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Autobiography of a Wanderer
Book Two of the Lola Trilogy

E-book, $2.99
Amazon
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In 2001 I found myself, once again, in Aguascalientes, a Colonial city in central Mexico: the same Mina hotel, the same Excelsior Cafe, the same Casa Teran. I wandered streets and neighborhoods that had become too familiar. Once more I was alone. I took out my notebook, my pen, and I began to write.

Autobiography of a Wanderer is an hallucinatory voyage into a man's past: his wanderings from country to country and woman to woman. It is now available as an e-book from Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.

A book must be approached like a woman. Circumspection must be used. You circle around it. Then you penetrate it. It cracks open. Juices flow. You are engulfed by the very thing that you seduced. The issue immediately changes and becomes one of courage and survival. Am I brave enough to enter this work? Will it destroy me? It is impossible to say with certainty what will happen. Perhaps nothing will happen. Some shells, once cracked, are dry. Others leak a bile so bitter that you are overwhelmed. The shell in this case is Lola, or the woman I call Lola. This book is not really an autobiography. If I talk about my past it is out of fear of the present. Lola is with me in spirit, if not in her flesh. It may be she will arrive in the flesh as well. Perhaps I’ll join you, she whispered when we said goodbye. When we hugged I felt her body lingering against mine. Who knows what to believe of such a woman? Once I nailed her to the wall. I used strips of leather around her wrists. I fondled her breasts. I stroked her legs. I adjusted her flimsy undergarments. I picked her up: I put my arms under her thighs and lifted her. Part of her weight remained suspended by her nailed wrists. Part of her weight I bore on my forearms. I brought her vulva to my groin. I mimicked the movements of intercourse. I pressed my lips to her throat. After a moment I lowered her to her feet. She sagged there, quite helpless...

Lola, dear Lola, tawny Lola, nearly bereft of garments, stands like a statue in the salon of a whorehouse in Cebu City. I meet her there, nod politely, we go up to her room. Take me like a beast, she says. Perhaps it is the special of the day. We can imagine a menu of sexual encounters, a price affixed to each act, garnishes extra, growling for instance, growling is extra, enthusiasm is extra, a wink, a smile, these are tossed in free, the makeup is standard as are the artifacts of her profession, the spike heels, all the whores in Cebu wear spike heels, they sit in front of the bars in their tight dresses, flesh spilling forth, their legs in black spike heels stretched before them....

In my building there are women everywhere. All of them are Lola. There are divans, sofas, settees, couches. I dont need to teach the women anything, they sit just so, crocodile women, in their primitive brains is knowledge the rest of us have lost. Cerebrum, amygdala, medulla obligato, corpus callosum. The crocodile women stretch their legs in front of them. High heeled shoes point. Men circle through the rooms, the men are all me, I am them, some are tall, others short, we stare surreptitiously at the poised calves, the arranged breasts. In one room people dance. The women are scarcely dressed. Movements linger long after they are completed. Elsewhere are tables and chairs. Ceilings are high. Walls are decorated: paintings, trompe l’oell, bas reliefs. In the gardens are jugglers and men who spit flame from their mouths....