to the funeral directors, professional mourners, specialist embalmers, coffin makers, and stone masons I encountered at these events.
Ernesto Porcino was the most promising of the lot, and although Signora Dorotea didn’t consider him good enough for me, she wouldn’t pour scorn on what she regarded as her only, albeit slim, chance of a wedding. We first met at an exposition of false eyeballs, where he was demonstrating a new line he had personally developed: eyes that were actually able to produce their own tears. They caused a sensation. As well as ordering a consignment that would last us for a decade, I accepted when Signor Porcino asked me to accompany him to the after-show party. I had never been to a party before. I was dazzled by the Signor’s verbosity. He did enough talking for both of us, even answering on my behalf the questions he had put to me. For the first time in my dealings with the opposite sex, I didn’t feel handicapped by my conversational inadequacy.
Ernesto (as I shall call him from now on) was more mature than the previous young men I had met. In fact, he was forty-five to my twenty-two, and had the accompanying hairlessness, bunions, sweats, cramps, and obesity, but I wasn’t looking for film-star good looks; I was looking for a ventriloquist.
Despite the fact that he was unable to throw his voice (he did try, but failed miserably), we soon got to the taking-off-our-clothes stage at Ernesto’s instigation. Although it went no further, I was mesmerized by his thing, which was only just visible behind the overhanging bulk of his belly. And on those occasions when he allowed me to cushion it in the palm of my hand, I was delighted at the way it transformed from a pale and unobtrusive pink to a throbbing shaft of angry purple.
Those furtive encounters took place once beneath the um-brella pines in the Valle d’Inferno, and once in the chapel of rest at the funeral parlor when Signora Dorotea and Signor Porzio were visiting with her married sister, Loretta, at Punta Ala.
Delighted as I was by Ernesto’s willy, and feeling that I was on the cusp of some secret and mysterious awakening, I was anxious to do more than merely hold it in my hand.
Ernesto was touched, I could tell, by my youthful ardor, and racked his brains to come up with a solution, but his lodgings, he told me, were in the house of elderly virgins in a perilous state of health, and the presence of a nubile temptress in his apartment would be enough to propel at least one, if not two, or even all three of them, into a tragic decline.
I was thrilled to hear myself described as a nubile temptress, and throwing caution to the wind, I invited him for the assignation to my own rooms in the Via dei Cappellari.
Flushed with expectation and delight, I opened the door to admit him, aware that Signor Tontini was spying on me from the stairs.
Immediately Ernesto rushed to the bathroom—he had been on the road with his samples all day, he said, and was bursting for a pee. Shortly afterward he reemerged, wearing nothing but a long blond wig and brandishing a wand.
This was the moment Pierino had been waiting for. He sliced across the room in a motion that was invisible it was so fast, and set upon, with his sharp beak, the tempting parts of my would-be lover.
Ernesto’s screams rent the air, and his flesh was ripped to pieces before I could persuade Pierino to end his attack, and tempt him back into his cage with the promise of a ripe and juicy fig.
I was sorry the affair had ended in this way, before I had experienced the full fascination of the purple probe, now limp, and bruised, and bleeding; but I knew that if Pierino hated Ernesto, which he clearly did, then there was no way I could allow things to develop further.
Aside from his pain, which must have been agonizing, my false-eye maker was livid. To my surprise, but I must admit also to my satisfaction, it transpired that the three virgin oc-togenarian landladies were a figment
Ernesto Porcino was the most promising of the lot, and although Signora Dorotea didn’t consider him good enough for me, she wouldn’t pour scorn on what she regarded as her only, albeit slim, chance of a wedding. We first met at an exposition of false eyeballs, where he was demonstrating a new line he had personally developed: eyes that were actually able to produce their own tears. They caused a sensation. As well as ordering a consignment that would last us for a decade, I accepted when Signor Porcino asked me to accompany him to the after-show party. I had never been to a party before. I was dazzled by the Signor’s verbosity. He did enough talking for both of us, even answering on my behalf the questions he had put to me. For the first time in my dealings with the opposite sex, I didn’t feel handicapped by my conversational inadequacy.
Ernesto (as I shall call him from now on) was more mature than the previous young men I had met. In fact, he was forty-five to my twenty-two, and had the accompanying hairlessness, bunions, sweats, cramps, and obesity, but I wasn’t looking for film-star good looks; I was looking for a ventriloquist.
Despite the fact that he was unable to throw his voice (he did try, but failed miserably), we soon got to the taking-off-our-clothes stage at Ernesto’s instigation. Although it went no further, I was mesmerized by his thing, which was only just visible behind the overhanging bulk of his belly. And on those occasions when he allowed me to cushion it in the palm of my hand, I was delighted at the way it transformed from a pale and unobtrusive pink to a throbbing shaft of angry purple.
Those furtive encounters took place once beneath the um-brella pines in the Valle d’Inferno, and once in the chapel of rest at the funeral parlor when Signora Dorotea and Signor Porzio were visiting with her married sister, Loretta, at Punta Ala.
Delighted as I was by Ernesto’s willy, and feeling that I was on the cusp of some secret and mysterious awakening, I was anxious to do more than merely hold it in my hand.
Ernesto was touched, I could tell, by my youthful ardor, and racked his brains to come up with a solution, but his lodgings, he told me, were in the house of elderly virgins in a perilous state of health, and the presence of a nubile temptress in his apartment would be enough to propel at least one, if not two, or even all three of them, into a tragic decline.
I was thrilled to hear myself described as a nubile temptress, and throwing caution to the wind, I invited him for the assignation to my own rooms in the Via dei Cappellari.
Flushed with expectation and delight, I opened the door to admit him, aware that Signor Tontini was spying on me from the stairs.
Immediately Ernesto rushed to the bathroom—he had been on the road with his samples all day, he said, and was bursting for a pee. Shortly afterward he reemerged, wearing nothing but a long blond wig and brandishing a wand.
This was the moment Pierino had been waiting for. He sliced across the room in a motion that was invisible it was so fast, and set upon, with his sharp beak, the tempting parts of my would-be lover.
Ernesto’s screams rent the air, and his flesh was ripped to pieces before I could persuade Pierino to end his attack, and tempt him back into his cage with the promise of a ripe and juicy fig.
I was sorry the affair had ended in this way, before I had experienced the full fascination of the purple probe, now limp, and bruised, and bleeding; but I knew that if Pierino hated Ernesto, which he clearly did, then there was no way I could allow things to develop further.
Aside from his pain, which must have been agonizing, my false-eye maker was livid. To my surprise, but I must admit also to my satisfaction, it transpired that the three virgin oc-togenarian landladies were a figment
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