Origins of the legend of the naked Mexican saint

Origins of the legend of the naked Mexican saint

 

Wilson Alves-Bezerra

Translated by Jefferson Dias

– Father, at that time I knew nothing of it. But after the experience, I couldn’t do anything except write a couple of lines on the subject and, eventually, talk to you. I was told something about it long ago. Amid the blood of birth, the sipped milk, the urine, the expelled feces, the breeding bleeding, I have never realized it. The trip was necessary, as well as the shift that disentangled me from the universe as an articulate thing. It was a journey for little luggage, no family, nor church, I didn’t put in the suitcase what was suitable for, nor what was not, it was even necessary to divest myself of my clothes and, once I was ready, penetrate deep into empty space and finally intoxicate myself with the nectar of the Mexican deserts, walk on the extraordinary wasteland where men didn’t build monuments to misery. And get carried away.
There, with no water, intoxicated with mezcal, foreign, anonymous, unknown, loving the motherland – because out of it – wanting the woman back, in the company of strangers. Knowing that visiting the open space was inappropriate, that’s how I flung myself into the intrepid journey. And that’s how, at some point, I found out. The bodies were beautiful. More than beautiful: the bodies were natural. The motion of a body on another body. The scars didn’t mean childhood stories, accidents or trauma; they were indecipherable writings on the skin. The sweat excreted by the bodies made the desired natural flesh slide – saliva getting salty. In the wildest compositions, the positions didn’t say divine words; the bodies were conjoining because there was yet another way to invade the bowels, to get them invaded. The bodies were natural and beautiful and didn’t want to worship the unknown god. They were looking neither for acknowledgement nor for ascension to the god. The story there is between the legs is not to be told. That was it, it was just that. But only then I found out.
Who was the body, whose was the body, how the body got there… there weren’t such questions, because the bodies were natural. Wild as they rode themselves or docile as they surrendered to the snare, the bites, the ride. And they didn’t come from anywhere, they didn’t even have destination. The bodies were the delight of the taste in the mouth on the sex, and the salt in the saliva on the tongue that sticks in the tongue and tastes the sex. Unknown sex that goes with you during your lifetime.

At this moment the church experienced a transfiguration, as in a mystic trance. I figured that the priest was suffering under his cassock; the nun’s upper lip was throbbing, pearlescent with an unknown sweat. And the boys in the sacristy, beautifully beardless with their no longer asleep naked genitalia, were troubled about the meek agitation of the prior; they looked at each other bewildered; a bunch of well-born boys in communion with the god now seeing the almost completely covered bodies of men and women, alabaster semi-invisible skin. Néquias, the boy, wondered: what if it was true?
The priest urged me to pray tenourfathers, twenailmarys. He dismissed their fellow believers and said that the day of confessions had ended. I could even tell when he stealthily entered the sacristy and I listened when he himself wildly engaged in a pleasurable self-flagellation session. He didn’t want the boys to serve him and dismissed them all, one by one, with his finger making the sign of the cross on their foreheads, holding a look of sternness. It was only then that he pleasurably hurt the skin of his back, reddening the white complexion, which he admired in the mirror of his bedroom. With the visual stimulus of the blood fountain pouring down his buttocks, he ferociously masturbated until he felt his whole body sweating and the sweat coming down lasciviously on the wounds, intensifying the burning sensation. He lay impassively on the incarnadine carpet, gazing up at the stained glass – and could finally sleep. He was acquitted of the thoughts he had. God would forgive him, certainly.

There was more, though. The misplaced confession of the wanderer that afternoon not only took root, but also didn’t prevent the kids that were listening, concealed by the veils as is customary in churches, from spreading to their colleagues, under the blessing of the wine, the story of the man who had a mystical experience. It wasn’t possible to determine, but it is said that thus was born the story of the Mexican lady with hard breasts, which led men astray in the desert after ingesting an Indian beverage, which she brought hidden in her parts. Gradually, the legend of the naked Mexican lady dominated the minds of the kids, and it was confined to the monastery, but reached the commonalty. There was also talk of a secret publication circulating confidential and insidiously within the Confirmation classes, which was seducing the kids, in the privacy of the bedrooms, in bathrooms, in the hard hours of study, in the sweet hours of entertainment. No one has yet determined the scope of the legend. However, based on reliable information, there were accounts of the change of the interaction between the boys in the monastery after that disturbing tale.
The key moment – all those I consulted share the same opinion – was when the naked Mexican lady was little by little, perhaps because it is a favorite theme in the circle of churchgoers, becoming a supernatural being. Mystically outlined, she was turning into a cult object. Until the day, no one knows how, it occurred to someone to call it The Naked Saint, even without the toponymical reference to her supposedly Aztec origin.
This had an elementary conclusion: if there was in fact a natural body, it should belong to a saint.

From the book “Histórias Zoófilas e Outras Atrocidades” (EDUFSCar / Oitava Rima, 2013).

Wilson Alves-Bezerra is a Brazilian writer and translator.

Categories: Brasil, Destacado, Relato

Write a Comment

Only registered users can comment.