03. 05. 2005. 16:35

Genital Address

László Darvasi

"Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends. As you have probably heard, a baby girl weighing fourteen pounds was born in Cuba, without a single glint of the terrible Cuban Caesarean butcher knife in the light of the labour room. Whenever we lend a crutch to our imagination limping in such topics, we chance upon - or rather are stared in the face by it from the very first paragraph - size, as an important factor." 

Well, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, I don't know if you're familiar with the observation that on reading evenings size tends to diminish, and flaccid, forgotten, offended, introverted wee members weep in boundlessly masculine underpants, while labia minorissima pressed to each other in resentment and clitorises listless from disappointment sulk over the fact that Life has yet again been given the sack, yes, Life stands alone outside the old art cinema, and once more it is the souls protégés and the eminent spirits who steal the show on a stage where it is never their neck, so to speak, on the line.
Even if we do know, Ladies and Gentlemen, dear Friends, that it is the soul who is in charge during coitus too.

Once upon a time, there lived a very sad factory worker in Törökszentmiklós. In those days, there still existed pleasure factories, all sorts of orgasm plants and lustworks in Törökszentmiklós, and in these factories bright-eyed worker gods in berets tapped the sizzling, hot, dazzling semen. I don't know how the special trait of this sad worker from Törökszentmiklós came to light. Perhaps it was due to his walk. Perhaps because on one occasion he did not turn towards the shower tiles whilst sudsing himself up with the damp-dog scented, red and blue soap, his attention slacking for a fatal moment, as a result of which his companions were to eye a terrible piece of meat, a.. a terminator, well, let us close this sentence with the witty assertion that the whole world is but a stage. This poor worker never found himself a companion. Even the most curious, the most daring girls of Törökszentmiklós who used to lift and fling the local Murakosi horses by the member, having first given them a spin over their braids, even they pulled shivering to the walls when he marched along, with his peculiar walk, on the often blood-sprinkled pavement, slippery from phlegm, of the Kossuth Lajos main street. Even though in those days, let us be reminded of the Cuban baby girl, trips to Cuba were inexpensive.
A man, a sad worker, travels to Cuba and.
In every human crotch there is world war, there is world peace, there is a boiling, forming, expanding and shrinking universe.

Ladies and Gentlemen, dear friends. You know well, that the Lord, while creating the phallus, leaned predominantly on His inclination towards irony. Especially so in the case of the scrotum, which with its lack of details, its dirty brownish, coarsely pleated fabric, and its adornment of a few odd hairs is a world commodity at which smiling, giggling, God forbid roaring laughter is well justified. But as He stretched and formed the readily yielding flesh of the penis, seasoned with both grief and ambition, the Lord's blessed talent showed once again. He looked at him, held him, caressed him a bit, made him bigger, made him smaller, oh, but of course, placed a little red head on him, but no eyes, no, He gave him no sight, He leaned quite close to him, looped him with tiny, parading blue veins, checked if he worked, and then sent him on his way, go, fight, have faith, go, little clown, go on, go now, blind mouse, are you deaf?

Where to my Lord, the penis then asked, and he did have a point.

And so, what was one to do, it was up to the vagina, her accessory jewels and garden blooms to enter the grand comedy of creation. Now the Lord tried to be mysterious and generous at the same time. He wasn't contended with the dandelion and poppy slopes of the mons veneris, the silvery glitter of the labia, he wasn't contended with making the walls of the vagina brave, strong, and very, very adaptive, he wasn't contended with her odour, her taste, the taste of Mediterranean fruit cocktails, Greek salads, exquisite French cheese, and once, how intriguing, the taste of liquorish, he wasn't contended with the mystical experience of menstruation, he wasn't contended with placing that certain little piece of flesh onto the roof of the vagina, which as we know bestows further capacities on the already extraordinary and terribly effective contraption, but, as the Lord looked upon the whole thing more and more as a challenge, in addition to all her beauty and mystique, he endowed the vagina with terrifying powers. He wanted a true rival. He made man in His image, man was no match for Him. He knew every one of his faults, his weaknesses, as they were His own faults and weaknesses too. To top it all, we have the woman's glance, also an auxiliary, a magic weapon in everyday battles, street combats and guerrilla attacks. No, this is not talking through a hat, Greek and Indian mythologies unanimously state that a lady's orgasm is nine times as broad, rich, philosophical, precise, subtle, poetic, economical, efficient, communicative, humane, fallible, casual, happy as the climax of a gent. Ladies and Gentlemen, dear friends, finally allow me to quote a sentence of Erno Szív's, according to whom the Lord took a substantial risk when creating the woman, but we have to concede, in the end he pulled it off big.

Translated by Péter Papolczy

This translation was the winner of the first prize in HLO's translation contest.

Tags: László Darvasi