Читать книгу Island of Point Nemo - Jean-Marie Blas de Robles - Страница 13
ОглавлениеA Lovely Odor of Roasted Turnips
Carmen is the unfortunate wife of Dieumercie Bonacieux. The latter does not smoke or drink, he showers her with attention, he works hard, he is handy around the house. He is not ugly, despite having big teeth and a slightly stupid smile. Even his receding hairline is not without a certain charm. But his thingy doesn’t work. “Your husband is affected by ‘sexual blindness,’” the doctor said, “what is called genital ataraxia,” he even specified, fearing that they had not understood. And it’s true that, though she had tried a thousand ways to tantalize him, Dieumercie could not get it up. To make matters worse, he turned out to be one of the twenty-five percent of patients on whom even the strongest dose of Viagra has no effect. As for yarsagumba, the Tibetan fungus with a reputation for being an aphrodisiac, that did him no more good than any old omelet made with mushrooms. Or even truffles, at that price.
Given that this impotence threatens their relationship, Dieumercie is ready to try anything to fix it. Yesterday evening, his wife convinced him of the benefits of a foolproof technique, a method she heard about from a friend who is a nurse. The results should be visible by the time he returns from the factory.
At the moment we meet her, Carmen is sprawled out on the sofa bed, limbs outstretched, skirt hiked up to her belly button. Her eyes closed, she is masturbating with a duck neck. She has cooked the rest; there is a lovely odor of roasted turnips wafting through the room.
His mind on the assembly of the circuit boards that are passing between his hands, Dieumercie has a vague feeling of unease. In spite of his efforts to think about other things, images of his wife fussing at his penis play through his mind on a loop. Again he sees her insert the thin, plastic hose into the bag of serum, then hang it from the hook in the bathroom. She pulled on latex gloves, snapping them against her wrists. You’d think she had been doing this forever. A professional. Finally, she got down on her knees in front of him, disinfected him with ether, and stuck a long hypodermic needle into the skin of his balls. Having secured the catheter with surgical tape, she connected the needle to the other end of the hose. Scrotal infusion, my dear . . . A poisonous-sounding term that had not seemed to give Carmen pause, but that had made his back prickle with sweat. She made him sit on the edge of the tub, and he waited there while the liquid flowed in. Good Lord, a liter! When he began to panic, seeing his scrotum swell to the size of a handball, she reassured him from afar, her eyes never straying from whatever crappy game show she was watching on TV: it was normal, the serum was going to filter gradually into his cock, and the next evening his engine would be all revved up. He heard her blowing her nose, then she added, laughing: And I’m all stuffed up!
She was right, but also wrong. What he now has between his legs looks just like a large beer can, but a soft one. Dieumercie is worried. Besides the fact that at this very moment he is having trouble walking normally to leave his post, he knows already that this plan is going to fall to pieces.