Very sexy

In which our hero discovers that he has a future where he least expects it.
I don't know where to begin when describing Carlos. Even retrospectively I am not very objective, I can't get rid of a series of inhibitions, maybe subterranean jealousies, maybe unconfessed regrets, I don't know. In the meantime, I will try to describe his physical appearance, as if I still had him in front of me.
Carlos is thirty-two years old and a typical Cape Verdean. His shoulders are broad, perhaps too broad, square; his face is square too, with a strong jaw, a dimple in the middle of his chin, pronounced cheekbones, a slightly flattened but thin nose, elongated eyes with irises of a colour never seen before, between bronze and gold; his straight, pronounced eyebrows give him a perpetually sullen air; his thick, dark brown hair, twisted into tight, elongated curls, like dreadlocks, form a kind of shaggy headgear on his head and give him an appearance somewhere between a sea urchin and a shepherd from Bergamo. He wears two earrings on his left earlobe and a white beaded necklace around his neck, which singularly contrasts with his decidedly masculine appearance. She dresses casually, not too tight T-shirts, strategically frayed jeans and trainers. All strictly non-branded. After all, she always looks elegant no matter what she puts on: it's a natural gift.
He has a peculiar gait, supple and relaxed like that of a big cat; the exact adjective is regal: and indeed one day he told me in great confidence that he was something of a prince on the small volcanic island from which he hails, Brava.
I forgot: he has dark skin. Not very dark, let's say cafe au lait type. I think overall he's what women in my neck of the woods call hot.
In the specific case of Michelle, I know for sure that it is not her physical appearance that particularly attracted her, but rather the size of her penis, which is more attractive to her than that of a normal-sized man like myself. This is probably why I am still unable to have an equal attitude towards her, even after some time.
Yet he is solid and likeable, camaraderie and sincere. I like many things about him, including his exotic accent. He speaks Italian simply but correctly, partly because he has been in Italy for a long time, but he has retained the characteristic somewhat whiny Portuguese inflection, even though his native language is the incomprehensible Cape Verdean Creole.
He works as a box unloader at the general markets, which helps to keep him in shape; his secret worry, as he told me in all sincerity, is the temptation to give in to the stripper gig offers he constantly receives

from the nightclubs for single ladies in Turin. He's too proud to accept, but I'm sure he'll end up doing it, because the prospects of earning money as a dumpster are too poor. I don't think Michelle pays him, but I'm not sure and I don't want to know. I think he is seeing her because he is fascinated by her, albeit very superficially, not being able to grasp the character's maudit background.
He was followed to Italy by his sister Mayra, a couple of years older than him, to whom he is very close. Carlos hardly ever talks about her, but from what little he has told me I understand that there is a deep affection between them.
With me he behaves like a subordinate. He performs his low-level tasks with methodical commitment and is judicious enough not to overdo it. At the end he asks me "How did I do?", I assure him that it went very well and he is modest, he says that the credit is all mine because the hardest part is the foreplay.
Strange collaboration ours, under the banner of mutual chivalry.
At first I ostentatiously ignored him, keeping my distance as much as possible. One afternoon, however, while Gerti was taking a shower and we were dressing in our changing room (she obviously has one of her own), he decided to break the ice:
⦁	You know, it doesn't look like it, but it's not easy for me: with my size you soon get tired.
⦁	Yes,' I replied coldly, slipping into my jeans, 'if only because of gravity.
He did not grasp the irony.
⦁	But the worst thing is shaving my chest: she can't stand hairy males. I looked at him sideways.
⦁	The effect, however, is not bad.
⦁	The problem is that I can't use the razor, she doesn't want to, she says that the hair that grows back pierces her. She makes me pluck it with that junk that women use.
⦁	Fuck.
⦁	I see that you understand. Besides, if nature made us hairy, there must be a reason. He adjusted his shirt in his trousers with heavy gestures.
⦁	You are clever, and handsome too. You look like a prince.
⦁	Thank you.
He buttoned his shirt over his huge chest.
⦁	I am religious, you know. She for example asked me about... you know, unnatural relationships, but I told her no.
I remained on my knees for five minutes pretending to lace up my Converse in an attempt to conceal the blow, which was quite violent. Then, seized by a healthy gag, I stood up and smiled sportingly at him:
⦁	You did well.
⦁	But doesn't she think of you?
⦁	How so?
⦁	Does he leave you like this without doing anything to you? I mean, you just stand by and watch?

⦁	You know her, don't you? If you point it out she tells you boy, you have hands, use them.
⦁	Well, she may be the hottest chick in town, but this is not right.
⦁	You know who cares about justice. Besides, I'll tell you, I'm not excited at all.
⦁	It is not normal.
⦁	No, in fact it is not.
He thought about it for a moment and then added:
⦁	Look, I'm telling you like a brother: leave the stuff alone. It hurts, you see it, then you don't get hard. If she's a junkie, you don't have to be one: I sleep with her but I've never even smoked a joint. Take it from me, a beer is better.
He gave me a friendly paw on the shoulder. I burst out laughing and gave up explaining to him that I know better aphrodisiacs than humiliation. Then he told me solemnly, raising his index finger:
⦁	You have to promise me that you won't do it again. I'm watching you, I'm always there with you two. If I see you using again I'll beat the shit out of you.
I laughed again, but strangely I felt reassured by that threat.
⦁	All right, I promise. Just hit me if you see me do it again.
⦁	Count on it. Tomorrow I'll bring you some methadone, help you get rid of that shit.
⦁	Thank you.
⦁	If that wasn't enough, there are the beatings: I'll give you so many I'll beat you black and blue, Prince, I swear. After that we became almost friends. That beast warms my life a little.
Tonight, however, I feel like shit. By now my role has been reduced to that of an extra: the real protagonist is him, and that hurts my pride, I'm still not used to it. The worst thing is that 'yet', the assumption that I will end up getting used to it.
His advantage over me is that he doesn't give a damn about Gerti: it's just a pastime for him. As I said, he is too alien to our culture to perceive the à rebours dimension, the decadent charm of the character. He is surprised by my suffering, which I try to mask behind an apathetic attitude. He feels sorry for me.
Eventually we get dressed in silence: I have done practically nothing, basically just watched. I turn my back on him, he feels guilty, it's obvious. We get out and I say goodbye to him to go home, but he stops me on the pavement:
⦁	Hey, listen.
⦁	What?
⦁	Would you like to go clubbing with me?
My reaction surprises me: I accept immediately, and with joy. I don't feel any resentment, in fact I'm glad he asked me. I can't wait to immerse myself in the mess and not think about anything else.
He loads me into his Cinquecento and takes me to Hennessy on the hill. The place is packed. We sit at a secluded table and he makes me drink a few things mixed together; I can't hold my liquor so I get drunk straight away. After about ten minutes I start to feel great: the psychedelic lights are pulsating in my head and the dancers

half-naked people clinging to the poles turn me on, eeeeh Macarena, all this is pure dementia, but tonight I want to be demented, a stupid 18-year old prick, euphoria and pure testosterone.
My drunkenness, unlike the junkie trip, is the merry kind. I start laughing, he looks at me all happy, makes jokes, pats me like a truck driver on the back and keeps pouring me drinks. At one point I stand up completely drunk and try to overpower the tunz-tunz by shouting at him:
⦁	Shall we go dancing?
⦁	Huh?
I repeat the question, shouting louder.
⦁	I don't like dancing. - He replies - You go, I'll watch.
⦁	OK.
I go down the track with a shaky step.
As I said, I do not normally dance in the presence of strangers, but tonight the alcohol has brought out the load of tension I have been accumulating for weeks and I need to throw the ballast overboard.
There's another reason why I don't dance in public, and that is that I have a strange effect on elementary males; maybe it's because of the way I move, maybe it's because there's something androgynous about me, the fact is that they start looking at me strangely and some even stretch out their hands. That's how it is tonight too: they look at me, cheer me on with stadium choirs, whistle, shout vulgarities. Carlos laughs and applauds. If you could see me right now you'd say faggot, we know you're good, too bad it's all an act.
I improvise a striptease without any technique: I take off my shirt and twirl it over my head; after a couple of minutes three or four guys in the front row throw themselves at me and we fall to the floor with our legs in the air, flopping like lobsters. I find the scene irresistibly comical. I laugh out loud and meanwhile feel their hands touching me everywhere, their breath stinking of alcohol and smoke, their rough beards on my chest. I am just beginning to worry about the situation developing, when I see a hand reach down from above, grab them one by one and fling them to the side. An exchange of jokes by real gentemen follows:
⦁	What the fuck do you want, asshole?
⦁	Who the fuck are you? Your bodyguard?
⦁	He is the one who buggered him.
⦁	Faggot bastard.
Foregone conclusion: shouting, brawl, intervention by the bouncers who, predictably, throw us out.
Carlos carries me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, head down against his back, gives me a spanking to make me stop kicking and takes me away. The situation is irresistibly comical: I keep laughing like an idiot and fall asleep in that position.
When I open my eyes again, I am lying on a single bed in a modest room and Carlos is talking to a fat woman with her hair pulled back in a kind of headscarf:








⦁	I'll prepare the káma for you,' she tells him, walking away, whatever the káma is. Carlos takes off my shoes and clothes, puts me under the sheets and tucks me in. He forces me to phone home to warn my parents. Then he sits on the bed and tells me seriously:
⦁	Prince, this is not right.
⦁	I know.
⦁	You're betting your life on heads or tails. Yawn.
⦁	I know.
⦁	We'll talk about it, now I think you're too sleepy. He gets up and turns off the light.
⦁	You were very sexy, though, you know? You'd have a future as a stripper too.
⦁	Why not? We could put on a little show together. Maybe we'd have fun.
⦁	But no, I'm just saying.
⦁	Anyway, you don't say sexy, you say hot - I half-asleep.
⦁	What?
⦁	Nothing.
⦁	Good night, Prince.
He leaves the room and closes the door quietly so as not to make noise.