L’immoraliste , L’histoire de l’oeil ,and La chatte , all of them serving me well in times of escape and need . There are also some that I inherited from a professor who left me his vast library. Thus I am able to reach for such studies as An Unhurried View of Erotica, by Ralph Ginzburg , The Housewife’s Handbook on Selective Promiscuity , by Rey Anthony, andRestif de La Bretonne’s Pleasures and Follies of a Good-natured Libertine. And for a less highbrow selection of work, which I assure you is as effective and as pleasing at times, I help myself to any of the following: The Adventures of a Nurse Called Lily , The Maid with the Golden Whip ,or A Stroll on Red Boulevard .Or, to move to a selection ofreligious and ascetic pleasures, The Private Diary of a Crusader’s Wife and The Holy Howl . But my favourite, as yet, in this area of studies is exemplified by The Flogging Trilogy , which can also be found on this most accessible shelf. The trilogy exists in three impeccable first editions: The Art of Flagellation for the Perverse , The Art of Flagellation for the Perverse and Pious ,and, finally, The Art of Transcendental Flagellation, which in my opinion would be a masterpiece were it not for the long and unnecessary treatise on how to acquire an oxtail and shape it into a whip.
But before I had the chance to ignite my engine and drive home towards my flamboyant collection and lie down on my father’s carpet and “read,” a man entered my car. He smelled of expensive cologne and he wore a high white collar, a silk suit, and an eccentric-looking hat that blocked my view of the rear window. What is this, it must be a theatre night, I thought to myself as I drove my car through high and low streets, as I crossed under sporadic city lights and the open, inviting curtains of bedroom windows.
Driver, the man said, in what sounded like a fake British accent, or was it a South African accent, or maybe an Australian accent, who knows and who cares about these subtleties anyway, they are all the product of the same boats and empire — have you ever been in an accident?
Yes indeed, I said. Many, as a matter of fact.
Do tell, driver.
Well, I said, once I was waiting at a red light right next to another taxi. Across the intersection, halfway down the block, there was this lady in a long fur coat and a fur hat. She was in high heels and was waving at us. And when she waved, all her jewels shone and sent us ultraviolet signals. You see, she didn’t specify which taxi she wanted. Obviously she didn’t care. She would get into the first cab that reached her. She was like evolution: she had no preference besides speed, performance, and availability. I glanced at the taxi driver beside me, and he gave me the finger. Now, the other driver had an advantage: he was on the sidewalk side of the street. But I told myself that I’d rather die than let this fucker, excuse my language, get the fare.
Foul language is fine with me. Just go ahead and fuck all you want, the man said.
Indeed, I replied. So when the light turned green, I stepped on the gas. I was ahead but, like I said, he had the advantage, so I swung my car to the side to block my adversary’s way. He braked, but he still hit me on the back door, on the side where you are sitting now, in fact. We stopped and got out of our cars. He took a swing at me. It was unexpected. I went back to my car and got a certain feathered stick I carry with me in case of emergencies, but he had already pulled a knife and was coming at me. I swung the stick and hit his shoulder but he was close enough to slice me right here, on my hand; you can’t see the scar because of my horse tattoo. I swung my stick and I bashed the shit out of him, sir. You should have seen him drop his knife and start begging. I looked for the lady, but she was hurrying into another car. So I drove straight to the house of a friend of mine who is a nurse. He cleaned the wound and stitched me without
But before I had the chance to ignite my engine and drive home towards my flamboyant collection and lie down on my father’s carpet and “read,” a man entered my car. He smelled of expensive cologne and he wore a high white collar, a silk suit, and an eccentric-looking hat that blocked my view of the rear window. What is this, it must be a theatre night, I thought to myself as I drove my car through high and low streets, as I crossed under sporadic city lights and the open, inviting curtains of bedroom windows.
Driver, the man said, in what sounded like a fake British accent, or was it a South African accent, or maybe an Australian accent, who knows and who cares about these subtleties anyway, they are all the product of the same boats and empire — have you ever been in an accident?
Yes indeed, I said. Many, as a matter of fact.
Do tell, driver.
Well, I said, once I was waiting at a red light right next to another taxi. Across the intersection, halfway down the block, there was this lady in a long fur coat and a fur hat. She was in high heels and was waving at us. And when she waved, all her jewels shone and sent us ultraviolet signals. You see, she didn’t specify which taxi she wanted. Obviously she didn’t care. She would get into the first cab that reached her. She was like evolution: she had no preference besides speed, performance, and availability. I glanced at the taxi driver beside me, and he gave me the finger. Now, the other driver had an advantage: he was on the sidewalk side of the street. But I told myself that I’d rather die than let this fucker, excuse my language, get the fare.
Foul language is fine with me. Just go ahead and fuck all you want, the man said.
Indeed, I replied. So when the light turned green, I stepped on the gas. I was ahead but, like I said, he had the advantage, so I swung my car to the side to block my adversary’s way. He braked, but he still hit me on the back door, on the side where you are sitting now, in fact. We stopped and got out of our cars. He took a swing at me. It was unexpected. I went back to my car and got a certain feathered stick I carry with me in case of emergencies, but he had already pulled a knife and was coming at me. I swung the stick and hit his shoulder but he was close enough to slice me right here, on my hand; you can’t see the scar because of my horse tattoo. I swung my stick and I bashed the shit out of him, sir. You should have seen him drop his knife and start begging. I looked for the lady, but she was hurrying into another car. So I drove straight to the house of a friend of mine who is a nurse. He cleaned the wound and stitched me without
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