Pablo Caparra is a poor man who, in hot weather, goes to the banks of the Arlanzón River as it passes through the Paseo de Las Fuentecillas, in Burgos, to “sow milk wicks,” as he calls the ejaculation of his solitary straws.

A girlfriend of mine, Camino de la Plata, who, one day, and many other days, saw him shake his carnal cowbell and plant his ejaculations on the banks of the River, which she called her “arretures,” rebuked him asking:

“Aren’t you ashamed to shake off your hand drum at the sight of the ducks, the fish and the crabs? It seems like a lie.”

He replied:

“I do this because I have too many spermatozoa and I want to breed in ducks, not in fish and crabs.”

She told him:

“Well, you could go to whores.”

He replied to her:

“I’m not going to a whore because you are ruins and wastelands, more of a cost than a benefit.”

Also, that’s how one consoles himself who burns his cock.

“You are a scoundrel,” she replied.