from ORIFICE

I imagine the American Lola arriving in the aluminum body of an airplane. Thin air hissing from overhead vents. Lola arrayed properly in her seat, taking up no more room than necessary. Windows sealed, of course. Stewardesses who seem to be made of porcelain. A landing just a little bumpy, enough to bring an uneasy smile to her face which is pale, shining, clear, as eager to see this new country as she was eager for a trip to Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, Jungleland. Perhaps she imagines antiseptic flowers, germ-free flautas, color enhanced food with unfamiliar names but familiar ingredients. But the roads are crowded with brutally distorted vehicles: fenders in tatters: wheels that wobble loosely: drivers with goldrimmed teeth who peer maniacally from their high windshields. Well, it's a new kind of ride, perhaps, a bit wilder than the amusement park rides she is used to. If only the air were not so heavy! Sweaty people lurch against her.... No, no, this is too easy: although I am willing to corrupt her it should not be such a simple task. In any case her beauty counts for something. Her beauty, that is, once divested of her khaki shorts, her flat sandals, her oversized t-shirt. What a callous disregard American women have for their own beauty! Well, beauty is not practical. Americans are pragmatic above all. In the town I stroll Lola through the streets. But first I strap her into a tight dress: mount her feet in high heels: unleash her hair: bite her lips until they bleed: cinch her waist so tightly she cries out. Thus arrayed is she not loved? Is she not lovable? Lola on my arm on the streets of Comitan! Or is it Catemaco? Nurye Elia? Mangalore, Bangalore, Sengalore? It is night, fortunately, fallen at last to hide the flushed confusion of her cheeks. But such a narrow waist! What rounded buttocks dependent below! Naked Indians with pierced lips and pieces of bamboo jammed into their noses nod approvingly. We can imagine hands plucking exploratorially at her teats. My hands themselves--they are red, bony, calloused here and there, nails cracked--fondle her various body parts. Deep in shadowed booths young girls with impassive faces speculate on Lola's value. They are themselves illuminated by oil lamps whose sooty smoke curls miraculously into black unwound hair. Everywhere food cooks on open fires. Clowns cavort on streets turning balloons into donkeys, four-legged dogs, spotted pumas, elephants with rearing trunks. All stop to watch--even the children turn to watch--as Lola passes, mincing uneasily in shoes whose heels are too high, knees knocking together, hands clinging to my arm for support. All of us imagine ourselves lusting after her, bruising her unmarked flesh. There is something in nature that abhors a vacuum, unused apertures, uncorrupted innocence. Like a ripe fruit she must be peeled, opened, cored. Her fluids leak everywhere: oily, sweaty, mucual. Each secretion lapped up.
Lola devoured.
Lola savored.
Lola cannibalized.


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