prick that had never felt the inside of a cow's cunt. Bulls for the bullfights are not allowed to cohabit with cows. This abstinence makes them all the more fierce and therefore more appropriate for fighting. At times, Zurito found his gaze wandering from the bull's tuft to the woman's tuft, spread out wide open in front of him awaiting the entrance of the bull. For the moment, he felt a pang of displeasure go
through him. Why waste that marvellous cunny on an unfeeling beast? Why not throw yourself onto her and ram her with your own prick which was already hardened in your pants? he argued with himself. But he looked up and saw the basilisk glare of El Gallo in the gloom, hideous in the intensity of its mordant hatred. And he transferred his gaze from the woman to the bull. In a short while he saw life stirring in the vicinity of the bull's prick. Its rear feet stamped nervously on the wooden floor. The chains rattled in their rings. Its front feet pawed the air like a boxer's feints. Its eyes increased in size almost twofold, a red rage creeping into the pupils. Its nostrils widened and closed like a bellows, hot air pouring forth in a wheeze from the holes.
A white foam formed at its mouth and bubbled down in excess on the floor.
Suddenly, from the tuft of hairs there emerged a pinkishly white prick, not exactly thick but almost needle like in its length. Longer and longer it grew as Zurito leaned forward and pulled up and back at the flapped skin on the sides of the enlarging prick. Occasionally he would stroke the enormous ball-sac that dangled between the legs.
Meanwhile, La Tarantula lay back quiescently on her haunches, waiting for the entree. She lifted her head and saw the head of the prick forming between the tufts. Farther back she saw something familiar. It was the bull's balls. Immediately, she recalled the sac of El Gallo. And she twisted her head in order to get a better view of his evil, malign face gleaming down at her, alive with the snakes of hatred in his eyes, coupled with an insidious gleam of jealousy. She showed her teeth in a mocking smile and her laugh resounded through the wooden rafters. The others set up a mad cheering and a stamping and a whistling as the bull's prick grew larger and larger.
The bull struggled futilely in its straps. Its actions became wilder and wilder. An enormous wrenching of its heavy haunches shook the building as the heavy hoofs came down to the floor time and again.
Finally, Zurito called out, 'Ready!'
La Tarantula prepared herself for the bull.
Zurito seized hold of the long throbbing prick and inserted it slowly into the woman's tiny cunny, tiny in comparison with the hulking cock of the bull. Slowly, Zurito pushed the pallet with La Tarantula on it because he could draw the prick no further now because of the chains that prevented the bull from coming forward any more. The wild gyrations of the bull's haunches took on an elephantine acrobatics. Hot steam poured from the dilated nostrils. Red blood gleamed in the enlarged eyeballs. The straps strained and creaked as the weight of the animal lunged up and back in an attempt to throw his vast weight behind the prick that had been allowed to penetrate only a bit.
'More! more!' La Tarantula demanded.
The onlookers applauded. Zurito carefully pushed the pallet a halfinch closer.
'More!'
Zurito again pushed the pallet closer.
Closer and closer Zurito pushed La Tarantula as she tearfully demanded that he continue to push her so that the bull's cock would go deeper into her than any man's prick had ever been. She felt an enormous thing spreading her legs apart now. Never before had her cunt been filled so completely with cock. And it was a virgin cock that had never before reacted to the sexual pleasures of a female cunt. It was a cock that was alive with strange vibrant animal fire that no man had ever possessed. The very devil himself seemed to be filling her, pushing his way into her as though he were trying to split her apart.
But, behind all of this pleasure, there stood the spectre of her hatred for El Gallo. And she sneered and laughed shrilly in a mad hysterical tone. And as she felt the old familiar boiling-up within her, she cried out, 'Fool! El Gallo is a fool!'
Then she knew no more. She only felt. She felt a stupendous rising within her mountains high. She felt an overwhelming surging within her oceans deep. She felt a deep, subversive shuddering go through her entire body. And she let herself go. And as she came and fell into a coma of refulgent beatific happiness, she felt a splashing within her as of a tidal wave of fluid. Between her legs there dripped a hot stream of semen. Above her she saw as in a dream the black satin coat of the bull breathing heavily, going like the sides of a bellows. Snorts of passion from the beast's nostrils came into her consciousness. The rattle of chains. The stamping of hoofs. The obscene cries of the spectators. The clapping of hands.
But when she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the face of El Gallo. Never before had she seen so pitiful a sight. Gone was the hatred. Gone was the basilisk glare. Gone were all signs of the gargoyle. In their place was the sad, disillusioned face of a boy.
La Tarantula wept.
CHAPTER SIX
La Tarantula remembered little after that. She was in the region between heaven and earth, one moment ecstatically happy, and after that depressingly sad. And when a singer got up and sang a malaguena, and she recalled the sad, boyish look on the face of El Gallo, who had disappeared from the crowd, she caught a sob in her throat and wept. The malaguena continued. The singer was weeping, it seemed, and not singing, for such is the way to sing the malaguena. It is a prolonged lament, a melancholy, poignant ululation that comes welling up as though from the very vitals of the singer. And it ends with a series of runs which rise in the singer's throat like sobs, and dies away in a long slow note which changes from a wail to a sigh.
That was the song La Tarantula heard.
That was why she was inexpressibly sad.
Even when they walked back to the river again, she could not shake the mood away from her.
Always, she saw the pitiful face of El Gallo. Even when the drunken hilarious company passed through the beautiful Parque Maria Luisa she was melancholy. A forest of trees and shrubs surrounded them, giving off odorous scents. Orange trees, camellias and rosebushes. The ground was moist with early morning dew that gave out a woodsy odour. And in the trees, nightingales sang melodiously.
But the heart of La Tarantula was heavy with grief.
They crossed the slow moving, moon glittering Guadalquivir river from Triana to the regular part of the city. None seemed to be aware of the fact that their master, El Gallo, was not in their midst. Not even Zurito, El Gallo's favourite picador. They were all too drunk and too tired for that. Most of them were sleeping on each other's shoulders.
Only La Tarantula knew of his absence. And she was keenly aware of it. For, as she stared into the silvery waters of the river gliding by, she imagined that she could see the dear drowned face of El Gallo in their turgid depths.
Such was her mood all night and all morning.
Even in the afternoon, when she had been awakened by the sound of the pedestrians' and the hawkers' clamour on the Street of the Serpents which wound out below her bedroom window, she recalled her intense sorrow of the night before, because her dreams had been shot through with the face of the one whom she had loved, and whom she had hurt.
From among the myriad of conversations coming up from the street, she was able to pick out one that was clearer to her because the one who was speaking had a louder voice than the rest. He was talking about the bullfights that were going to take place that afternoon. And, of course, he had mentioned the name of El Gallo as being the chief attraction.
Immediately, a smile came to La Tarantula's face. She would go to the bullfight. She would see her beloved once again in the splendour of his accomplishments, in all the strength and vigour of his beautiful body.
And so, calling her maid, she discovered that she had an hour in which to dress in order to be able to get to the Plaza de los Toros in time for the first fight. Soon, she was all prepared and she descended to the cafe. It was deserted. Everyone, it seemed, had gone or was going to the bullfights. She went into the street. A stream of people went by her, all intent on getting to the Plaza de los Toros where the bullfights were going to be held. She
