On Thursday Camila circled Marco again and followed him in the hallway. Marisa began to harbor serious suspicions of La Edible's intentions: now it was no longer a matter of insinuations, it had become a frontal assault. At the end of classes on Friday, on her way home, Marisa saw Camila and Marco on the corner of the street. He was saying something and she smiled mesmerized, playing with the golden pendant in an obvious attempt to draw attention to her cleavage.

Unable to refrain her resentment, Marisa hid behind a newsstand and watched them. Camila had already repeated one school year twice and, in Marisa's opinion, she was simply dumb. What good were all those curves without a brain? Yet Marisa had to admit, against her will, that the other girl was pretty, with her lean body, long hair and big brown eyes. Camila personified the stereotype of seduction that men seemed so keen on. And Marco apparently fell for that stupid, primary game.

Men are such idiots, thought Marisa. It was pathetic how biology spoke louder than reason. No, not speak, no: biology yelled and tap danced, while reason murmured and moaned in agony. When a man was around cleavage, hormones boiled in the brain and he would only be able to think of procreation. There were even guys out there attending classes to learn the shortest route between their hands and a woman's underwear. They were self-proclaimed "pickup artists". It was cruel but true: the masculine world valued easy exuberance-it wasn't concerned with substance.

As far as easy exuberance went, Marisa couldn't prevent her eyes from roaming over Marco's figure, pausing on the pair of back pockets that revealed one of his extracurricular endowments much cherished by the school girls... Irritated, she steered her gaze to the sleeve of his shirt. Despite Valentina's advice, Marisa couldn't resist the teacher. Why him? After all, there were millions of men in the world. But why not him? She had never felt such empathy with anyone as she felt with Marco. She admired his knowledge, sense of humor, easy ways... his smile, his hands... (Here, Marisa let out an ambiguous sigh, half romantic, half annoyance: a sigh of annoyed romanticism.)

Very well then, Valentina had hit the nail once again: all he meant with that coffee invitation was an amicable conversation. The proof was right there across the street. Marisa wanted to leave, but couldn't stop looking at the pair on the corner. Now Marco was speaking again in that assertive manner of his. Now Camila fiddled again with the damn pendant... And now... the fatal blow: Marco got a bunch of papers from his briefcase and handed it to Camila. So he did that for all the girls.

Marisa felt betrayed. She aimed a poisoned stare at the pair, leaned forward, aimed a homicidal stare, leaned forward. And knocked off a pile of magazines with a smiley woman knitting a blue sweater on the cover. Marisa jumped back just when Marco looked in the direction of the newsstand.

Slump... thud... slump... thud... slump-thud-slump-thuddd!

After the plump, eighteen women with their knitting needles smiled on the ground at Marisa. The old newsvendor's eyes, as green as the bottom of a bottle, glared at her as if saying: Aren't you gonna fix that mess? Marisa gestured an apology and recoiled behind a wall of newspapers. Since she didn't move from the spot, the man grunted and knelt down to retrieve the magazines carpeting the sidewalk.

Marco and Camila interrupted their conversation to observe the old man talking to himself. Marisa, with the cover of a finance publication, took a peek at the two. The teacher indicated the newsstand with a motion of his chin, Camila made a negative sign with her head. They continued the chin-head dialogue, until Marisa froze: Marco now was rotating his body so to face the newsstand... he took one step... another step... and began crossing the street.

Her heart fussed like a frightened bird. The teacher would follow a diagonal route and, as soon as he reached the newsstand, he would see her. Marisa's first impulse was to run. The second, to hide under the newspapers. The third (a flash of reason), to pretend she was reading some article. Yes, of course, that was it... Marisa stared at a headline about the Federal Reserve and feigned deep concentration. She fervently promised the All Mighty never to be daft again if she escaped that one with her dignity intact.

Her cell phone ring, a techno version of The Doors Break on through, almost gave her a syncope. She retrieved the phone quickly from the outer compartment of her purse and saw it was a call from her mother. Marisa thought of turning it off, but she had already ignored the mother's previous call.

She answered in a whisper.

"Hi, Mom."

"I had tried reaching you before and left a message, did you listen to it? I wanted to ask you to get some olive oil on your way home. I need it for lunch." Her voice sounded with an edge of impatience. "Where are you?"

"At the newsstand," Marisa replied without thinking, as she monitored Marco's advance from the corner of her eye.

"Then hurry up, otherwise you're going to be late for your afternoon classes. You know which olive oil, don't you? Don't get the light one, as it has no taste..."

"U-huh. Light." At each step he took, her heart thundered.

"... and bring passion fruit for juice too. Ripe."

"Sure. Ripe."

The mother didn't notice Marisa's distraction because in reality she was distracted herself, waiting for the propitious moment to approach a subject of the utmost importance.

"Do you know I met a very distinctive young man at church? Lucinda's son. His name is Tato and he's studying law. He's so pleasant and responsible. I thought maybe you could come with me to mass on Sunday. He'll be going too."

"I have to study."

"But it'll be just for an hour..."

"Mom?"

"I'm here."

"Mom, the connection is breaking... Mom? I can't hear a thing..."

Marisa turned the phone off with a sting of guilt. Lately the mother had been impossible to handle, always trying to shove her into the arms of the first "good catch" that happened to materialize. It was as if the mother didn't know what to do with her and looked for reinforcements. The problem was the two of them didn't share the same tastes. The mother had a fascination for dorks.

But right now a more pressing matter required her attention. Whoa. What was going on across the street? Hmmm...

Camila moved forward, hooked a very long arm to Marco and held him back. She then brought her face close to his, sibilating something that made him draw back and smile awkwardly. The Messalina wanted Marco all for herself, thought Marisa outraged. Once more, the dialogue chin-head. (Oh, heavens, was that ever going to stop?) Marco muttered something and Camila finally recoiled the serpent's arm. Then he aimed again for the newsstand and took one more step...

This was not the place for Marisa to discuss her own faith or the existence of God. But the fact is, before traversing the street, Marco asked the newsvendor if he needed help. The old man said no. The teacher hesitated and rejoined Camila. They exchanged a few words, and he seemed ready to take off when the ophidian arm retained him once more. Marisa snorted. Fortunately the two parted soon after that.

When the enemy was gone, Marisa emerged from behind the newsstand with an imaginary knife clenched between her teeth. She marched away with her dignity intact and a mood bitterer than the newsvendor's. Seriously, men deserve the Nobel Prize of idiocy. She couldn't believe Camila's boldness and Marco's endless paper supply. She couldn't believe, above all, her own idiocy.

Another week passed. Marisa and Valentina were in the usual lavatory hiding away from yet another Monday gym class, when Marisa announced she had finished reading the paraphilia book. Valentina proposed skipping the last afternoon class so they could go to the library and the sex shop. Marisa wasn't sure about that, but the friend's scientific rationale persuaded her: no class in the world could compete with the Lost Paradise. Thus, later that day the two of them made a quick visit to the library and proceeded briskly to the sex shop.

"I'm so excited!" said Valentina when they arrived. "I read on the Internet that the store owner suffers from priapism, of all things... Can you imagine?"

"Where on earth do you dig up that sort of information, Val? Please, spare me. It's gross," Marisa protested pulling a face.

At the store, the two friends found a number of bizarre items sure to make lots of people's hair stand on end. Besides the tribal artifacts, there were all sorts of publications, films, toys and intimate jewelry (hypoallergenic). Not to mention a vacuum penis expander, made with German technology, that was just plain scary.

The inflatable dolls were a special chapter in the store's inventory. Commercialized with exclusive distribution, they were ordered from an American company and sent to an Italian artisan, in order to receive the finest finishing that would make them stand out from the crowd-their silky texture was an invitation to the touch, and their complexion was so fresh it could even fool an inattentive user.

As the Lost Paradise's flagship, the inflatables offered the portability their heavy silicone counterparts lacked. They used to be exposed at the entrance of the store, until a depraved customer ran away with a doll that served as a model in a re-enactment of the film When Larry Ate Sally (the store owner, besides being priapic, had a soft side for romantic comedy). The thief dashed on the avenue with the doll under his arm-naked as it came into this world, covered solely with a red mini skirt that flapped like a flag in the wind.

After that, the inflatable collection migrated to the back of the store. Valentina and Marisa therefore had to thread their way through shelves and counters for reaching the dolls. Those were arranged in varied poses, against a painted scenario that reproduced the Garden of Eden. Valentina was quick to turn sour at the sight of them. While Marisa admired the dolls, her friend went to the nearest counter, talked to the clerk and filled a form. She returned with a triumphant expression.

"What was that?" Marisa asked.

"A complaint form. They have a suggestion box."

"Hmm... And about what did you complain?"

Valentina pointed out the inflatables with evident disdain.

"Can't you see what's going on here?"

Marisa gave her a quizzical look. She couldn't find anything wrong with the lot: a serpent coiled around the trunk of an artificial apple tree and half a dozen female dolls (a blonde courtesan, a futuristic green-haired beauty, etc. etc.) surrounding a bared-chest, Latino macho-style doll in tight leatherette pants. All ready to start an orgy and be dispatched non-stop to the seventh circle of hell. But to Valentina, naturally, the circles of hell hardly mattered.

"Marisa, Marisa... you are so heedless." Her admonition linked to a rally style discourse. "Take a good look at this and do the math. They release several female dolls and onlyone male doll. This is typical of the segregation minorities suffer on a daily basis, you know? Don't you think female and gay audiences have equal rights when it comes to variety?" She went on in a heated tone, already taking the stand: "As Anaïs Nin once wrote, eroticism is one of the pillars of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry!" Then she checked her cell phone and looked suddenly worried. "Oops, gotta go or I'll be late for my dental appointment."

The friend said goodbye and left quickly, but not without first addressing a look of reproach to the clerk. Marisa still remained in the store for another half hour. Without someone to share impressions about her findings, though, the whole thing became a bit pointless and Marisa decided to go home. At the exit, she fished in her purse for the MP3, adjusted the ear buds and selected a Doors remix. Jim Morrison began singing Light my Fire.

She was about to move away from the store when she saw an enormous silicone penis that a clerk had just placed in the display window. Marisa leaned to study the large triple-ended article: with its greenish color and red protuberances, it looked like a cross between a stegosaur and an alien. She began to peruse its instructions card. Horrified but unable to stop, Marisa read it wide-eyed, then frowned, kept on reading with even wider eyes, and grimaced.

At that point, her peripheral vision captured the motion of a silhouette coming out of the store and-without knowing why-she straightened herself up. The moment was frozen when her eyes met Marco's.

Now, rather than having his jacket on, he carried it in his arm. Marisa's gaze ran from his square face to his light-gray T-shirt and jeans, trailed the jacket folds and at last reached his hand, which held a white shopping bag with the store logo on it. Finally, her eyes moved up, all the way back to the initial point. The two of them stared at each other with undeniable surprise-he still hesitant at the door of the sex shop, and she completely baffled beside the gigantic triple-ended phallus.

And Jim Morrison always singing.

Marco moved his head in a short nod and walked away with long steps. It was the rush hour, and Marisa saw him burrow in the adjacent avenue amidst the crowd going back home. For a moment, she observed the unruly procession departing in all directions. Then she turned back to the card. Her interest in the stegosaur-phallus, however, was (so to speak) extinct.

___________________________________________________________

A-ha, now what...?

Oh, by the way, did I ask you to fan, vote, comment? Well, you know the drill.

Just to make sure, I will hypnotize you now.

Look into my eyes. You are feeling sleepy, sleepy...

Now you're gonna leave me a nice comment and press the little star for voting.

Done? Good.

Click! Wake up.

See? It wasn't that hard.

PS: Do you know what "priapism" is? It's an erectile disfunction that makes a man have a constant hard-on. RedSins is also culture ;-)

PS2: So what was YOUR most embarrassing moment? Let me have a laugh too!