Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— Like this.

— Like this, oh, it tickles. Silky, warm, and steady. Next time we’ll use a glass. At the same time. You in yours. And me in mine. We’ll put them in the tub, empty. And then we’ll get inside, naked. Over here. We’ll turn the water on and unplug the stopper so the bathtub stays empty. Then the race begins. Whoever pisses into the glass longer wins.

— Wins what?

— If I win, I get to.

— To what?

— To piss on you. And if you win, you get to do it to me.

— I don’t want to win.

— Me neither.

— Why don’t you stand up in the air with your feet on each side of the bathtub ledge, and I’ll stand behind you. I’ll embrace you the minute you start, and then you and I piss into the same glass at the same time. Together as one.

— That’s worse than giving birth to a dog. What’s all the fuss about taking a piss? It’s not fair. It’s just not fair. It’s so unfair.

— What’s wrong?

— Why can’t you leave my glass alone? I want to compete, but no, you have to turn it into an embrace. Get off, get your hands off me. I’m not in the mood for love. Give me some space. Let me breathe. For crying out loud. How can I write with you underneath? And everything is a game. Where’s the seriousness? Jabalí, come back, come back, wherever you are. I don’t like your games. They lack spontaneity. It has to be music. It has to be my way. Let’s play the scratched record. I say:

— I did it my-my-my-my…

And then you say:

— Oh, the record’s scratched.

And I lift needle from the scratched record with two fingers, and as I move it, lift your head and follow the movement of my fingers, from right to left. Flash your dimples, squint as if you were greeting the audience, and shed a tender tear so that they know you’re nice and sensitive, what a lovely girl, what a sweet dear, and as I set the needle down, put your head down, chin in, and take a bow to let them know you’re expecting thunderous applause. Accept the accolades with your eyes, your head, and then finish with:

— waaaaay, I mean, way. Yes, thank you, I did it my-my-my-my…

I move the needle again, you move your head, wink, and repeat with your arms open to embrace the applause:

way — way — way

way — cha, cha, cha,

way — ha, ha, ha,

waaaaay

my way.

— Oh, kiko, can you believe it?

— What?

— What I’m seeing.

— What?

— My funeral.

— How, tell me how it goes.

— You’re wearing your black tie and wrinkled corduroy suit, carrying my coffin, with Paco Pepe giving the eulogy, and the Children’s Choir of San Juan singing:

The poor old donkey fell dead in his tracks,

Lugging the wineskins on his bony back.

To-ra-loo-ra-loo. To-ra-loo-ra-loo.

Oh, chipo, I can’t. I get a knot in my throat just seeing it. It’s beautiful. Beautiful.

— What?

— The burial. You’re smiling, thinking:

— She’s dead. At last. Now I can rest. After the storm comes peace.

But nonetheless, you’re crying. Yes, you’re crying too.

— I have to prepare myself, don’t you think?

— You should always be ready. But don’t think I’m going anytime soon. I’ve got plenty more ahead of me.

— Oh, I was thinking…

— Not yet.

— Sorry.

— You disappoint me.

— But you’re not leaving.

— Later, not now. I’m enjoying my fantasies too much.

— Are you in love?

— Yes, and you?

— Yes, but it’s platonic.

— How so?

— The person I’m in love with is in love with someone else.

— What makes you so sure?

— About what?

— His relationship.

— I know that he is married.

— And what if I told you that relationship is over?

— Should I believe you?

— Yes, it is over. Answer me. Who are you in love with?

— I can’t say. It’s platonic. Want a cigarette? I’ll go buy them. What do you smoke?

— Oh, chipi, you skipped the part about the stem.

— What stem?

— Like this, remember?

— Oh, you mean when he ran his fingers slowly up and down the stem of the wine glass. His eyes turned misty when the jukebox began to play Barbra Streisand’s “Memories.”

— Blackbirds will come again, but they won’t come back the same.

— But why —I asked— why won’t they come back the same?

— You can’t cross the same river twice. New waters. Where are my cigarettes?

— I’ll go buy them.

— True Blue. But no one except me pays for my vices. You have to make the next move — checkmate.

— Why me?

— It’s the rules of the game.

— Well, then. With you.

— With me? What a flirt. I know what you are after.

Honestly, I wasn’t after anything, but the insinuation turned me on. I had to make the next move — checkmate. I did, and the Big Bad Wolf ate me in the dark. He ran his tongue over my teeth as if to see if my pearls were real, and I felt him gliding over each one, and I slipped my tongue under his and he went wild and bit me and our tongues and tails went up and down like the surf until all the sucking of nipples, bottles, and bonbons quenched our desire like squeezed lemons, and when I opened my eyes and tasted him on my lips, his tongue was diving and lunging like a goldfish under a leafy plant in a fishbowl, and it was gorgeous to see the goldfish swimming with its golden-orange, its belly pregnant with milky jellyfish, its sexual bulge, and its tail swishing and melting in my mouth. Ummm. I sighed, having lost my breath, and came to my senses. Imagine, once Jabalí warned me:

— I don’t want you here when my friends come. You have to leave.

And I was going to leave, but when his friends came, Jabi said:

— Don’t go. Come have a drink with us.

— I can’t, I’m sorry. Maybe next time —I said, tearing up, and then I whispered to one of them on the side, sniffling with hiccups, lifting my teary face and lowering it again:

— I’d like to, hic, but he won’t let me go with you, hic.

— If she doesn’t come, we don’t go. Period.

He took me by the arm to lift my spirits and dry my valley of tears.

— I would show her off if she were mine.

— Sure, that’s what pretty chicks are for. Relax, you’re not the only one.

— I don’t socialize with students —Jabalí said.

— They’re the best. They’re easily impressed. Listen, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

— I’m not ashamed of anything. Yes, come along —Jabalí said to me between clenched teeth while pinching my other elbow to the rhythm of:

— You’ll-pay-for-this.

— But, you told me, hic, I can’t. So, hic, I won’t.

Then off I ran like Little Red Riding Hood from the Big Bad Wolf. It was revenge. It was obvious his friends didn’t approve of his behavior. Imagine how humiliating that was for someone as vain and conceited as he was — but it was even worse for me because they were his friends after all. And what was I to them? Just another pretty chick. Pity is the pits. And I felt bad, really bad.

— You betrayed him. You didn’t keep the secret. You were accomplices. That’s what love is all about. Complicity.

— I didn’t betray him, my eyes betrayed me. It’s like the rain. Tell me, who can stop the rain? It’s against my nature. I wasn’t born for closets or twilights. Sometimes Jabalí would hide me in his room when he had company. What if — I thought — what if they happen to open the door and find me hiding here? How scary. How embarrassing.