monstrosities are not uncommon to the Evil One. I've encountered el pene grande and taken it willingly, like a girl who only wanted more to prove her love. Ignore the pain and imagine the love. The creed of the receiver.
When I got to Sloane’s party, there was no one around the pool whom I knew. I got a drink and walked inside the house to see if I could find Sloane. What a hacienda this was. If Sloane had paid cash, like he usually did when he was in the chips, he must have had to have laid out two briefcases of Benjamins on this deal. This had to have cost him at least two million bucks. Where could Sloane have gotten his hands on that kind of money?
The art work on the walls was mostly original Mexican and Spanish early Twentieth Century. It had the feel of heat and experimentation in the face of despair. I liked that sort of art, and I knew that Sloane had not been the one who picked it out. He would also have not hired an interior decorator. This had the feel of someone’s personal touch. And I felt as if I knew that person.
At the same time that familiarity rushed up my spine, I felt as well a sort of coldness in the air. I looked at a ceiling vent to see if the air conditioner had just kicked on. It hadn’t. This was the feel of death. Why, suddenly, should that pass through this room? I let it go. I brushed it off.
After a while of not finding anyone in the house, except a couple of coked up girls getting way too friendly in one of the bedrooms, I made my way out a side door and back to the pool. Being in a crowd of hedonists for the first time in a while, I reverted to past behaviors and began to drink much more than I should have for early afternoon on an empty stomach.
In very little time, I had stripped down to my barely there swim trunks, and was dancing in a crowd of strangers. I knew that many of them were laughing at my size and my awkwardness, but there is little embarrassment that more liquor cannot overcome.
After several gins and tonics, I was spinning in my little red Speedo just a little too fast. Dizziness set in and I found myself drunk and decked beside the pool, with several unlikely onlookers. When I lifted my bruised forehead, there were at least a dozen men in a circle around me. It was as if I was watching through a fisheye lens in some made for TV movie. In the upper right corner of the shot, there was a face I'd not seen in quite some time.
"Hola, mi amigo. ¿Que tal el culo?"" he said.
From the moment I began my pilgrimage to this party of the philistines, I knew in my heart that he would come back to me here. That was why I got in that taxi, against all common sense. It was as if God himself had ordained it. Now my Pedro would pick me up and take me to a quiet place and placate my hardened heart. It was meant to be, and I cried like a little child when I recognized his face and what must happen next.
Sloane's reddened face appeared over my lover's left shoulder and said, "Get the fucker up, Pony Boy. I've got a show going on at 4:00, and we're already keeping folks waiting."
Pedro knelt down beside me and I heard his soft voice whisper in my ear, "It will be all right, mi corazón . Just let him have this one last dance and we'll be free and clear with plenty to spare."
A warmth flooded over me as I knew I was once again cared for and that it had all been worthwhile. All the humiliation and the degradation had only been a test sent from God himself to make sure I was worthy of this newfound paradise.
My boyhood friend helped me get my overweight ass up off the rough concrete, and he and some other men I did not know helped me into a makeshift tent at the far end of Sloane's back yard. As Pedro and the others laid me down, face first, on a sort of McDonalds golden arch, I could only think that soon it would all be OK. There was a reason to carry on. And then I puked my guts out and passed out completely.
When I awoke, the first thing I noticed was the bright lights and the large cameras. This was not an amateur filming crew. These were professionals. And then I felt the pain.
I fully understood the feel of the usual pain of sex, but this was so much more immediate. I'd been used to the tearing of tissue, the burning feeling when there was too little spit or jelly, but this felt like ripping; total immolation. I tried to turn my head to see the source of my discomfort, but my cabana boy from childhood was right there in my face. "You like it, don't you? You corpulent beast? You know what is fucking you now? ¿Tienes idea? "
"I know it is not you, my dear."
"Don't talk to me in that manner, you whale of una imitacion de un hombre."
That's when I looked down to my left and saw the hoof.