Eyaculación Precoz

Estos días recordé algo que había pasado hace más de veinte (20) años. Recordando un par de cosas, releí una porción de La Enciclopedia del Matrimonio Cristiano (en inglés, 1984) y, cierto autor (Karl Wrage, Pág 208) decía que, “...la eyaculación precoz es parte de un rechazo inconsciente...”, un rechazo no verbalizado, como un pecado no confeso...

Recordé cierta experiencia personal con una flaca que me gustaba, pero me dijo que se acostaba con el hermano de un amigo, y de la misma urbanización en que ambos vivíamos... Asentar esos detalles no viene al caso, y sólo basta decir que me ocupaba de lo mío y prácticamente nada del placer de ella y, pese a que me gustaba mucho, yo andaba involucrado con MP y, en su ausencia los miércoles, llamaba a ésta que no debía tener conmigo.

Intuyo que ya hay demasiado rechazo: Social, sexual, económico, político, de género, cultural, etc. Enumerar las cosas que me causarían algún tipo de repulsión o rechazo, tal vez, sea algo insignificante en cuanto a la opinión de cualquier otra persona. Para algunos puede ser la flatulencia, para otra una ligera alitosis; para miles, la afinidad se dificultaría por cosas relacionadas con la higiene personal, la asepsia moral o la promiscuidad confesa...

Por algunos años he sabido y confesado que no me involucro con personas pasadas de cierto peso o estatura. No es, en sí, discriminación, sino una de mis preferencias y, desde hace mucho, de forma muy consciente, las he evitado para que ellas no adviertan mi verdadero rechazo y, en la cama, buscaría cualquier excusa para no decir la verdad que yo sé (que no me gusta). Sin embargo, como pasa a muchos, la eyaculación precoz se debe a una mal hábito sexual, la mala conducta aprendida en lo que solía llamarse “el vicio solitario” y, en caso de que uno halle pareja, se recomienda asistir a varias sesiones de terapia y, la compañera -si de veras ama- habrá de soportar el re-entrenamiento del gatillo alegre de la cama...

Esa enciclopedia tiene bastante que he de re-leer.  Hice mi manuscrito y, de momento, sé que no tengo el tiempo para publicar mis comentarios biográficos, pero me reconforta que, de alguna manera, alguna persona se dedique a darle placer a su esposa o compañera. Es triste que, por años, muchas mujeres se sientan insatisfechas y, más triste aún, que sus esposos tengan que pasar la pena, el dolor emocional o la vergüenza, de que sus compañeras estén viéndose con otros (y/o con otras) para saciar una parte de ese apetito humano que no se colme en la cama.

Es una pena que, la moralidad ambigua de la sociedad en la que nacimos, nos haya hecho creer que la virginidad no tiene importancia, como hoy le dije a un par de jovencitas solteras. Crecimos engañados con que esa experiencia “era buena y necesaria” y, la verdad, que llegamos al lecho matrimonial con esa mancilla que estigmatiza el plan original de Dios, tal como puede inferirse en aquella carta paulina en la que él habla de la pureza conyugal y, en el eufemismo del traductor mojigato, se omitió el griego “coito”, por la palabra “lecho”.

¡Sí! La virginidad es para hombre y mujer y, si se piensa un poquito, ya sabemos, a cierta edad, que cada género toma sus mañas cuando se emancipa o va emancipando en la adolescencia. Si hubiéramos sido bendecidos con la pareja idónea, desde el principio, no habríamos pasado el derrotero del divorcio... ¡Pero vamos!

25 de junio.

“Si DAR es la característica principal de quien ama... ¿RECIBIR es ser amado?”

Hoy, muy temprano, desperté viendo un video para jóvenes. Fue algo que me gustó de principio a fin y, para mi sorpresa, me hallé hasta diciendo un par de palabras -a viva voz- que no suelo decir tan de mañana, pues, evito impedir el descanso ajeno.

Decía, para mí mismo, que debía congratular a esa gente, que ya era hora que se hablara claro, y que en nada habían sido mojigatos para hablar con los chicos.

Técnicamente el documental era sencillo, sin truculencias y, valiéndose del género de varios presentadores, lograron mostrar la verdad de muchas cosas, y sólo uno del consistente equipo me pareció amanerado, al cual le hicieron una toma -desde un closet- como si la brisa soplase en parte de su entorno, mientras un velo traslúcido naranja ondeaba sobre su rostro, haciendo un desvanecimiento fade off.

Insistí en comunicarme con la gente de producción. Me moví de tal manera que pude llegar hasta ellos: Era la primera vez que se hacía tal cosa en Venezuela, sin la hipócrita paja política, la idolatría del chavismo, y sin la criticable demagogia multipartidista.

En sus oficinas, me aseguré hablar con quienes debía. Vi cosas allí cuyo contenido no debía ser transmitido pero, todavía así, la verdad es la verdad, y quise felicitarlos por ser valientes, realistas y sinceros. Luego que hablé con alguien, jamás pensé echarme para atrás.

En ese despacho, otra mujer salió de otra oficina y llevándo una hoja en sus manos, trataba de asegurarse de que no escribiera nada que les perjudicara pues, con lo que yo había hablado, ella misma confesaba su aprensión:

-No coloque nada de lo que oyó en ese exabrupto emocional que no filtramos, y quedó en el aire. No queremos problemas con la PTJ. (Pidió encarecidamente, como si temiese la censura)

Me pareció raro lo que dijo. Entendí lo que pedía, pero lo hallé incoherente, sin consistencia y, a fin de cuentas, Conatel es la agencia competente para el veto.

Me dio un par de instrucciones. Se acercó hasta mí, y pude comprender que era un transmisión en vivo. No un documental, como creía.

Yo no fui allá para perjudicar y, comprendiendo lo punible, quise animarlos y, mientras algo les decía, me recosté y comencé a decirle lo que escribiría, a fin de mitigar algo de su consciente y razonable inquietud.

Me sentí adormilado y en mis comentarios, seguí interactuando verbalmente con la chica que me observaba, sentada, desde mi izquierda.

Perdí noción del tiempo mientras hablaba de esa instrospección. Noté mi respiración pausada, mientras el flujo de aire en las fosas nasales era distinto, con una mezcla de suspiro o jadeo.

Seguí enumerando lo que en mi memoria veía y -alguna que otra vez- la miraba a los ojos cuando ya yo no podía mantener abiertos los míos.

Me sentí de tal forma que hablé tendido, pues no quería se quedara con aquella aprensión.

Hablándole, me sentí vencido por esa rara sensación de modorra. Y no logro comprender cómo es que a esa chica la relacioné tanto con Atamaica, aquella joven querida de Catia...

Adormilado ya, me hallé insuflando más aire a mis palabras.

No quería abrir ya los ojos y, la verdad, me sentía escuchado; pese a la leve sensación que tenía al mover los labios.

Cada palabra me llevaba un suspiro pronunciarla. Y, siendo inusual la sensación, hube de palpar con la lengua esos labios que sentí sobre mi boca, porque ya no era algo mío.

En efecto, sin querer abrir los ojos, comprendí que era besado, de forma indecible y sublime.

Sus labios se posaron en los míos y mi aliento era insuflado en el de ella.

No sé con qué habilidad -o momento- se posó sobre lo mío; pero era algo de lo cual no quería despertar, aunque me tomase tiempo y aire.

Insistí tocar su lengua pues, sus labios se movían con los míos.

Tanteando con su beso, recorrí lo que era mío, y mis palabras eran las suyas.

Tardé algo para incorporarme. No me quería levantar. Y nada mejor que esto, tan sublime.

Quedé desvanecido. Con dificultad abrí los ojos y no sentí la penumbra.

Volví a respirar, sublime o angelical, y ya no estaba junto a mí.

Quise recapitular, para volver a comenzar, y la noción toda del video desapareció: Sólo quise hablar de ella... ¿Dónde está?

Dudé -algunos instantes- si estaba más vivo que ahora muerto.

Si pudiese escoger, preferiría vivir despierto a su lado, que en el espacio vacío de esta penumbra.

Me incliné y extendiéndome, todo hacia la izquierda, toqué la banca y hallé la linterna: Eran las 4:40 am

Volví a respirar.

No sabía si respiraba, aunque desvivo. Era como si mis palabras entraran directas a ella, a su mente, desde algún espacio de mí y mi corazón.

Jamás viví lo que allí viví.

Con cierta vaguedad, usualmente sueño; pero esto no fue soñar, sino vivir.

Hace tanto no beso así... ¡Vaya irrealidad!

P.S.

Ángel mujer:

Aquí te dejo mis palabras, quien quiera seas o hayas sido.

A. J. T. H.

Dad´s addition.

This morning I had a light clear idea on what to write; but the breakfast and my mother got too much from my attention, and that drifted me from what I thought I would type (this happens).

I wanted to write something from my Dad. I remember having planned to write things like that I miss him, that we became good friends during the adulthood and that wasn´t like that; no matter I had tried to be his friend since a child.

I would like to discourage smokers. My step grandfather, my grandmother, my father were cigarette smokers.  This is an addiction and many do not like to see it as it is, same way we should look at sin (there are lots of addictive ones).

The fact many smoked at home made me to be asthmatic. I suffered from that sickness too long and I was finally healed by God, during my adolescence, with the toils of my grandmother.

My step grandfather lost part of his leg with gangrene. Part of his problem was diabetes and tobacco and, when the doctor “ordered” him not to smoke cigarettes, he changed them for Cuban tobacco (he usually said the paper was killing him, instead of the leaves of tobacco). Ja! Ja!

My grandmother died from several diseases. I guess the diabetes and the heart problems were primary involved in her passing away and, of course, the tobacco “helped” her to die. She was around her 70 when she left, and I had her hands held in my hands the last time I saw her, certain sad December morning.

I remember having criticized my father for his vice. When I was a child I tore one box of his cigarettes and when he noticed, I lied and probably blamed my younger brother, so he took both of us in his bet, in front of an altar, and he prayed those idols that he wanted to see the nails growing on the guilty´s feet and, when these were cut, these quickly were appeared, so the punishment of the guilt were to live to cut off those ugly nails, looking like claws.

I didn´t want to pay that price. I confessed my “sin” (the lie) to avoid that punishment, but I actually paid the consequence of many years bearing an asthmatic condition, and it was the ugly claw I couldn´t cut.

I dislike smoking. I never did it and, to my regret, my two sons got that addition. If it were a chromosome condition, it came by my dad or grandmother and, if it were a sin, I sinned by hating it from my childhood.

Many people like to smoke to be social, to be in touch and to show they are grown up (that´s not of my business) but they spoil others live and probably will make the children heirs of that vice, some call a sin (I don´t see it a sin, but a guilt).

My dad often said: “God! Why do you punish me this way?”. He blamed God for his cancer. He blamed God for not walking, after a medical operation. He blamed Him for having problems to get erections and he wanted to get a prosthesis to get his genitals working again...

Did God asked him to smoke?

Did God asked any to consume drugs?

I tried to explain him a couple of things and, before he die, I left him completely alone and my brother took him to a hospital (something happened I won´t tell, and I saw in my dreams he had a spiritual problem I could not help).

I hope he had repented. I wish he had talked to God and have found peace with Him.

My brother told me how he saw him at the hospital, few days after I stopped visiting and caring my dad at his home.

Alain came in and found out him dead in that room. He wanted to clean him and give the medical treatment he was receiving, but our dad was dead, with his eyes opened.

I don´t know what he has seen those days. I left and stopped talking to him. He often had said I looked like Jesus, each time I got or used my black beard... Did he ever meet Jesus?

It is easy to blame others. I could blame my family for those days I spent sick in bed, but they paid my price to be alive.

I know how much my grandmother worked to get me alive and kicking. It fact, she is the one who deserves me to call her MOTHER; because her loving affection and attentions got me as her last child (my dad brought me and Alain to my father´s siblings).

As far as I remember, my father could not acknowledge his fault: an addition to smoking. Many are like him, and I´m not blaming him, since I myself have blamed God for my shortcomings. Isn´t God a loving God? Just imagine how we react when someone blames or points out our faults. We hit and violently punish, but the final punishments -the consequences of sinning- are ours and other´s, too.

I don´t need to eat too much. That´s an addiction.

I don´t need to lie; but when being wronged, cheated or hurt from lies, I blame others, without looking at my faults.

I should not blame God and no one else, but me.

I should be responsible and assume responsibility for my life.

Am I sick? There´s no one to blame.

Do I have vices? It´s me who I am hurting (perhaps others).

I think we needed to live to really learn -and get- this wisdom books cannot easily teach.

It is a blessing and sometimes we bypassed each second chance we have got in this present life to learn ant to teach.

In faith, I believe in many things and, hoping God has more interesting things to live up, I abandoned myself in His hands (not mine, which are not safe).

Some nations are trying to legalize drug use. Some are willing to vote for that, and the reason is similar to allowing free sex or same sex marriage.

Let´s say alcohol is not a problem in society. Let´s say tobacco and its cigarettes are nothings but a culture issue. Let´s say smoke is not a world health problem and that we need more freedom and government are intended for that. Have any of you considered the real price of this and the price we are to pay?

The utter scope is ignoring God and His justice. Sodom and Gomorrah is nothing compared to the world we´re going to live and fall into. Living live without order and justice is like living without anything, same way drug consumers “live” each day. Smoking cigarettes is just like the equivalent of smoking any herb I can get in the streets.

Giving my children permission to do what they are pleased to do is like allowing them to rule over me. My sons are smoking and having sexual intercourse whenever they can. My ex-wife let both bring “home” their girlfriends to do what they do. What if they get any STD? What if the girls get pregnant? I´m talking about teenager...

I built my house and moved before being completely divorced. I had no means to say what was right when having others saying an opposite thing. I understand I have some legal rights, but to deserve them, I have to achieve some goals I´m not reaching. I could say a thing morally, but the example of other denies my truth, while other´s will prevail.

The world dwells within you and your holy wall. Culture and human laws creed your doors and open what you have tried to keep or save. Television and more video media tell your love ones how they should live and, basically, these are led by money, by evil desires and satanic interests.

Do we need smoking? Do we need drugs when we are healthy?

We are paying the price each time we shut an eye. Countries have hundreds of sick people and sickness or “pleasures” produce money for those who hold evil business and its vice.

Just thing a world where any comes and does what he/she wants. It´s like living the paradise of vice many singers boast on to sing. Why do they commit suicide? If they live the way they want, why are these dying overdosed?

If any vice can bring me the joy I miss and get human emptiness filled, why do they need to smoke or use drugs?

Social pressure pushed my childish mind to commit certain sins. That sin probably spoil the joy I could be enjoying now, but I won´t cry over the spilled milk. I just need God´s hands to help me walk my final walk, and this is far from people´s smoke and unhealthy habits.

I know I have to die. I better go, but I don´t understand the whole life I am in and, those I miss are gone and who knows I will meet them, twice?

I had a friend who allowed her children smoked marijuana under “her” supervision. She and her husband bought the drug in Colombia and let their children “taste” it, just to know it wasn´t good for them (it is like sinning “once”, to keep on sinning up to get some satisfaction). I never asked her if her husband was a drug smoker... I´m thinking -now- that something was wrong after she got divorced, because she got an operation in her head this year (2013) and her doctors found a tumor...

I will be sick (or dead) any day, and sometimes these experiences come for sins. My dad died before his time and my grandmother suffered a lot; while I myself experienced dozens of asthmatic crisis before adolescence.

Lonely

Oh!, useless loneliness,

I know you love no one.

I've seen we don't belong

into each other's company.

You have hated me!

You kicked me softly

since a child...

You company stinks!

I wanted to be me

and your ideas helped but a little,

and this cosmos is nothing

walking all the way with you.

You jumped into my dreams and

turned some daydreams a nightmare.

I thought you'll be a friend,

now I know the mistake.

You took too much from me.

Your nothingness hurts, and

certainly you are like many.

Leave me alone!

You promised you would care

you said you'd be better than those I've lost;

but I don't see the difference:

You lie, you hurt, and I needed someone.

Time has worn my flesh,

you've taken my time away.

Is it I who only loses?

I've seen a house torn down

those walls were not a shield

I wish somehow my tears

will serve to settle down.

Don't try to look for me

Don't need you any more

You have despised me!

You're not a friend to fall.

You hated me and world

telling me all those lies.

You've said you were the best

I ran away to hide.

I'm glad that I've realized

you are not to walk with.

Rejection is not love,

I clearly understood.

Perhaps it's really late

to find someone to woo,

I'd rather be alone!

I walked away from you.

I guess you cannot see

I wish you understand.

I' d better be alone!

You never were my friend.

You came to be alone,

you hurt and said you cared.

I kissed your empty lips

No more lies heard!

You enticed me to believe

no one would hear or come

But now I have begun

to believe my worn eyes.

What are my faults?

I'm plenty of them with its lacks,

but you were not a real friend

your company set me despised.

I wish you could get this:

I'm not like you, and I'm not my own.

You! Loneliness hurts

your name made me sick.

You hated me more than I did.

But I'm not eternally lost!

Your name is finally crossed

for all those things I missed.