When I was young, tired and despondent of not finding true Love among sex waitresses, who only enjoyed sticking a joint in their pussy, I bought a battery-powered vibrator, which I called “Dejected.”

With my character as a prophet, since I studied Philosophy and Theology, who always wears his fly open, I felt, when I used the vibrator for the anus, or the testicles, I felt, I say, like “a Mr. Woman,” like Apollinaire in his Surrealist drama The Boobs of Tiresias.

Using my despondent vibrator, I felt like a titan wanting to enter the Olympus of the Beat Generation. Before and after cumming, I saw myself as a symbol conceived by any of his characters full of abstractions, covering them in a continuous act of fertilization.

Charles Bokowski, “the greatest American poet” according to Jean-Paul Sartre, with his work: Poems and Insults (CD Gray Matter), held me by the balls as my vibrator “Dejected,” listening from the City Lights Poets Theater from San Francisco: Death of an Idiot; The Sex Fiends; Piss and Shit, and The World’s Greatest Loser.

With the vibrator in the anus, William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, in their Yage Letters Redux (City Lights), instead of punishing or reprimanding me, they gave me the gift of my Anus seeing the future, seeing them both in the jungles of South America enjoying ayahuasca (or yagé), a plant considered sacred by the indigenous peoples of the Amazon.

My “Dejected” vibrator did me a lot of good. It’s true. I no longer needed any female or to spend a few euros or pesetas (old currency). With Jack Kerouac’s Poems All Sizes (City Lights), and his intoxicated poems, the truth of the road, haikus and blues, he with me and me with him, we became a new Tiresias surprising two snakes while they were mating. Kerouac killed the female, becoming a woman. I killed the male, recovering my primitive sex; both arriving at the conviction that, because of the anus, the man enjoys the same as the woman.