Firefly by Severo Sarduy

Nothing mattered more than this sense of abandon, this languorous release to the waves.
    Now, the upper hand descended as well, sliding under his belt, caressing his ass. He felt the outsized fingers resting on his skin, three on one of his cheeks, two on the other. Then, the longest fell carelessly into the crack. Now he felt two fingers on one side and two on the other, the long one going a bit deeper with each oscillation, rubbing the cleft as if by accident. Suddenly, the manipulator flipped him over so he was faceup, panting; her hand slipped in his fly, and then her warm, moist tongue.
    He was in a barbershop full of cracked mirrors and jars topped with long rubber tubes and pestles for pulverizing alcohol and amber. It smelled of Arabic gum, rubbing oil, old men. It might have been his first visit to the barber.
    â€œHave you ever seen it?” one of the mulatto barbers asked jokingly while peeking at Firefly out of the corner of his eye. He was taking care of an old gray-haired guy in the next seat who had a toothpick between his lips and a shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons open to his navel.
    â€œWhat?” answered his big-bellied partner, feigning interest while he stirred a pot of foam and brushed light touches of soap on his customer’s throat.
    â€œThe crack,” the brown-skinned man clarified in a suppressed whisper, faking unease, as if this were the first time they had ever exchanged this tomfoolery.
    â€œWhat crack?”
    â€œCome on, in your behind.”
    â€œNo, never.”
    â€œOh . . .”
    â€œSo, how do you do it?”
    Here the lewd tutor glanced again at Firefly, perhaps to indicate that the perverse instructions were meant for him.
    â€œYou put a mirror on the floor . . .”
    â€œAnd then?” Big-belly had stopped shaving and was listening, his razor motionless against his customer’s throat, surprised, exuding innocence, as if this were his first exposure to the perplexing procedure.
    â€œWell, then,” continued the impudent mulatto, “you squat on it.”
    Firefly had felt a weight on his chest. Now, while the plump girl’s finger ran around the edge, poked about, now to slip in, now totouch the inside, and now that the oscillation, the soft undulation emanated from that finger, he felt the same pressure again, as if all the bifurcations of the bronchial tree were swollen shut and the air was stuck at the crossroads, incapable of choosing a path, until it lost its usual clarity, became charred and deadly.
    While he shuddered, sweated, believed he was going to lose all his blood through his sex, while everything spilled out into the indolent hand, the two girls chatted happily, untouched by the novice’s astonishment, pleasure, anguish. The whores challenged each other with demented riddles, wild and repetitive like scratched phonograph records.
    â€œI want something but I don’t know what it is.”
    â€œI know. Let me tell you. Is it something sweet?”
    â€œYes . . .”
    â€œCold?”
    â€œYes . . .”
    â€œWhite?”
    â€œYes . . .”
    â€œWith rum?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œ Crème de vie !”
    When he came back downstairs, he noticed the jukebox in the dance hall was playing. Dull goofy music flowed from the machine. Handclaps and castanets. Dancing in front of it, illuminated by the greenish glow from the buttons, was a very thin child dressed only in a white linen cloth tied around his waist. When he raised his hands to snap his fingers, all his ribs showed. He followed the rhythm but was distracted, absent, staring into space, as if his true self were somewhere else and he was only repeating to exhaustion the steps from a lesson. His skin was brown and dry. His incredibly long hair swung when he turned his head, or when he tilted forward and then unexpectedly to the side or back. With his narrow white feet he kept time on the cool tiles.
    Firefly remained silent, riveted.
    He