A perverse paranoia overwhelms me to read every page of this malevolent and beautiful book. Eroticism, pornography, transgression and evil run through each line of the archeology of the pussy. The pussy of girls, the whores pussy, pussy of the widows, the rent pussy, pussy of the sleepwalkers. That's why coñometría who does not know, nor is a coñofílico said, fails to engrossed in this booklet delirious pussy. These fragments serve as an invitation to the erection, ejaculation defenseless against an orphan and shaggy slit envérgate to her pale thighs and dreams of soft openings.
The neighbor across
During adolescence, Silvia and I were dating in the distance, each at one end of town, suburban living creatures of nostalgia and love is never consummated. It was then when we turn to a communication system used when Noah and the Flood: carrier pigeons. At the feet of those wise birds caught our messages were binding, ink blur of tears, full of metaphors and orgasms Becquerian sentimental. Then when we grew, we moved to the center of the city and unknowingly, without approval, on a whim of fate, the imposition of fate or whatever, "agree in the same building, neighbors facing each other. With great dismay, we waive the volatile exchange messages and decide-as doves languishing for lack of work and not even zureaban-arrange a funeral feast in which the troubled messenger roasted and we ate them with bones and feathers and peak. But life continued, and soon found another messaging system, had a clothesline in the atrium linking the wall of his house with the wall of the mine through an intricate genius of ropes and pulleys, and there, every morning , Silvia left me, secured by clips, panties of the day. I then pulled the rope and I approached this message fragrant, at least one piece of fabric that I spoke of her and her affairs with an eloquence concerns prior to words. Those white panties, black, purple or apricot, were the seal in which stamped her pussy Silvia orphan, the sponge which contained the fruit of many kisses and caresses that she lavished on herself in the solitude of his apartment celibate. Sometimes, her panties revealing a timid pussy, thinner than the spirit of the candy, lean and dry like blotting paper, and others brought the testimony of a wealthy hell, sweet as a tropical fruit, dripping syrup and ragweed, melted like a big drop of honey. There were times that I spoke of a panties pussy yacht he was going to sea on a boat and returned imbued with a scent of salt and stony corals, and other times I conveyed the painful cry of a pussy cut open and bleeding. All those messages touched me and woke dark desires, temptations dark, dark imminence of pleasure. Silvia clothesline waiting at the foot of a response to this expectation of the nineteenth century brides awaiting the arrival of her boyfriend layered on the balcony. But that answer never came, because my pants did not serve to convey the infinite shades of feeling (I did not stamping a pussy tears, laughter, blood or veneration), and it goes against the most elementary rules of hygiene. But would be imposed on an unmarried man, devoid of washing detergent and even, to keep his underwear clean? Silvia, meanwhile, languished across the patio. I do not even zureaba
. Any day now, I have to organize another funeral banquet. And this time, besides funeral will be cannibals.
's pussy lesbians
There is a convention of lesbian clients frighten us away. Lesbians who come in droves, stirring up the hall with banners and slogans feminist practice corporatism fierce, even more ferocious than that of doctors, judges or lawyers. Lesbians are girls very claws that remind me more than the shepherdesses Sanazzaro or Jorge de Montemayor, the mountain of the Marquis de Santillana, who carried on the shoulders with travelers who ventured into their domain and are then came and went in any byways or cliff.
One, who has read Proust lot, despite working as a receptionist at the flophouse, hopes to one year, between the belligerent troops lesbian, there is similar to Au recherche Albertine, or any of those sublime Proust met gomorrianas Balbec in the spa, but contradicts the nature of art. Against lesbians in the books, flower girls look out the corner of his eye and mischief perpetrated, lesbian conventions faction women appear as wild and somewhat stale, more representative of vulgarity than anything else.
Lesbians locked in their rooms, after registering at the reception, to stand the trip, and are mixed together. Form a harem of mermaids mollares, inflamed by the incomprehension of society. Once installed, start to be heard behind closed doors and spit sighs and purrs. Lesbians make the tortilla with a delicacy unknown in heterosexual couples, to apply to pleasure other than himself, in an altruistic love.
Among lesbian couples, there are those who officiates officiating man and woman who (in spite of corporatism and flophouse conventions have not yet managed to get rid of social practices), but this division of roles does not diminish the greatness of his love sterile beings together. Together their pussies lesbians without fear of mating, share their juices and saliva kisses are thick, almost masculine. The pussy of lesbian, better preserved than that of heterosexuals (the same way that childless women belly smoother preserves the Birth "), part of the tortilla copious orgasms, swampy, almost river, soaking the sheets and force the hotel laundry to work overtime. In the morning, in the absence of other signs, lesbians stand up and take the hotel's balconies wet sheets and cunnilinguos masturbation as unchaste banners of their nocturnal activities. Cracked sheets to the wind, with the double imprint of the pussy, and director hits voices to the hotel cleaning service, to withdraw immediately from such filth balconies that sully the reputation of your business. Flows stains on the sheet, weave a fanciful calligraphy, and ink stains, and could be used by a psychiatrist to study the reactions of his patients.
To me, in particular, those spots I suggest a river inhabited by nymphs. Will the lesbian nymphs to become a witch viragos, touching them with a magic wand?
pussy transvestite The
customers in a nightclub and enough vaccine pachanguera works Felipe, my friend, the transvestite.
acts at around midnight, dressed folk with ruffled dress and castanets, if they let him act, because sometimes the clientele, there is a vandal throw turnips on stage, and Philip must withdraw, mocked in their femininity. Felipe, aka The Coquito, rumba and seguidillas sings with his voice hoarse canary, and slip between songs a joke chocarrero for more spiritual food of the mules, which are always in their performances. Felipe, aka The Coquito, I know him since childhood, when we agree on the same school (and in the same room, yet at the same desk) during elementary school. Philip, then, he already had some weakness Socratic Hellenism certain ailments of a little male. When the teacher explained theorems, or when we are punished by having recreation, Felipe I got my hand under the desk, and I masturbated with a violent young man frustrated. Philip, who were threatening to fourteen years with sex-change as gather some savings, I was a kid reading indigestion harmful and couplets, shaking his ass to go and pluck the bozo. Then I lost track for years, until I went back to get him a few months ago, in this club impassable, to which I went to celebrate my bachelor party. When announcing the performance of the Coquito, the public, brutalized by alcohol and other diseases gregarious, began to kick and make nonsense (and I admit that I also joined the barbarism). Felipe, aka The Coquito, came on stage with the opening chords of The reliquary I heard him sing many times during our school years. Felipe, aka The Coquito, carving out the hair tresses, I picked up in a bun and poked with a comb, under the crust of makeup, her blue beard, as a late tribute to his virility. Felipe rolled his ruffled skirt and showed her thighs almost to the height of the English, they were playful thighs, an earthquake cushioned socks, men's sunk to the cause. He tried a shoe and a clatter of castanets, but the public, abused in the eardrums, rebuked him and gave him a spit and semen ejaculation patient. Felipe, aka The Coquito, scurrying behind the scenes once exhausted his repertoire, and no longer reappeared throughout the night.
I left my buddies on the dance floor of the club a hit song, music, rumbling percussion, as slaughterhouse or sadomasochistic games, and asked the business manager for Felipe. He pointed to a door with a sign reading PRIVATE. In this miserable little room, including liquor bottles and empty hulls, was Felipe, aka The Coquito, wiping the makeup.
was much better looking than my girlfriend, I must decide.
"I saw you in the audience. Go buddies you have more sheep.
He asked me to loosen her bra, and I see her tits bursting of silicone, with hairs on the nipple, just like my girlfriend, I must decide. I kissed Philip on the shoulder, scar on the varicella vaccine and measles. Philip was behind Olympic swimmer, too smooth belly and hips drained, as pre-pubescent girl. Panties pulled down, deliriously erotic (back left my girlfriend) and I felt my flesh pussy ass and probably excised from transplanted there. Between the lips hinted at a dítoris huge, phallic, abound in centimeters. It was a bit disgusted to see that appendix between the labia. Asked
"But do not you have removed the member? Did not you say you were small saving for doing surgery?
Felipe, aka The Coquito, looked down at the floor strewn with roaches and broken glass. He said, his voice hoarse canary:
"I've operated seven times, but it is useless. I always grow back like weeds.
mumbled words of sympathy and I went off.
The girls pussy
know it is contrary to the rules of civility and decency, and yet, how temptation to watch a girl piss next to a wall! There's a song that does not perish in that jet yellow bursts from inside, like a thread of twine, like a perpetual gold yarn dialogue with the earth. The girls pussy is a pussy pitus, pert, too pink and to hold sin, a smooth pussy, for a moment, brings us back to the paradise of childhood. Hairless pussy of girls who piss on the walls, almost always a celebration of solidarity (which is common to see girls pee gang) is a joyful monument erected in honor of her innocence and malice, because these girls that we show their huchita and we throw at the foot of the wall of his small change pis are innocent and equally mischievous, innocent and malicious teach because her pussy know that they teach with impunity, with no hint of danger, because the constraints of civility and religion closer to us from your cleavage pink, not even cleaned with these blades of grass growing next to the wall. The girls pussy, brash and meoncete takes us deeper into the gap of years with its original taste pee pleased with the heat of those last few drops that still dripping when climbing pant and fly off in noisy cabal, whispering together:
- Have you noticed in this man, how we watched the bunny?
And I see them leave suddenly saddened, with omens of prostate and kidney stones.
On the wall there is a string of spills that are whimsical drawings, a map of moles that I am unable to decipher. The wall smells like stale pee, because girls are atavistic creatures of habit and always mean the same site. Maybe, tonight, at home, your mama scold by peeing in the street and not cleaned after the recess without hair, smelling of malice, perfumed innocence, like a large sore that we would have liked to kiss.
The red flower was
inaugural moment, the first menstruation. What intersection of pain and uncertainty, hopes and disappointments! Suddenly feels the girl, the middle class mathematics, a shift in her womb, a romp in his gut does not know the teacher to locate and attack diagnosed as appendicitis. The surrounding world lost concreteness, and she is bleeding from dizziness, choking soles that do not exist, because we are in the middle of December. What a moment for eternity, the girl's pierced by a sword of their first menstruation, fainting into the arms of the teacher who can not see beyond the square the circle and three fourteen sixteen! What flower improvised flow density that comes from within and he is wetting her panties and jeans later! What gradually the puddle the first period on the desk chair! Which planet of blood! You have to wait for a classmate (usually repetitive) it falls into the enigma of the bleeding and provide a safe and secure minievax, a tampon, sponge, blotting paper, whatever, to heal this wound will be reopened when the moon completes another cycle. What the hell so worthy of the girl who has her first period! What ovaries own, intimate and contained in his belly still intact, which tears the blood mournful weeping for that first egg that died without being fertilized!
What now, God! Archaeology
pussy
My brother Felix, an archaeologist by profession, made expeditions to the Greek islands, and unearth statues of goddesses usually unintelligible and mutilated. The work of archaeologists, under the sun yellow and almost Doric Aegean, has been heating up my brother Felix, to infuse a little Catholic ideas of outrageous extravagance. Asserts that the only truly desirable woman is the statue, because his stillness or immobility prevents us men the psychological component purely hysterical or suffered by others (I mean the women of flesh and blood and soul). This praise of love statuary, which could prove tricky as lucubration and up argument for a treaty of snobbery, implemented can cause fever and dysfunction. In her last archaeological expedition, Felix brought a collection of goddesses incomplete, fragments of marble that circulated in his garden, among clumps of clover and boxwood shrubs, like meteors falling from the sky, worsened by the pagan lust with the statues. In the evenings, when dusk sets fire to trees, giving them a certain greatness of forest, my brother Felix walks in the garden (it is a peripatetic, without knowing it) and pretends to be faced with these pieces of goddess who always needed arm, leg or head, but he never pussy. The pussy of the Greek statues is of a white shabby for carbon 14, a mop and hell no, of course, impenetrable. The Greek statues pussy, my brother Felix strokes with the worship of the priests who officiate a ceremony sublime, does not support variants, if belonging to such diverse goddesses like Aphrodite or Demeter. The pussy of the Greek statues is a pinch of marble, a warped surface with a slight depression between the lips (in any case a hole) that my brother Felix masturbates with her index finger, tracing a circular movement, parsimoniously, that, day after day, eroding the stone. While my brother Felix
masturbates the statues in his garden, on Olympus smile goddesses, shaken by tickling the air transmits them, smiling for breaking the sixth commandment of a barbaric religion. Swifts, fly-in, they defecate on the pussy of the statues, and shit, in contact with the marble, it becomes honey. That, at least, is what my brother says, who, incidentally, we decided to intern in a mental hospital. In your abandoned garden statue fragments remain, hidden among the foliage and bird droppings, nostalgic of the sun and almost Doric blonde looks over the Aegean Sea.
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