Bull Shit Rev 1

Tomorrow is the day he thought the day I break my record in the ring the weather is dark, the stone cold, my mother and father will sit on the narrow benches heads held high dignified proud but humble.

The picadors lead the parade from the tunnel, tight pants and tiny vests, hats with wide brims, almost effeminate in this arena, the bull the testosterone raging silently ominously from behind the fence their torsos thrusting themselves sideways bouncing off the hard stone wall, adding another crack in the gates.  The music, the crowd, swaying forward to see the beginning of the dance, and back again. To neutral when the strain becomes too much. Adrenaline racing around and around row by row forward backward, the first bull is freed, suddenly surprised by the absence of a barrier where there once was resistance. Shaking his head from side to side, scanning the ground, nothing the positions of the picadors, and smelling the sweat the dirt and the blood of centuries baked into the walls and the earth.

My stomach churning I stand off to the side, just out of sight, watching the scene unfold, last night I played hard the dawn fast on the heels of midnight, the cava and the darkness  and the joy in my lovers arms . Too much salt in the tortilla too many peppers in the brine of the olives, too many days off training this season. Blame the tightness of my vest or the laundry, the limpness of my manhood on the premonition of failure, humiliation on a massive scale.

What will I do should I fail to strike the killing blow, how to escape, how to explain, how to live with my ineptitude. The matador raised his right hand and tried to stem the flow of sweat streaming from his brow.  He was not prepared, would never be prepared he now realized.  It is too late now, he stared into the distance, lost.

To be continued

©sharonjcorrigan2011 all rights reserved



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