33- The beauty of the sea

Someone had explained the procedure to him: to turn the neck halfway and pull the head with a sudden movement. That's what he did, after much hesitation and two cigarettes, but his own strength betrayed him and, to his horror, he tore off the skin from his victim's head. With a visceral scream, he let go of the unfortunate, who flapped in its last moments of agony. To prevent her from suffering further, he grabbed her by the feet and slammed her against the ground, while the rest of the chickens flew blindly with their paper cones. Our slaughterer left the chicken coop with a bloody pulp in his hands, took two drunken steps, and fell lifeless. He didn't eat poultry for ten years. The other chickens, freed from their horrible fate, died peacefully in due time, some so old that they no longer had feathers and wandered nakedly staggering through the yard. This experience showed me that a special character is required to grow your own food.

In my grandfather's house, they bought turkeys and a kid goat in September and fattened them up to slaughter them at Christmas, a task carried out by the cook without a hint of guilt. To this day, that woman appears in my nightmares with her bloodstained knives. For many years, I couldn't enjoy the Christmas dinner; those stuffed turkeys and roasted kid had recreated our childhood for months, they were part of the family, devouring them was equivalent to serving Barrabas, the dog of the house, surrounded by vegetables and potatoes on a large tray. (In fact, in many parts of Asia, they raise dogs to eat them, I have been assured that puppies are a delicacy. They shouldn't be any different).

Panchita has less scruples than I do regarding domestic animals and is an expert in the preparation of all kinds of poultry. On more than one occasion, I have seen a whole intact turkey on her table, golden and aromatic, resting among caramelized apples in a silver dish, to which she strategically removes four toothpicks at the crucial moment, and then, to the astonishment of the guests, the entire skin falls off and the meat appears cut into perfect slices. Her recipe for rooster is foolproof. That animal, tough as rubber, can boil for hours without giving up, that's why my mother prepares her famous coq au vin with the tenderest chicken in the market. Quail and partridge also occasionally pass through her table, birds of unremarkable appearance whose substance I have not tasted: I give up when I get tired of spitting out their pitiful little bones. I do not recommend goose and duck, they float in their own fat and it is a hassle to cook them at home, but Panchita insisted on including one of her recipes because these birds are considered aphrodisiacs. If that's the case, we should also have a recipe for condor... The pheasant, on the other hand, we omit by mutual agreement because with feathers it is impressive, but without them, it looks like a pathetic chicken, which is why in Renaissance banquets they presented it with feather headdresses covering its tail and head. In modern life, there is no time for such refinements. If you're going to spend the afternoon putting the bird's feathers that you ripped out back on before baking it, you won't have the energy afterwards to enjoy its aphrodisiac effect.

Men are hairier, have longer arms, and for them, sexual impulse starts with sight, an inheritance from their ancestors, the apes, to whom the female calls during the breeding season with a noticeable change in their intimate parts, which swell and acquire the morbid appearance of a ripe pomegranate. For some reason, this is like a traffic light for males, in case they are distracted. Among humans, visual stimulation is equally irresistible, which explains the success of magazines featuring scantily clad women. The same publishing business aimed at a female audience has been attempted, but images of well-endowed boys displaying their charms in full-color pages have been a failure; they are bought by homosexuals more than women. We women have a more developed sense of ridicule, and our sensuality is also linked to imagination and auditory nerves. Possibly the only way for women to really listen is if they whisper in our ears. The G-spot is in the ears, anyone who is looking for it further down is wasting their time and ours. Professional lovers, and I don't just mean the legendary Casanova, Valentino, and Julio Iglesias, but also the countless men who collect amorous conquests to prove their virility by quantity - quality is a matter of luck - know that the best aphrodisiac for women is words. Latin people have elevated the art of love flattery, thanks to the incomparable richness of our languages and the inexhaustible repertoire of songs, poems, compliments, and idioms that Germanic or Anglo-Saxon peoples would never dare to use. Hence the fame of the Latin lover, capable of infusing such heat with his eloquence that any female resistance turns into melted wax. It is known, however, that they tend to get lost in the enthusiasm of their own rhetoric, and when it comes to more daring caresses, they rarely know how to use those golden tongues. Cyrano de Bergerac, that famous ugly man with a nose attached, enamored a woman with the magic of his verses so that another could enjoy her. The friend would position himself under the light of the window, while Cyrano recited seductive words from the shadows, destined to win the female heart. However, love sets ironic traps, and the poet fell in love with her just as much as she did with the fortunate friend, whom Cyrano's talent dressed in borrowed plumage. Poor judgment on our hero's part. Had he whispered his passionate verses in the girl's ear, she would have appreciated the unusual nose as an erotic symbol. The ritual of love is similar to surprises at children's birthday parties: it all comes down to raising expectations. The goal is simple - orgasm in one case and a couple of plastic trinkets or candies in the other - but to reach that point, so many circumlocutions are required!

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a hundred more, then a thousand, then another hundred; finally, when we have added many thousands, we will jumble the count so we don't know it, and so that no envious person can cast a spell on us when they find out how many kisses we have given each other.

- Ancient Rome, Love Letter from Catullus to Lesbia.