Fantasías eróticas de ayer y hoy (con la Inout)
The garden of my house is like me, wild and chaotic. It is different from me in one important way: I’m a radiant sort of girl but my garden is as dark as the gaping mouth of a wolf. When I come home after a night on the town I get torn to pieces by bashing into the tree trunks, tripping over roots, crashing into the riotous branches of the mimosas and the effing cactus and all the other obstacles that inhabit my phantasmagorical and chaotic garden. I can see
myself dying from a blow to the head, all alone like a dog, spreadeagled on the ground in the middle of this dark, wild garden. Nobody will find me until it’s daylight, although for me it will be an eternal night. When I arrive safe and sound at the door to my house I make a solemn promise to myself: “Not another day will go by without putting lights in!”.
From all this it can be deduced that the question of illumination is more important in my life than it might be for any of you. For me, exterior illumination is a question of life or death. When I take this firm decision to illuminate my dark, wild garden, I flip through this mental lamp catalogue I have stored in my design promoter’s ontaminated brain. Then, like a bolt of lightning I see page 254 of the Metalarte catalogue and I swear to myself, and to anyone else who wants to hear me, “I’m going for the Úbeda! I’ll buy a load of Inouts and there’ll be more lights in my garden than at the Spring Fair in Seville!” and I imagine myself being the trendiest neighbour around, and the most envied. My neighbours wouldn’t spend a penny on design, but they’d give anything to fill their garden with Inouts (as long as that thing wasn’t money).
And with my mind filled with an orgy of Inouts I remember the photograph on page 256 of the catalogue, with this blonde (looking a bit anorexic, it should be said) using the Inout’s cylindrical stand like a post in a striptease show. And then I see the light and I imagine myself lit with the sexual red light of my Inout, driving my male neighbours mad with desire as I let them stuff my tanga with euros while I look at them with the eyes of a lascivious panther, pouting with disdain as I clamber up and down the Inout’s column, rubbing my shapely legs along the exciting texture of rotomoulded polyethylene... When I get to the bit about rotomoulded polyethylene I’m on the point of orgasm. And then (you have to remember I’ve arrived a bit drunk) I try to put the key in the lock, but it’s as difficult as trying to score a goal, and when I finally manage to do it I’m enveloped by the peace and tranquillity of my home and forget all about the Inouts until I feel death on my heels again, or the breath of the beast Ramón Úbeda has within him in the guise of a wild boar with long teeth emerging from the forest of mimosas and whispering in a demonic voice, “What you need is a pile of Inouts, my dear”.
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