They say it happened when his first wife left him for a Malaysian cage fighter. Others insist that it dates back to his student days. From my perspective as one of Currado Malaspina's oldest friends, I always point to his clandestine romance with Monique Carcuela, the wife of the poet and erstwhile Ecuadoran ambassador to France, Manuel Carcuela.
Monique was a dancer, or so she pretended. Lithe, nimble and utterly irresistible. To the ambassador she was a trophy and a glamorous shill. Fastened to his arm she stood as fraudulent witness to his vanished manhood.
To the young, dashing and perpetually hung-over Malaspina, Monique Carcuela was low hanging fruit. In those days Currado was a minor master of seduction. He collected women like green stamps and traded them up when they ceased to be of use. When the gorgeous ambassador's wife asserted her near mystical hold on Currado's imagination he became incurable.
He was her slave and together they built a theology based upon the acrobatics of lust.
That's when it happened!
That was when Currado Malaspina stopped painting third-rate abstract paintings and started to use his graphic acumen to celebrate good old-fashioned rough sex.
What a lousy cheap gimmick!
To the young, dashing and perpetually hung-over Malaspina, Monique Carcuela was low hanging fruit. In those days Currado was a minor master of seduction. He collected women like green stamps and traded them up when they ceased to be of use. When the gorgeous ambassador's wife asserted her near mystical hold on Currado's imagination he became incurable.
He was her slave and together they built a theology based upon the acrobatics of lust.
That's when it happened!
That was when Currado Malaspina stopped painting third-rate abstract paintings and started to use his graphic acumen to celebrate good old-fashioned rough sex.
What a lousy cheap gimmick!
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