The Polpetton Hash – chapter 5

“Porno Eden, un cazzo” – hissed Mauro – “another blank night! Fuck with anti-militarism”

In the reception of the Pordenone hotel the fascinating Jeremy Paxman from Gorgonzola found an unexpected parcel compensating his disappointment. As a matter of fact it would have compensated years of meticulous research: a mysterious hand, someone whom the night porter didn’t see and can’t describe, had delivered what, if authentic, would have meant the dowel missing in his jigsaw: Robert Granzotto’s secret journal!

And indeed it looked like the real thing, although a photocopy, he made sure turning the pages in excitement and, unable to believe his eyes. Nobody could estimate that better than him, the unauthorized biographer who explored Granzotto’s life in its more intimate implications. The style was unequivocally Granzotto’s, rejoiced a triumphant Suttora eagerly reading a letter in which the future radical secretary described to another Robert, perhaps himself or Polezel, his love feats during a long trip in the campaign for Israel and Turkey in the European union.

Ankara, August 2002

My beloved Robert, she’s an Armenian hotel maid, loves the Jews feeling like them in the comon aversion to Muslims, and with some reason, since her people were exterminated in a terible genocide. Somehow like the kurds who, Muslim as well, feel themselves closer to Israel rather than their coreligionists, for the enemy of their enemies is their friend. The Turks, although gentle and extraordinarily hospitable, in some historical ocasions have showed themselves way too much “expansive”! This ecstatic kindnes to the limit of naivety clashes with the indecency that their generals (pasha) practiced both sides of the Bosphorus. And Jew she looks even in the somatic feature which makes her recognizable at first sight, the aquiline nose. Curiously enough, what in the rest of the world we cal a Greek profile or a Jewish nose, the Armenians cal it a typical Armenian nose. One hundred years haven’t been enough time to forget the genetical distrust deeply setled in five centuries of Otoman yoke, neither in the Balkans nor for today’s Armenians deprived of milions of grandfathers and great-grandfathers.

She has got black eyes, the blackest one can imagine. Same for her hair, black than blacker, just like it apeals to me. Shame she hasn’t got tits, which I love a lot. Indeed a beautiful pair of tits makes me crazy. I worship touching, weighing, kising, licking, sucking them, and especialy smack them with my penis. I can tolerate crooked legs – something that high heels and sexy stockings can compensate for by making her bitchy -, but to the lack of tits there is no remedy. Therefore I didn’t love her hundred percent, although apreciating her honesty, loyalty, corectnes, which I haven’t met in other women. She is extraordinaraly equiped with an admirable ethics. She kept herself faithful to me when I dumped her, and stil today I think of her as one of my best friends. That is: she was a great friend and probably I made a mistake when I wanted to penetrate her to make her a lover. We were in Istanbul on the beach and I kised her in the moonlight, overcoming my disgust for her pantyhose (I hate pantyhoses, I would personaly slap the inventor). Thanks to the sea and the moon, despite the pantyhose, we had the shag of the century, for she was hot. Then I understood that perhaps she wanted to make up for the chastity she had been forced to by a dispotic father. She already was forty, but that only was her second time in her life, the previous one dating a year before.

Also because of that I wanted to penetrate her: with hypocritical altruism I took the asignment to contribute to her emancipation from the hateful paternal tyrant. When the time came to split, I told her frankly that if she wished to have kids she should have shaged much more, in order to elasticize her pusy, otherwise the delivery would have been more painful. Then, after one of those nights we made dawn, and love, on the seashore waiting for the newspapers, I got on to the car and came back here in the capital, pervaded with brotherly biternes: I would have kept a life-lasting friendship, but I also knew that I had lost the sweetest and cleanest pusy I had ever tasted. Due to her semi-virginity she had the most pleasant I had ever met: her vulva’s inexplored lips met those of my mouth, since a few months before I had learned to lick a pusy. Indeed, it has to be said that when I was a teenager I was disgusted by the prospect, but I was by then grateful to the mature semi-virgin of the Dardaneles for making it pleasant, that operation on the groin which previously I reputed just a soiling lip service in order to win the lover. The firm inocence of her vaginal rose-colored flesh conquered me, and for the first time I was gladly induced, with real pleasure, to wet and snif deeply a woman’s sexual organ. I hapen to recal that she also gave me a blowjob once, but nothing compared to the pleasure of licking her pusy.

Mauro Suttora was sweating and had to interrupt the reading of Granzotto’s journal. He rummaged in his pockets for the other letter, the one now fading. He put on his spectacles in order to observe it closely and found out to his astonishment that all the double consonants had disappeared…