I had a family near the harbour. Often, worn down by their remarks, my soul heavy, wondering whether I was normal, I would wander along the boulevard and then along the quays, drifting among the moored boats where the smell of fish, iodine, piss and tobacco went to my head. Often passing near the old rigging, I would imagine in their holds a thousand orgies — in cabins, lascivious women offered up to the captain, cabin boys with an eye pressed to the keyhole missing nothing, a store of happiness laid in before the deep-sea fishing, out there near Newfoundland where the only women would be those their minds conjured up, hanging from the rigging, dancing among the halyards, curled inside the sails, astride the guardrail… Their cocks buried in lard, they dream of big breasts and welcoming rumps. I would head home, whistling, glad to have walked, climbed the stairs. There they were, just as I had left them, in front of the TV movie, or perhaps a boring historical show… Casting a glance at me, I would say to them, with a knowing air: “I went out for a breath of sea air.” And in my head it smelled of pussy, arse, sweat, Colombian weed, and pink latex.
