Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in putagitana's LiveJournal:

Sunday, August 27th, 2006
2:43 pm	mi puta gitana del café : haga más amor, menos war muy bueno, mi puta del café mi muse gitano del animal doméstico del brilliand de mierda mi lingüista astuto mi muchacho absurdo encantador (Comment on this)
Monday, May 8th, 2006
9:12 pm	the illumined skyscrapers shine like Christmas trees. i have been invited to stay with rich friends in Paris. the luxury lulls me, but i lie in a soft bed sick with ennui, like a flower in a hothouse. my feet rest on soft carpets. Paris gives me a fever — the great Babylonian city. i see Lillian. i no longer love her. there are those who dance and those who twist themselves into knots; i like those who flow and dance. i will see Fransesca again. perhaps this time i will not be timid. i remember when she came to Marsialles one day and we met casually at a cafe. she invited me to come to her room in the evening. my lover, Marcel, had to go home that night; he lived quite far away. i was free. i left him at eleven o’clock and went to see Fransesca. i was wearing my flounced Spanish cretonne dress and a flower in my hair, and i was all bronzed by the sun and feeling beautiful. when i arrived, Fransesca was lying on her bed, rubbing lotion her face, her legs and her shoulders, because she had been lying on the beach. i sat at the foot of her bed and we talked. i lost my desire to kiss her. she was running away from her husband. she had married him only to be protected. she had never really loved men but women. at the beginning of her marriage, she had told him all sorts of stories about herself that she should not have told him how she had been a dancer on Broadway and slept with men when she was short of money; how she went to a whorehouse and earned money there; how she met a man who fell in love with her and kept her for a few years. her husband never recovered from these stories. they awakened his jealousy and doubts, and their life together had become intolerable. the day after we met, she left Marsialles, and i was filled with regrets for not having kissed her. now I was about to see her again. in Paris i unfolded my wings of vanity and coquetry. Fransesca is as lovely as ever and seems moved by me. she is all curves, softness. her eyes are wide and liquid; her cheeks, luminous. her mouth is full; her hair dark and luxuriant. dhe is slow, passive, lethargic. we go to the movies together. in the dark she takes my hand. she is being analyzed and has discovered what i sensed long ago: that she has never known a real orgasm, at thirty-four, after a sexual life that only an expert accountant could keep track of. i am discovering her pretenses. she is always smiling, gay, but underneath she feels unreal, remote, detached from experience. she acts as if she were asleep. she is trying to awaken by falling into bed with anyone who invites her. Fransesca says, ‘it is very hard to talk about sex, i am so ashamed.’ she is not ashamed of doing anything at all, but she cannot talk about it. we sit for hours m perfumed places where there is music. she likes places where actors go. there is a current of attraction between us, purely physical. we are always on the verge of getting into bed together, but she is never free in the evenings. she will not let me meet her husband; she is afraid I will seduce him. she fascinates me because sensuality pours from her. she is so lazy, languid — purely a plant, really. i have never seen a woman more yielding. she says that she always expects to find the man who will arouse her. she has to live in a sexual atmosphere even when she feels nothing. it is her climate. her favorite statement is, ‘at that time, i was sleeping around with everybody.’ if we speak of Paris and of people we know there, she always says, ‘i don’t know him. i didn’t sleep with him.’ or ‘oh yes, he was wonderful in bed.’ i have never once heard of her resisting — this, coupled with frigidity! she deceives everybody, including herself. she looks so wet and open that men think she is continuously in a state of near orgasm. but it is not true. the actress in her appears cheerful and calm, and inside she is going to pieces. she drinks and can sleep only by taking drugs. she always comes to me eating candy, like a schoolgirl. she looks about twenty. her coat is open, her hat is in her hand. her hair is loose. one day she falls on my bed and knocks off her shoes. she looks at her legs and says, ‘they are too thick. they are like Renoir legs, i was told once.’ she asks for a whiskey, then she decides that she will take a bath. she borrows my kimono. i know that she is trying to tempt me. she comes out of the bathroom still humid, leaving the kimono open. her legs are always held a little apart. she looks so much as if she were about to have an orgasm that one cannot help feeling only one little caress will drive her wild. as she sits on the edge of my bed to put on her stockings, i cannot withhold any longer. i kneel in front of her and put my hand on the hair between her legs. i stroke it gently, and i say, ‘the little silver fox, so soft and beautiful. oh, Fransesca, i can’t believe that you do not feel anything there, inside.’ she seems on the verge of feeling, the way her flesh looks, open like a flower, the way her legs are spread. her mouth is so wet, so inviting, the lips of her sex must be the same. she parts her legs and lets me look at it. i touch it gently and spread the lips to see if they are moist. she feels it when i touch her clitoris, but i want her to feel more. i kiss her clitoris, still wet from the bath; her pubic hair, still damp as seaweed. her sex tastes like a seashell, a wonderful, fresh, salty seashell. my fingers work more quickly, she falls back on the bed, offering her whole sex to me, open and moist, like a camellia, Like rose petals, like velvet, satin. it is rosy and new, as if no one had ever touched it. it is like the sex of a young girl. her legs hang over the side of the bed. her sex is open; i can bite into it, kiss it, insert my tongue. she does not move. the little clitoris stiffens like a nipple. my head between her two legs is caught in the most delicious vise of silky, salty flesh. my hands travel upwards to her heavy breasts, caress them. she begins to moan a little. now her hands travel downwards and join mine in caressing her own sex. she likes to be touched at the mouth of her sex, below the clitoris. she touches the place with me. it is there i would like to push in a penis and move until i make her scream with pleasure. i put my tongue at the opening and push it in as fat as it will go. i take her ass in my two hands, like a big fruit, and push it upwards, and while my tongue is playing there in the mouth of her sex, my fingers press into the flesh of her ass, travel around its firmness, into its curve, and my forefinger feels the little mouth of her anus and pushes in gently. suddenly she gives a start, as if i touched off an electric spark. she moves to enclose my finger. i press it farther, all the while moving my tongue inside of her sex. she begins to moan, to undulate. when she sinks downwards she feels my flicking finger, when she rises upwards she meets my flicking tongue. with every move, she feels my quickening rhythm, until she has a long spasm and begins to moan Like a pigeon. with my finger i feel the palpitation of pleasure beating ecstatically. she falls over, kisses me, drinking the salty moisture from my mouth. her breasts fall against me as she holds me. i am invited one night to the apartment of a young society couple, the H’s. it is like being on a boat because it is neat the river and the barges pass while we talk, the river is alive. miriam is a delight to look at, full-breasted, with sparkling hair, a voice that lures you to her. her husband, Paul, is small and of the race of the imps, not a man but a faun a lyrical animal, quick and humorous. he thinks i am beautiful. he treats me like an objet d’art. Paul exclaims over me, the red flower in my hair, and hurries me into the salon to display me. Miriam is sitting cross-legged on a purple satin divan. she is a natural beauty, whereas i, an artificial one, need a setting and warmth to bloom successfully. their apartment is full of furnishings I find individually ugly — silver candelabra, tables with nooks for trailing flowers, enormous mulberry satin poufs, rococo objects, things full of chic, collected with snobbish playfulness, as if to say, ‘we can make fun of everything created by fashion, we are above it all.’ everything is touched with aristocratic impudence, through which i can sense thier fabulous life; the pompousness of their families; their efforts to be elegantly bohemian; and their obsession with the word that is the key to society — everything must be ‘amusing’. Miriam calls me into her bedroom to show me a new bathing suit she has bought. for this, she undresses herself completely, and then takes the long piece of material and begins rolling it around herself like the primitive draping of the Balinese. her beauty goes to my head. she undrapes herself, walks naked around the room, and then says, ‘i wish i looked like you. You are so exquisite and dainty. i am so big.’ she pushes her face into my shoulder and smells my skin; i place my hand on her shoulder. Paul is calling out to us, ‘when are you going to finish talking about clothes in there? i’m bored!’ Miriam replies, ‘we’re coming,’ and she dresses quickly in slacks. when she comes out, Paul says, ‘and now you re dressed to stay at home, and I want to take you to hear the String Man. he sings the most marvelous songs about a string and finally hangs himself on it.’ she goes into the bathroom. I stay behind with Paul, but soon Miriam calls me. ‘mandra, come in here and talk to me.’ i think by this time she will be half-dressed, but no, she is standing naked in the bathroom, powdering and fixing her face. she is as opulent as a burlesque queen. as she stands on her toes to lean towards the mirror and paint her eyelashes more carefully, i am again affected by her body. i come up behind her and watch her. i feel a little timid. she isn’t as inviting as Fransesca. she is, in fact, sexless, Like the women at the beach or at the Turkish bath, who think nothing of their nakedness. i try a light kiss on her shoulder. she smiles at me and says, ‘i wish Paul were not so irritable. i would have liked to try the bathing suit on you. i would love to see you wearing it.’ she returns my kiss, on the mouth, taking care not to disturb her lipstick outline. i do not know what to do next. i want to take hold of her. i stay near. Paul comes into the bathroom without knocking and says, ‘Miriam, how can you walk around like this? you mustn’t mind, Mandra. it is a habit with her. she is possessed with the need to go around without clothes. get dressed, Miriam.’ she goes into her room and slips on a dress, with nothing underneath, then a cape, and says, ‘i’m ready.’ in the cab she places her hand over mine, then she draws my hand under the cloak, into a pocket of the dress, and i find myself touching her sex. we drive on in the dark. Miriam says she wants to drive through the park first. she wants air. Paul wants to go directly to the night club, but he gives in and we drive through the park, i with my hand on Miriam’s sex, fondling it and feeling my own excitement gaining so that i can hardly talk. Miriam chatters, wittily, continuously. i think to myself, ‘you won’t be able to go on talking in a little while.’ but she does, all the time that i am caressing her in the dark, beneath the satin. i can feel her moving upwards to my touch, opening her legs a little so i can fit my entire hand between her legs. then she grows tense under my fingers, stretching herself, and i know she is taking her pleasure. it is contagious. i feel my own orgasm without even being touched. i am so wet that i am afraid it will show through my dress. it must show through Miriam’s dress too. we both keep our coats on as we go into the night club. Miriam’s eyes are brilliant, deep. Paul leaves us for a while and we go into the ladies’ room. this time Miriam kisses my mouth fully, boldly. we arrange ourselves and return to the table. (Comment on this)
9:11 pm	Victor had developed a peculiar form of enjoyment that caused his family to repudiate him, and he lived like a bohemian in Montparnasse. when not obsessed with his erotic exigencies, he was an astrologer, an extraordinary cook, a great conversationalist and an excellent cafe companion. but not one of these occupations could divert his mind from his obsession. sooner or later Victor had to open his pants and exhibit his rather formidable member. the more people there were, the better. the more refined the party, the better. if he got among the painters and models, he waited until everybody was a little drunk and gay, and then he undressed himself completely. his ascetic face, dreamy and poetic eyes and lean monklike body were so much in dissonance with his behavior that it startled everyone. if they turned away from him, he had no pleasure. if they looked at him for any time at all, he would fall into a trance, his face would become ecstatic, and soon he would be rolling on the floor in a crisis of orgasm. women tended to run from him. he had to beg them to stay and resorted to all kinds of tricks. he would pose as a model and look for work in women's studios, but the condition he got into as he stood there under the eyes of the female students made the men throw him out into the street. if he were invited to a party, he would first try to get one of the women alone somewhere in an empty room or on a balcony. then he would take down his pants. if the woman was interested he would fall into ecstasy. if not, he would run after her, with his erection, and come back to the party and stand there, hoping to create curiosity. he was not a beautiful sight but a highly incongruous one. since the penis did not seem to belong to the austere religious face and body, it acquired a greater prominence, an apartness. he finally found the wife of a poor literary agent who was dying of starvation and overwork, with whom he reached the following arrangement. he would come in the morning and do all her housework for her, wash her dishes, sweep her studio, run errands, on condition that when all this was over he could exhibit himself. in this case he demanded all her attention. he wanted her to watch him unfasten his belt, unbutton his pants, pull them down. he wore no underwear. he would take out his penis and shake it like a person weighing a thing of value. she had to stand near him and watch every gesture. she had to look at his penis as she would look at a food she liked. this woman developed the art of satisfying him completely. she would become absorbed in it, saying, "it's a beautiful penis you have there, the biggest i have seen in Montparnasse. it's so smooth and hard. it's beautiful." as she said these words, Victor continued to shake his penis like a pot of gold under her eyes, and saliva came to his mouth. he admired it himself. as they both bent over it to admire it his pleasure would become so keen that he would close his eyes and be taken with a bodily trembling from head to foot, still holding his penis and shaking it under her face. then the trembling would turn into undulation and he would fall on the floor and roll himself into a ball as he came, sometimes all over his own face. often he stood at dark corners of the streets, naked under an overcoat, and if a woman passed he opened his coat and shook his penis at her. but this was dangerous and the police punished such behavior rather severely. oftener still he liked to get into an empty compartment of a train, unbutton two of the buttons, and sit back as if he were drunk or asleep, his penis showing a little through the opening. people would come in at other stations. if he were in luck it might be a woman who would sit across from him and stare at him. as he looked drunk, usually no one tried to wake him. sometimes one of the men would rouse him angrily and tell him to button himself. women did not protest. if a woman came in with little schoolgirls, then he was in paradise. he would have an erection, and finally the situation would become so intolerable, the woman and her little girls would leave the compartment. one day Victor found his twin in this form of enjoyment. he had taken his seat in a compartment, alone, and was pretending to fall asleep when a woman came in and sat opposite him. she was a rather mature prostitute as he could see from the heavily painted eyes, the thickly powdered face, the rings under her eyes, the over-curled hair, the worn-down shoes, the coquettish dress and hat. through half-closed eyes he observed her. she took a glance at his partly opened pants and then looked again. she too sat back and appeared to fall asleep, with her legs wide apart. when the train started she raised her skirt completely. she was naked underneath. she stretched open her legs and exposed herself while looking at Victor's penis, which was hardening and showing through the pants and which finally protruded completely. they sat in front of each other, staring. Victor was afraid the woman would move and try to get hold of his penis, which was not what he wanted at all. but no, she was addicted to the same passive pleasure. she knew he was looking at her sex, under the very black and bushy hair, and finally they opened their eyes and smiled at each other. he was entering his ecstatic state, but he had time to notice that she was in a state of pleasure herself. he could see the shining moisture appearing at the mouth of the sex. she moved almost imperceptibly to and fro, as if rocking herself to sleep. his body began to tremble with voluptuous pleasure. she masturbated in front of him, smiling all the time. Victor married this woman, who never tried to possess him in the way of other women. (Comment on this)
9:10 pm	there was a Hungarian adventurer who had astonishing beauty, infallible charm, grace, the powers of a trained actor, culture, knowledge of many tongues, aristocratic manners. beneath all this was a genius for intrigue, for slipping out of difficulties, for moving smoothly in and out of countries. he traveled in grandiose style with an air of authority. Amir was seen in the most luxurious hotels, on world tours, excursions to Egypt, trips through the desert, into Africa. everywhere he became the center of attraction for women. like the most versatile of actors, he passed from one role to an other to please the taste of each of them. he was the most elegant dancer, the most vivacious dinner partner, the most decadent of entertainers. he knew each city as though he had lived there all his life. he knew everyone in society. he was indispensable. when he needed money he married a rich woman, plundered her and left for another country. most of the time the women did not rebel or complain to the police. the few weeks or months they had enjoyed him as a husband left a sensation that was stronger than the shock of losing their money. for a moment they had known what it was to live with strong wings, to fly above the heads of mediocrity. he took them so high, whirled them so fast in his series of enchantments, that his departure still had something of the flight. it seemed almost natural; no partner could follow his great eagle sweeps. the free, uncapturable adventurer, jumping thus from one golden branch to another, almost fell into a trap, a trap of human love, when one night he met the Brazilian dancer Anita at a Peruvian theatre. her elongated eyes did not close as other women's eyes did, but like the eyes of tigers and leopards, the two lids meeting lazily and slowly; and they seemed slightly sewn together towards the nose, making them narrow, with a lascivious, oblique glance falling from them like the glance of a woman who does not want to see what is being done to her body. all this gave her an air of being made love to, which aroused Amir as soon as he met her. when he went backstage to see her, she was dressing among a profusion of flowers; and for the delight of her admirers who sat around her, she was rouging her sex with her lipstick without permitting them to make a single gesture towards her. when Amir came in she merely lifted her head and smiled at him. she had one foot on a little table, her elaborate Brazilian dress was lifted, and with her jeweled hands she took up rouging her sex again, laughing at the excitement of the men around her. her sex was like a giant hothouse flower, larger than any Amir had seen, and the hair around it abundant and curled, glossy black. it was these lips that she rouged as if they were a mouth, very elaborately so that they became like blood-red camellias, opened by force, showing the closed interior bud, a paler, fine-skinned core of the flower. Amir could not persuade her to have supper with him. her appearance onstage was only the prelude to her work at the theatre. now followed the performance for which she was famed all through South America, when the boxes in the theatre, deep, dark and half-curtained, filled with society men from all over the world. women were not brought to this high-class burlesque. she had dressed herself all over again in the full-petticoated costume she wore onstage for her Brazilian songs, but she wore no shawl. her dress was strapless, and her rich, abundant breasts, compressed by the tight-waisted costume, bulged upwards, offering themselves almost in their entirety to the eye. in this costume, while the rest of the show continued, she made her round of the boxes. there, on request, she knelt before a man, unbuttoned his pants, took his penis in her jeweled hands, and with a neatness of touch, an expertness, a subtlety few women had ever developed, sucked at it until he was satisfied. her two hands were as active as her mouth. the titillation almost deprived each man of his senses. the elasticity of her hands; the variety of rhythms; the change from a hand grip of the entire penis to the lightest touch of the tip of it, from firm kneading of all the parts to the lightest teasing of the hair around it, all this by an exceptionally beautiful and voluptuous woman while the attention of the public was turned towards the stage. seeing the penis go into her magnificent mouth between her flashing teeth gave men a pleasure for which they paid generously. her presence on the stage prepared them for her appearance in the boxes. she provoked them with her mouth, her eyes, her breasts. to have their satisfaction, along with music and lights and singing in a dark, half-curtained box above the audience, was an exceptionally piquant form of amusement. Amir almost fell in love with Anita and stayed with her for a longer time than with any woman. she fell in love with him and bore him two children. after a few years he was off again. the habit was too strong; the habit of freedom and change. he traveled to Rome and took a suite at a lush hotel. the suite happened to be next to that of the Spanish Ambassador, who was staying there with his wife and two small daughters. Amir charmed them, too. the Ambassador's wife admired him. they became so friendly and he was so delightful with the children, who did not know how to amuse themselves in this hotel, that soon it became a habit of the two little girls, upon getting up in the morning, to go and visit Amir and awaken him with laughter and teasing, which they were not permitted to lavish upon their more solemn father and mother. one little girl was about ten, the other twelve. they were both beautiful, with huge velvet-black eyes, long silky hair and golden skin. they wore short white dresses and short white socks. shrieking, the two little girls would run into the Amir's room and playfully throw themselves over his big bed. he would tease them, fondle them. Amir, like many men, always awakened with a peculiarly sensitive condition of the penis. in fact, he was in a most vulnerable state. he had no time to rise and calm the condition by urinating. before he could do this the two little girls had run across the shining floor and thrown themselves over him, and over his prominent penis, which the big pale blue quilt somewhat concealed. the little girls did not mind how their skirts flew upward and their slender dancer's legs got tangled and fell over his penis lying in the quilt. laughing, they turned over on him, sat on him, treated him like a horse, sat astride him and pushed down on him, urging him to swing the bed by a motion of his body. with all this, they would kiss him, pull at his hair, and have childish conversations. Amir's delight in being so treated would grow into excruciating suspense. one of the girls was lying on her stomach, and all he had to do was to move a little against her to reach his pleasure. so he did this playfully, as if he meant to finally push her off the bed. he said, "i am sure you will fall off if i push this way." "i won't fall off," said the little girl, holding on to him through the covers while he moved as if he would force her to roll over the side of the bed. laughing, he pushed her body up, but she lay close to him, her little legs, her little panties, everything, rubbing against him in her effort not to slide off, and he continued his antics while they laughed. then the second girl, wishing to even the strength of the game, sat astride him in front of the other one, and now he could move even more wildly with the weight of both on him. his penis, hidden in the thick quilt, rose over and over again between the little legs, and it was like this that he came, with a strength he had rarely known, surrendering the battle which the girls had won in a manner they never suspected. another time when they came to play with him he put his hands under the quilt, then he raised it with his forefinger and dared them to catch it. with great eagerness, they began to chase the finger, which disappeared and reappeared in different parts of the bed, catching it firmly in their hands. after a moment it was not the finger but the penis they caught over and over again, and seeking to extricate it, he made them grasp it more strongly than ever. he would disappear under the covers completely, and taking his penis in his hand suddenly thrust it upward for them to catch. he pretended to be an animal, sought to catch and bite them, sometimes quite near where he wanted to, and they took great delight in this. with the animal they also played hide-and-seek. the animal was to spring at them from some hidden corner. he hid in the closet on the floor and covered himself with clothes. one of the little girls opened the closet. he could see under her dress; he caught her and bit her playfully on the thighs. so heated were the games, so great was the the abandon of the little girls at play, that very often his hand went everywhere he wanted it to go. eventually Amir moved on again, but his high trapeze leaps from fortune to fortune deteriorated when his sexual quest became stronger than his quest for money and power. it seemed as though the strength of his desire for women was no longer under control. he was eager to rid himself of his wives, so as to pursue his search for sensation throughout the world. one day he heard that the Brazilian dancer he had loved had died of an overdose of opium. their two daughters were grown to the ages of fifteen and sixteen and wanted their father to take care of them. he sent for them. he was then living in New York with a wife by whom he had had a son. the woman was not happy at the thought of his daughters' arrival. she was jealous for her son, who was only fourteen. after all his expeditions, Amir now wanted a home and a rest from difficulties and pretenses. he had a woman he rather liked and three children. the idea of meeting his daughters again interested him. he received them with great demonstrations of affection. one was beautiful, the other, less so but piquant. they had been brought up to witness their mother's life and were not restrained or prudish. the beauty of their father impressed them. he, on the other hand, was reminded of his games with the two little girls in Rome, only his daughters were a little older, and it added a great attraction to the situation. they were given a large bed for themselves, and later, when they were still talking of their voyage and of meeting their father again, he came into the room to bid them goodnight. he stretched out at their side and kissed them. they returned his kisses. as he kissed them, he slipped his hands along their bodies, which he could feel through their nightgowns. the caresses pleased them. he said, "how beautiful you are, both of you. i cannot let you sleep alone. it is such a long time since i have seen you." holding them in a fatherly way, with their heads on his chest, caressing them protectively, he let them fall asleep, one on each side of him. their young bodies, with their small breasts barely formed, affected him so that he did not sleep. he fondled one and then the other, with catlike movements, so as not to disturb them, but after a moment his desire was so violent that he awakened one and began to force himself on her. the other did not escape either. they resisted and wept a little, but they had seen so much of this during their life with their mother that they did not rebel. this was not to be an ordinary case of incest, for Amir's sexual fury was increasing and had become an obsession. being satisfied did not free him, calm him. it was like an irritant. from his daughters he would go to his wife and take her. he was afraid his daughters would abandon him, run away, so he spied on them and practically imprisoned them. his wife discovered this and made violent scenes. he no longer cared about his dressing, his elegance, his adventures, his fortune. he stayed at home and thought only of the moment when he could take his daughters together. he had taught them all the caresses imaginable. they learned to kiss each other in his presence until he was excited enough to possess them. but his obsession, his excesses, began to weigh on them. his wife deserted him. one night when he had taken leave of his daughters, he wandered through the apartment, still prey to desire, to erotic fevers and fantasies. he had exhausted the girls; they had fallen asleep, and now his desire was tormenting him again. he was blinded by it. he opened the door to his son's room. his son was calmly sleeping, lying on his back, with his mouth slightly open. Amir watched him, fascinated. his hard penis continued to torment him. he fetched a stool and placed it near the bed, kneeled on it put his penis to his son's mouth. the son awakened choking and struck at him. the girls also awakened. their rebellion against their father's folly mounted, and they abandoned the now frenzied, aging man. (Comment on this)
9:07 pm	this is a story of life in Brazil many years ago, far from the city, where the customs of strict Catholicism still prevailed. boys of good birth were sent to boarding schools run by the Jesuits, who continued the severe habits of the Middle Ages. the boys slept on beds of wood, rose at dawn, attended mass without breakfast, confessed every day and were constantly watched and spied upon. the atmosphere was austere and inhibiting. the priests ate their meals apart and created an aura of sainthood around themselves. they were stylized in their gestures and speech. among them was a very dark-skinned Jesuit who had some Indian blood, the face of a satyr, large ears glued to his head, piercing eyes, a loose-lipped mouth that was always watering, thick hair and the smell of an animal. under his long brown robe the boys had often noticed a bulge which the younger boys could not explain and which older boys laughed at behind his back. this bulge would appear unexpectedly at any hour—while the class read “Don Quixote”, or sometimes while he merely watched the boys, and one boy in particular, the only fairhaired one in all the school, with the eyes and skin of a girl. he liked to get this boy off by himself and show him books from his private collection. these contained reproductions of Incan pottery on which there were often depictions of men standing against each other. the boy would ask questions which the old priest had to answer elusively. other times the prints were quite clear; a long member came out of the middle of one man and penetrated the other from behind. at confession this priest plied the boys with questions. the more innocent they appeared to be, the closer he questioned them in the darkness of the little confessional box. the kneeling boys were unable to see the priest, who was sitting inside. his low voice came through a small grilled window, asking, "have you ever had sensual fantasies? have you thought about women? how do you behave at night in bed? have you ever touched yourself? oave you ever tried to look at other boys while they dress? or at the bath?" the boy who did not know anything would soon learn what was expected of him and be tutored by these questions. the boy who knew took pleasure in confessing in detail his emotions and dreams. one boy dreamed every night. he did not know what a woman looked like, how she was made, but he had seen the Incans making love to the gazelle, which resembled a delicate deer. he dreamed about making love to gazelles and awakened all wet every morning. the old priest encouraged these confessions. he listened with endless patience and imposed strange punishments. a boy who masturbated continuously was ordered to go into the Chapel with him when no one was around, dip his penis in the holy water, and thus be purified. this ceremony was carried out in great secrecy at night. there was one very wild boy who looked like a little Moorish prince, black-faced, with noble features, a royal carriage, and a beautiful body so smooth that no bones ever showed, lean and polished as a statue. This boy rebelled against the customary wearing of nightgowns. he was used to sleeping naked and the nightgown choked him, stifled him. every night he put it on like the other boys, and then he would secretly take it off under his covers, and finally fall asleep without it. every night the old Jesuit would make his rounds, watching that no boy visited another in his bed, or masturbated, or talked in the dark to his neighbor. when he reached the bed of the undisciplined one, he would slowly and cautiously lift the cover and look at his naked body. if the boy awakened he would scold him. "i came to see if you were sleeping without a nightgown again!" but if the boy did not awaken he was content with a long lingering glance at the youthful body asleep. once during anatomy class when he stood on the teacher's platform, and the girlish blond boy sat staring at him, the prominence under his priest's robe became obvious to everyone. he asked the blond boy, "how many bones does man have in his body?" the blond boy answered meekly, "two hundred and eight." another boy's voice came from the back of the classroom, 'But Father Dobo has two hundred and nine!" it was soon after this incident that the boys were taken on a botanical excursion. ten of them lost their way. among them was the delicate blond boy. they found themselves in a forest, far from the teachers and the rest of the school. they sat down to rest and decide upon a course of action. they began eating berries. how it began, no one knew, but after a while the blond boy was thrown on the grass, undressed, turned on his stomach and the other nine boys all passed over him, taking him as they would a prostitute, brutally. the experienced boys penetrated his anus to satisfy their desire, while the less experienced used friction between the legs of the boy, whose skin was as tender as a woman's. they spat on their hands and rubbed saliva over their penises. the blond boy screamed and kicked and wept, but they all held him and used him until they were satiated. 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Thursday, April 27th, 2006
3:16 pm	the most tantilizing part of sex is when you don't yet know if the other wants it, when you're sitting in the same room, noting every breath, playing the timid coquette. a hand brushes a thigh under the pretense of reaching for something across the table, a light is turned out because of an imaginary headache, bodies press against each other in the most nonchalant way. we began with trivial conversation. we spoke of vintage film cameras, activism stories, all the most innocent nonsense. our bodies moved almost imperceptibly closer with each peal of laughter until finally the delicious proximity was impossible to ignore. his lips pressed against mine, the hairs of his beard tickling my face: the access pass i'd been waiting for. i moved against him, presing and undulating like ocean waves. my legs opened for his eager fingers, my sex dripping with seashell dew. i wanted him to take me immedately, my hand wandering down to clutch the firmness of his penis, but he drew it away, making me wait. his kissed covered my face, my breasts, my neck. with every touch i felt the orgasm welling up within me, begging for fulfilment, making my senses ache with intoxicated bliss. i licked the salty sweat from his fingers, begged for him to enter me, proclaimed my love in whispers that enveloped our bodies. he has a beautiful penis with the perfect curvature to stimulate every hidden spot. i tugged it free from his pants like a practised whore, felt its velvety smoothness, and drew myself over him so it barely touched the swollen lips of my sex. i lowered myself to allow the head to penetrate me softly, held it there for an achingly infinite moment. i like to feel the split-second of the first penetration as fully as i can, allowing our breathing to align and our hearts to race together. he moved his hips upward to slip inside more fully. my words do little justice to the oceanic metaphor we created; the eternal tidal ebb and flow sang in our dance. it was more than a physical sensation; i could feel the presence of both our minds opening to each other. i thought of how many people since the beginning of time have embraced as we are now. the lsd i'd taken earlier intensified every nuance. it seemed as if we were forest-dwellers, far away from civilization, creating the universe with our caresses. our rhythm was perfectly attuned, a song that only those skilled in the tantric arts know how to sing. sounds escaped from our lips, hushed declartions of pleasure, as we quickened our pace. i could feel his first orgasm building as i surrendered to the colourful, pulsating void of bliss, the muscles of my sex contracting around his penis and stimulating us both. i paused, wanting to prolong the experience infinitely, allowing us time to feel each other fully. i slipped beneath him while keeping his penis enclosed in my sex, inviting him to thrust more deeply. i raised my hips against his, feeling them rub against my clitoris, bringing more sensation with every movement. when he could hold back no longer he came inside me, and my last orgasm raced to meet his. i never imagined him to be the type to vibrantly embrace, afterwards; more the sort to jump up directly to attend some fabricated engagement, but last night we lay next to each other, legs curled around legs, fingers trailing across flesh. occasionally our eyes would meet and we'd both giggle, the unabashed mirth of children who know they've done something wonderfully naughty. every sound in the house, every ascending and descenting footstep was magnified; our ears would perk up and we'd hastily draw the blanket over our moonlight-bathed bodies. we weren't ashamed, merely basking in the forbidden intimacy. i fell asleep to the sound of his whispers and my sighs of contentment. (Comment on this)