"That I really can't believe," I said.

"I swear on my mother," said Luscious Skin.

"After you were interrupted, María wanted to keep making love?"

"That's how she is," said Moctezuma.

"And how would you know?" I said, getting more worked up by the second.

"I've fucked her too," said Moctezuma. "She's the wildest girl in Mexico City, although I've never hit her, that's for sure; I don't like that weird stuff. But I know for a fact that she does."

"I didn't hit her, man, what happened was that María was obsessed with the Marquis de Sade and she wanted to try the spanking thing," said Luscious Skin.

"That's very María," said Pancho. "She takes her reading seriously."

"And did you keep fucking?" I asked. Or whispered, or howled, I can't remember, although I do remember that I took several long drags on the joint and that they had to ask me several times to pass it on, that it wasn't just for me.

"Yeah, we kept fucking, or anyway she kept sucking my dick and I kept slapping her but less and less hard, and somehow I wasn't so into it anymore. I think her mother showing up had gotten to me, even if it hadn't gotten to her, and it was like I didn't feel like fucking anymore, like I'd cooled off and now I just wanted to get out and maybe see what was going on at the party, I think some of the famous poets were there, the Spanish writer, Ana María Díaz and Mr. Díaz, Laura Damián's parents, the poets Álamo, Labarca, Berrocal, Artemio Sánchez, the actress América Lagos from TV, and also I was a little afraid that María's mother would show up again, but this time with the fucking architect and then I was really going to get it."

"Laura Damián's parents were there?" I asked.

"The casta diva's parents themselves," said Luscious Skin, "and other celebrities. Believe me, I notice these things. I'd seen them before through the window and said hello to Berrocal, the poet. I'd been to his workshop a few times, but I don't know whether he remembered me or what. I think I was hungry too, and just imagining the things they were eating in the other house was making me drool. I wouldn't have minded showing up there, with María of course, and digging in. I felt really beat, it must have been the blow job. But I honestly wasn't thinking about the blow job, you know? I wasn't thinking about María's lips, or her tongue wrapping around my dick, or her saliva, which by that point was trickling down the hair on my balls…"

"Spare us," said Pancho.

"Cut the crap," said his brother.

"Make it snappy," I said so as not to be left out, although the truth was I felt completely drained.

"Well, so I told her. I said: María, let's do this next time or some other night. We usually fucked here, at my place, where we could take our time, although she never stayed all night, she always left at four or five in the morning, and it was a pain in the ass because I always offered to take her home. I couldn't let her go by herself at that hour. And she said keep going, don't stop, it's all right. And I thought she meant that I should keep slapping her ass. What would you have thought she meant? (The same thing, said Pancho.) So I started hitting her again, well, hitting her with one hand and stroking her clitoris and her tits with the other. Really, the sooner we finished, the better. I was ready. But of course, I wasn't going to come before she came. And the slut was taking forever and that started to make me mad, so I was hitting her harder and harder. Her butt, her legs, but also her cunt. Have you ever done it that way, boys? Well, I recommend it. At first the sound, the sound of the slaps, kind of doesn't seem right, it throws you off. It's like something raw in a dish where everything else is cooked. But then it kind of meshes with what you're doing, and the girl's moans, María's moans, mesh with it too, each time you hit her she moans, and the moans keep getting louder, and a moment comes when you feel her ass burning, and the palms of your hands are burning too, and your cock starts to beat like a heart, plunk plunk plunk…"

"You're laying it on thick, mano," said Moctezuma.

"I swear it's the truth. She had my cock in her mouth, but not gripping it tight, not sucking it, just teasing it with the tip of her tongue. She had it like a gun in a holster. See the difference? Not like a gun in the hand, but a gun in a sheath, under the arm or slung around the waist, if that makes sense. And she was throbbing too, her butt was throbbing and so were her legs and the lips of her vagina and her clitoris. I know because each time after I hit her I would stroke her, I felt her there and I noticed, and that really turned me on and I had to make an effort not to come. And she was moaning, but when I hit her she moaned more. When I wasn't hitting her she moaned a lot (I couldn't see her face), but when I was hitting her it was much more extreme, the moaning, I mean, like her heart was breaking, and what I wanted was to turn her over and screw her, but there was no way, she would've gotten mad. That's the problem with María. Things are intense with her but you always have to do it her way."

"And what happened next?" I said.

"Well, she came and I came, and that was it."

"That was it?" said Moctezuma.

"That was it, I swear. We cleaned ourselves up-well, I cleaned myself up, combed my hair a little, and she put on her pants, and we went out to see what was going on at the party. Then we got separated. That was my mistake. Letting myself get separated from her. I started to talk to Berrocal, who was alone in a corner. Then the poet Artemio Sánchez came over with some girl about thirty who was supposedly the deputy editor at El Guajolote and right there I started asking her whether she needed poems or stories or philosophical pieces for the magazine, I told her that I had lots of unpublished material, I talked to her about my buddy Moctezuma's translations, and as I talked I was looking for the hors d'oeuvre table out of the corner of my eye because all of a sudden I was fucking hungry, and then I saw María's mother show up again, followed by her father, with the famous Spanish poet a few steps behind, and that was the end of that: they threw me out and warned me never to set foot in their house again."

"And María didn't do anything?"

"No, she didn't. Nothing. At first I acted like I didn't understand what they were talking about, you know, like none of this had anything to do with me, but then, mano, there was no point pretending anymore. It became clear that they were going to boot me out like a fucking dog. I was sorry that they did it in front of Berrocal. Why not be honest, the bastard was probably laughing to himself as I backed away toward the door. I can't believe there was a time I actually sort of admired him."

"You admired Berrocal? You really are a dumbshit," said Pancho.

"The truth is that in the beginning he was nice to me. You don't know what it's like, you're from Mexico City, you grew up here, but I came here not knowing anyone and without a fucking peso. That was three years ago, when I was twenty-one. It was one hurdle after another. And Berrocal helped me out, let me into his workshop, introduced me to people who could hook me up with a job; I met María in his workshop. My life has been like a bolero," said Luscious Skin suddenly, in a dreamy voice.

"Well, go on: Berrocal was looking at you and laughing," I said.

"No, he wasn't laughing, but I thought he was laughing to himself. And Artemio Sánchez was looking at me too, but he was so bombed he didn't even know what was going on. And the deputy editor of El Guajolote, I think she was the most horrified, as well she should have been because the look on María's mother's face was enough to give you the chills. I swear I thought she might have a weapon on her. And despite it all I was backing out in slow motion, and that was because I still hoped that María would show up, that María would push through the guests and between her parents and grab me by the arm or sling her arm over my shoulders-María is the only woman I know who puts her arm around men's shoulders instead of their waists-and get me out of there with some decorum, I mean go with me."