Date: Mon, 07 Feb 2005 18:39:15 +0000 From: alfredo garcia Subject: Confessiones Afternoon cold of autumn. The scent of the wet earth brings to my memory old images. Me adolescent, looking through a window, the wind moving the trees. Two hands slipping inside of my shirt, ascending from my waist,... I had closed eyes, the tip of their fingers in the tip of my nipples. I open the eyes, it begins to rain, behind me, my friend X caresses me.... Him, Z, the man of the warehouse, lowers my pants, his penis of white marble... I want to sleep but my friend nibbles my neck... The dark, beautiful and sad eyes of Y, they beg my rendition. I can hardly resist, his hands on my body. I let that his lips caress my legs, I open them, I want to like him. His desire adulate me... The great white penis of Z, with glass drops in the tip... I remember a spring morning with X, in the forest, with snow, I undressed for him, where the pretext? To take a bath in the snow? Alone in night, in the cold room, I want to be with him... Z sat down in a sofa of the warehouse of furniture his lowered pants, the white legs, the great penis erect, he lowers my pants, me a boy then, sits down on his lap. He interrogates me on the causes of my small erect penis, I don't remember nothing else... This afternoon has finished the storm, the sea blue and calm. Again X near here, in a beach, at 20 I read Leaves of Grass of Walt Withman and he didn't feel the same thing that I felt... .Now him made love to me and he told me that him is happier than with his wife. I had 12, Y 15, I was already almost an adolescent, the he was a man, in his passion, in his desire. His weight flattened me, his hands on my body. His sensual mouth kissing me, like to a girlfriend, and I refuse and at the same time I permit him, happy of his desire for me. I become toward Z and I kiss him in the mouth, his penis grows between my trembling legs. He promises me walks in his motorcycle, a wooden machine gun, and a ship scale model that he is building. I allow myself to him. The white milk of his penis on my small white hand... In a bed of wool mattress, over a forge. Or in the rustic inn, with X, always with X, my obsession, my great love of then, and he did not know that and when he knew it, he scare, and he leave me drowning in the marshes of the disaffection .... Y introduce me his tongue in the ass, Y make love to me with his lips, with his tongue, with his fingers, I dream with his penis inside me, while his deep look penetrates me... Where those paradises, where I shipwreck the love?... I was also happy with some girls, do I also want others that I had never got, for example the litle W, with which I have had intense histories of love in my imagination. So it is not what I had what I miss but what the destination deprives me and that I will never be able to have... I lick the white and beautiful penis of Z, his semen flows endless, I am not able to swallow everything, and it slides on my throat, my chest, my legs, my small sex erect... Paris, two youths run joking for the Champs Eliseos, at night they will sleep together on the white bed, in the room papered in flowers, but the love passed long, and the world will have lost some unique instants of happiness and unrecoverable whose beauty for it alone would justify the existence of the universe... In the room of the old hostel of London I dream that X makes me love, he speaks to me sweetly to the hearing, his legs crisscross mine, our sexes beating together, ...Never had Z inside me. I sorry for him and for me. But the image of a young man and an adolescent making love, in front of the mirror of a closet in the warehouse of furniture, it still moves my soul... Today this melancholic afternoon, the leaves of the trees becoming agitated, in front of the sea, at the end of my life... Also a night of the end of the summer, two young friends, tired of the long trip, nudes on the white savannas of the distant highway hotel, the wet hair of the recent shower, the eyes opened up in the dimness, and one of them at least, longing, erect penis, in love soul, unable to beg his friend's love, believing to hear a voice that mumbled in the darkness his name. The call didn't repeat, if it is that it happened. There another time the world became less beautiful. Oh my God!, the passions of my past that seemed out during some time, are revived now, exactly now that begins the declines of my life. But stronger that never his fire is about to consume my life. Every day at every hour passes for my mind the white images. So only they seem to go away when I obsess me with works, in a problem, or when I dive in the alcohol, but even then are being about always around my soul, awaiting falling on me, and to torment me with their diabolical and wonderful images. Has anybody feel similiar? Please write to me. Alfredo