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Perro Bravo

Paperback - 12 October 2019
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Description

My autobiography begins with my childhood and my difficulties as a student in a Jesuit prep school. Then in September of 1957, I sailed from New York to L'Havre on the L'Isle de France. I began my studies in France at the school for foreigners at the University of Montepellier. There I purchased a Vespa motor scooter, With an American fellow student we traveled east to the Riviera and then we headed north on the Route de Napoleon up through the alps all the way up to Grenoble. I considered my visit to France a truly liberal education because I learned to have sex with my new lady love, After my 9 months of study in French universities, I had to attend classes at Villanova university 18 more months to get my Bachelor of Arts degree. To earn more money so I could return to Europe, I worked in my father's scrap steel yard. I had to cut up steel railroad ties with an acetylene torch for 8 months.

We drove in the late summer of 1960 from England in a small car to the Riviera coastline in Spain. At the end of this vacation we drove north to Montpellier. Then we experienced a 40 period of separation while Leslie traveled north to Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland to pass some examinations. I spent this time back at the school for foreigners in Montpellier Since I was going to be inactive for a while I decided to seek out a priest for the confession of my sins. Making my confession in French was the way that I learned that le baiser as a noun means the kiss, but when baiser is used as a verb it means to fuck. A while back during my first confession the priest was saying to me in French, did you fuck her, did you fuck her and the only word I knew was embrace, This time I was able to tell the old white haired priest that I fucked my true love 139 times. He was very shocked and used the word mechant which is the way you tell a youngster that he has been a very naughty boy. I was so proud to tell a priest that I was fucking women. I was no loner worried about being gay.

One weekend I decided to head east with friends to see the Roman ruins of a coliseum in Nimes. Near Montpellier on the way home we came upon a small arena constructed with grey cinder blocks. Down in the center of the arena there were French men making a wall out of a bunch of bales of hay. A bull with leather pads on the tip of his horns charged into the wall of hay bales. As the bales of hay were scattered by the bull the Frenchmen ran away jumping over a small wall that surrounded the arena floor of dirt. My lady love had taken me to some good bull fights in Spain. As I stood near one of the upper level of seats a lot of guys heard my negative comments. So often when you want a French to understand English they are mute, but the standing next to me said hey Johnny can you do better? In a few seconds a bunch of spectators were yelling hey Johnny. So I went down the stairs of the arena and jumped over a small wall landing in some soft dirt in the center of the arena. I was given a cape and then a young bull charged into the arena. He didn't have leather pads on his horns. When I shook the cape the bull charged. A young bull can turn again quickly and he charged me again and again. I knew to jump up and pivot 180 degrees. As the bull passed near me, I withdrew my hips. Eventually the bull got tired of making the charges and walked away from me to the far side of the arena.

I walked in the dirt and followed the bull over to the far side of the arena. The bull was tired and he was panting and drooling a lot of saliva. After I had approached the bull I spread the cape on the dirt under his nose. Then I knelt down in the dirt and bowed my head. The crowd roared its approval. As I started to stand back up, I noticed my knees were knocking. Then the man appeared at the wall with a small red cape and a sword. This was the moment of truth. He wanted me to kill the bull.

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