The cosmic chronicle. Back to the sex thing.

THE GALACTIC TAVERN. When I entered the tavern of my love last night I was pleasantly surprised that, contrary to the usual, most of the clientele was female. I noticed four women sitting around a table, because they were of different ages and seemed to come from different countries. It was clear, however, that all four were warriors.

I approached them and, after confessing my hobbies as a reporter, asked them for permission to record the conversation they were having; I asked cautiously and was willing to retreat with my tail between my legs if things got bad. I also made it clear to them that whatever they said, he would remain anonymous. Then they exchanged a look which they agreed upon and invited me to sit down.

One of them, who had very pale skin and silver hair, added: “But we will only give you the honour of engraving us if you are able to guess where we are from.

“You couldn’t have proposed a game that was more to my liking,” I said, “because thanks to my continued travels I’ve developed a fine ability to guess the origins of the people who come across me. And as for you,” I said to the one who had proposed it, “although I was a little lost before, after hearing you speak I knew that you were Spanish.

“I’m not Spanish, I’m Basque! But I give you the point because, anyway, I have the fucking Spanish passport. And you, with this squared accent, you must be Catalan, right?”

“Yes, “Catalino” de pura cepa.”

Now I saw the woman next to the Basque woman. She was blonde and kept the beauty of youth despite crow’s feet. I calculated him to be about fifty years old. At first I had thought that she might be English, but then I noticed her playfulness and lack of inhibition, and I was right to say that she was Australian.

The next one, which had a beautiful dark brown skin, was taller than me, even when I was sitting down, had very short hair, and I would be in my forties. Actually, it could come from several African countries, but the print on her dress reminded me of one she had recently seen in Nairobi, and I hit the target again telling her in Swahili that she was from Kenya.

Having lived in India for about fourteen years, I had no doubt that the fourth woman was from that country, but I also astonished her by specifying that she was of the Brahmin caste. I calculated him to be under thirty years old.

I had earned the “honor” of recording their conversation, but before I started I wanted to know what their professions were.

“Retired nurse,” said the Basque.

“Sociologist,” this was the Indian.

“Lawyer,” and there’s the Kenyan.

“Journalist,” said the Australian.

I pressed the start button on my recorder and, having assumed that they would talk about the typical adventures of globetrotters, I was astonished from the very first moment when I heard what the Basque woman said:”Thanks to the fact that I always leave the places five minutes before they throw me out, it’s been an eternity since I retired from the arena of seduction, that is, what we used to call flirting, although they were going to take my license anyway; and I don’t understand much about this subject of the harassers that everybody harasses, especially if they’re famous; so I have some doubts. Ha, I can hear the war drums beating! Today I got up with my left foot, that of the masochists and the kamikazes,” she excused herself when she saw the bad faces of her companions. “In any case, perhaps it would be better if I made it clear that boars, with the pardon of boars, who persecute and love women, deserve to be treated in the same way as rapists. Against rape, castration!

“And if those who rape do so in groups, as is often the case in my country,” said the Indian woman, “they deserve to be impaled.

“And the same goes for third-world guys who marry girls,” she added before the Basque told them:

“I recently read that a Spanish judge had asked a rape victim what she was wearing the night she was assaulted, and I thought that jerk should be removed because he was too stupid and incompetent for the position he held.

“We are a kind of eminently sexual animals,” said the Australian, “and many men wear the flirting chip all the time because most of them are frustrated flirting. Your problem is in the lack of tact and in not guessing who is the right person and when is the right time. Apart from those guys who are born untimely, there are also others who are crazy, and when they have just had sex they start thinking about the next one.

“Among those madmen you mention, which we could also call sex addicts,” – commented the Kenyan, “there are those encelados like Weinstein, that Hollywood producer who would have had less trouble if he had put a sign on the door of his office warning: “Enter without panties and open your legs. As for Epstein, that paedophile millionaire who committed suicide in a prison cell, I know badly that he died instead of spending an eternity in a cage.

“I am against the death penalty,” said the Indian woman, “but only for others, for I would rather have my head cut off twenty times rather than stand one day behind the bars of one of those filthy prisons of our unjust judicial system. What a good machine the guillotine was: clean, painless and fast!

“And if you don’t compare it with such barbaric systems as the vile club of the Spain Brand, the electric chair MADE in U.S.A. or the macabre dance of those who hang themselves”, – the Basque commented before the Indian added jokingly: “The French have always been great inventors: the bidet, the Citroën 2CV, the champagne, the campaign pâté, the croissant…”.

“And the cinema,” – this was the Australian one.

“The croissant was not invented by the French” – corrected the Kenyan Indian, “but by a Viennese pastry chef who gave it the shape of the crescent moon to celebrate the victory of the Austrian army against the Turks”.

“Returning to sex”, -returning to the word the Basque woman, who by the way did not carry the least cosmetic, “I believe that the failure of many women is in that they emperifollan and flirt, and then they are surprised when the inopportune shift is thrown on them”.

“Is man the only male who kills the females of his species? Is it because the family is an unnatural invention of society that is only interested in its own survival and, as in many other respects, doesn’t care if its members go mad? Fatherhood and patriarchy are also unnatural,” asked the Indian woman, prompting the Basque woman to ask a few questions as well:

“Has a war been declared between men and women, they with bloody macho violence and they counterattack with movements like the MeToo? The crimes of the harassers do not prescribe as even those of certain cheating politicians do? Is it correct that there appears in the press a denunciation, which was also anonymous, of someone who affirmed that Plácido Domingo had tried to kiss her in 1980?” “What nonsense,” said the Australian. “Aren’t they supposed to play the active part in the game of seduction? Or are we going to go so far as to consider anyone who wants to flirt harassing? I’ve never had a problem stopping men who weren’t to my liking, because most of them are cowards and they’re afraid as soon as they’re faced.

“When I mentioned Plácido Domingo’s affair,” I explained, “I remembered that once a naked woman with the “worst” intentions came into my room, and I wondered if I should have denounced her.

“Did you fuck?” – I wanted to know the Australian.

“No, because I was reading a very interesting novel.”

They looked at me as if they doubted that I was serious even though I was.

In that moment of such an interesting debate I noticed, desperate, that my recorder was running out of batteries, and when I communicated it to the four women, the Basque woman told me:

“I don’t know who you’re writing for, but I doubt they’ll publish what we’ve said.”

“The problem is not whether I will get it published, but the possibility that some readers will assume that I share your opinions and give me a batch of sticks.

“And do you share them?” – asked the Kenyan.

“Of course,” I replied before I unplugged the recorder and asked the waiter for a beer.

And that’s all for today, my dear papanatas. Bom Bom.

La crónica cósmica, de Nando BabaLa crónica cósmica, de Nando BabaThe Cosmic Chronicle, by Nando Baba

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