I was on vacation in a beautiful place – there were beaches and an enormous, giant bridge. The city was basically just a port city, but it wasn’t only cranes and containers. There was also a spectacular sunset and a welcoming, warm people. It was summer in the city, but there were also snowcapped mountains far away in the horizon, as if you could have two worlds in one. The city reminded me a little of Panama city, for it was a big center surrounded by skyscrapers, ships and other harbor structures; and the mountains were a little piece of the Swiss Alps near all that.
I was there with my mother, but I wanted to go to the mountains. I found a kind of shack up in the mountain, a warm place where the cold outside could be appreciated with comfort. I liked to open a small window on the roof, almost like a trap door, and let the refreshing snowflakes fall over the warm skin of my face. I also started to feel very alone and wish for a male companion. Almost immediately, he showed up. It was the best sensation in the world, being there in that little mountain cottage with him. He hugged me while we were lying down in bed, holding me in his arms, and I was happy.
But something made us get out of there. We returned to the city and were now in an extremely poor area. We lived in a kind of giant tenement, a place that was a town in itself, with its winding stairs and hallways. It was almost impossible to find my way in that labyrinth. My boyfriend, one morning, wanted very much to ear yoghurt for breakfast. I had no more money and he had gone to work, so he gave me the money, in coins, in my hands, kissed me, and asked me to meet him in front of a place in the city in an area I didn’t know too well. I walked for a while in search of a store that sold yoghurt, but there were none. I found my half-sister along the way. She was a teenager, almost a child – she was half my age. I asked her to buy the yoghurt for me, because she had lived in the city longer than me and would certainly know where to find the right place quickly.
But as soon as I gave her the money, I couldn’t find my way home to the tenement anymore. I decided to go ahead to meet my boyfriend, but it was dark. There were stairs after stairs, and I climbed them all, until I noticed: I found the tenement, but it had transformed itself into a whore house decorated in a decaying French XVII style. There were still traces of opulence, but it was in general decrepit and falling apart.
As I walked and entered secret corridors, hidden behind tapestries or camouflaged on the walls among old picture frames and peeling wallpaper, I saw many couples in the middle of the sexual act – some in two, some in trios, some in large groups – hetero, homo and pansexuals. There was a woman busying herself with books: she touched herself and delighted herself sexually to lie down amid a pile of books, her naked body panting with pleasure to the touch of the paper leavers. Another woman had the same experience but with the pictures framed on the wall. Nobody seemed to take any notice of me, and if they did, the seemed to not care that a complete stranger was there witnessing those intimate moments. After meandering through the whore house in search of my boyfriend, I couldn’t find him anymore and the money I gave to my half-sister was gone, so I ended up penniless and with no boyfriend.