Rocco Siffredi? Who?

Rochester Stanley (Toledo, Ohio, 1955) was a normal man, who followed the normal desires of any normal neighbor: watching baseball, eating pizza, drinking and fucking every now and then.

And note my dearest reader how the cinema d'auteur may be nocive for the brain:
after watching one too many Buñuel and Cocteau films on Super 8, Stanley lost his mind one afternoon of 197**, when he finally thought -in his poor sick mind- that he was a horse.

And to look according to his new nature, he bought a cheap disguise, and disguised as a horse he lived his life, because deep inside his cerebrum, Rochester Stanley was convinced he was an equine.

And no matter how many times family and friends told him that he was not a quadruped of that noble race, but a man.
Just a simple man, like any other.


And no matter how many times: Rochester Stanley -in his galloping dementia- insisted and insisted, and no one could make him return to the reality anymore.

Is in that moment when Stanley changes his name, demanding to be called Rocco Siffredi, Rocco Siffredi the horse of Toledo... and whoever dared to call him Rochester, still, received a brutal kick in his mandible from Stanley-Siffredi, palomino, pinto or sorrel, it doesn't matter.

Pathetic he walked by the neighborhood: a biped horse, with man's shoes that was avoided by every and each person who passed by.

Insane, nuts Rochester Stanley, nuts he became in his delirious role of equus caballus on two legs, and finally he forgot about the human female, and started paying frequent visits to the stables of the suburbs of Toledo, in search of... yes, in search of mares.

Mares!

And this is how Rochester Rocco Stanley Siffredi, or whatever his name was at this stage, came into the most scandalous, shocking and indecent zoophilia, fucking the mares of the stables all night long with perverted pleasure: the pleasures of an inverted mind.

In his deviation and delirium Stanley bought -or stole- a female horse, a beautiful exemplar of the family equidae, brown-ish, with good teeth and a juicy vagina as big as a watermelon, and with her quadruped bride Siffredi marched toward the church of the town one sunny Saturday morning, knocked at the door with a foot, and -half neiging, half speaking-, commanded the priest to marry them right away.

The father (a Catholic father, Premonstratensian possibly) got obnubilated and astonished in front of this abominable sin of the flesh, and not only refused to marry man and equine, but also got terribly infuriated, and called the police officer who was at the corner drinking a Pepsi-Cola and eating a tuna sandwich.

The uniformed protector of law and order came immediately to see what happened, and why a man was disguised as a horse at the gates of the church, and in the morning, no less:

Siffredi, who in his pathology and mental deterioration almost lost his ability to articulate words, simply emitted some incomprehensible buzzes, snorts and a series of cavernous onomatopeias, getting arrested by the cop in the act.

The noble mare was sent back to his old owner, and... about Siffredi, my friends, well, he is unfortunately incarcerated until the day of today at the horse barns of the municipal jail, because, as my mother used to say: "a raving lunatic like you cannot stay among the people".

He is well-treated though, bathed twice a week by an officer, and also he's allowed to go and forage out of the jail for a while in the afternoons.











At the local bar, where the normal men join to drink and talk shit, when someone mentions Rocco Siffredi, the other regulars respond:

Rocco Siffredi? Who?

The horse?