I stepped up to her and threw her on the bed. Her nightgown opened without my assistance, displaying her two enormous melons, a truly magnificent sight, with two huge, pink, hard nipples, and the rag stuffed in between. My vision blurred. I buried my head between her boobs, blew the stupid rag out of the way and shook my head between her hooters until I had to come up for air. I rolled off her, and she first opened her nightgown and then pulled down my pants and my underwear to my knees. She got on top of me, mounting my larger-than-ever erection, and started riding me so hard it made her watermelons bounce up and down at least half a meter. I squeezed them, kneaded them, pulled her nipples until she cried out loud and bounced and bounced and bounced. Then I rolled her off of me and got her under me without pulling out. Like a maniac I rammed into her and groaned, I don’t know who was louder, me or her. Either way, that was the noisiest fuck of my life. It was well into the night and the whole damn town of Žužemberk must’ve heard us. We yelled and huffed and puffed in a fucking frenzy. When she came, she sank her nails into my back, and I ejaculated all over her slightly pudgy stomach. I rolled off her and lay as still as a corpse. She scooped up my sperm from her stomach and spread it over me, covering my chest with it, then licking it off. As she did this, her boobs engulfed me, so that I felt like sticking it between her jugs, but my dick was too dead. I raised myself and took the coke out of my pants, which were now around my ankles. For a hard-on, I told myself, though my head ached like I had a thousand washing machines on spin cycle inside it. I sat on the edge of the bed to cut a line on the nightstand, but she laid a hand on my shoulder and said:
“Is that it?”
I looked at her and nodded, even though I didn’t even know what it was.
“Can I have some too?”
I nodded and she raised herself and looked over my shoulder to see what I was doing.
“Oh, heck, do it on my tit,” she said.
I turned around and stared at her enormous boobs. The thought crossed my mind that a line across her entire boob would put me six feet under, it would blow out my black heart. Yet I couldn’t help myself; I threw her back on the bed and actually started shaping two thin, long lines on one of her jugs. I even made an effort to curve them nicely around her pink nipple, one on each side. Then I took a banknote from my pants, rolled it up and offered her the first snort, the choice of lines. She chose the slightly smaller one. It went like clockwork. I mean, she had no difficulty whatsoever bending down to her boob, because her jugs were so enormous—I just couldn’t get past this adjective. Then I bent over the other line and snorted it right up. And then … All I remember is that after that I licked up whatever remained of it on her enoooormous boob and … I don’t know whether I fell asleep or simply passed out cold. I was swallowed by darkness! Probably the darkness from around the lit-up Žužemberk.
It was a white darkness. It was a hallucination of a white horse. Loose and free. It galloped on green highlands at an altitude of some three thousand meters, its thick tail streaming out behind it. It raced on the very edge of a precipice. Far below a muddy river meandered. It snaked between the mountains of a range stretching southward for kilometers. Its strong current had carved a gorge in the rock, and it dropped precipitously toward some far-off villages of which my white delusion knew nothing. There, on the very top of the highlands, outside a dilapidated wooden shack, not exactly adorned by laundry drying on a rusty wire, yet it was there, there stood an old, toothless Indian with a tattered what-used-to-be-a-hat on his long, grizzled hair. The horse came up to him and the old man caressed its white mane gently and spoke to him. Then he extracted a small piece of something from his pocket and offered it to the horse. The white horse neighed and hastily munched the proffered tidbit. Then the old Indian entered his shack and chewed a few green leaves that looked like tea. It was getting dark and the white hallucination was slowly covered by darkness. The wind could be heard howling in the mountains, and the old Indian sank into a slumber, while his eyes gazed at the starry sky visible through a tear in the roof. He got up once during the night and stuck his grizzled head, now hatless, through the door. In the dark, only a patch of white was visible, which was probably the horse, and the old Indian lay back down on his creaking bed. When day broke, he opened his eyes and saw though the hole in the roof thousands upon thousands of birds, condors, sailing on their enormous wings above his ramshackle shed. He saw them circle and swoop, and he knew what had happened. He got up, put what used to be a hat on his head, and went outdoors. Then he sat down by the dead white horse outside his shack, on the top of the highlands, on the very edge of the precipice. He sat by the dead white horse, stuffed a few green tea-like leaves into his mouth, and told the horse a story: “Once there was a sun. He was the first, the only and the strongest sun. And because he soon grew bored, he decided to get married. He descended to the highlands and asked the snake to be his wife. The snake, coiled up, agreed and kept him company for a few days before the wedding. But even when fully extended, the snake was no less artful then when coiled, and she kept evading the sun and going her own ways, and every time the sun asked her not to run away from him, she hissed dangerously and, together with her coiled up sisters, showed him two fangs full of venom. Disappointed, the sun descended lower, down to the rainforest by the Big River, and asked a female jaguar for her paw in marriage. The female jaguar accepted, and for a while she and the sun were inseparable. The earth got as hot at that time as the inside of a volcano, and the trees started dying one after another. The female jaguar was a calculating creature, she wanted her paradise back, with its copious rain and its abundance of food, so she called off the wedding. Saddened, the sun rose back into the sky, high, high in the sky, high above the Big River and high above the highlands, above the artful snake and her sisters. He mourned there at the very end of the sky, when a beautiful round moon floated up to him. She asked the sun why he was so said, and the sun told her his story. The moon was so shaken by his story that she offered to become his wife. Soon they were married and made a happy couple, complementing each other as they still do to this day, and ever since that time we’ve had day and night on Earth. And day and night and day and night.” Then the old Indian spit out the chewed leaves, took out a small piece of something from his pocket and swallowed it. He lay down next to the horse and fell asleep forever. In the sky a strong sun shone, below which its envoys, the condors, circled and swooped down to collect their dues. 229-238
Translated by: Tamara Soban