Bridge Over Troubled Water

I sat on the elbow-chair, opened a bottle of whiskey and for some instants I paid attention to the sound of dropping, that was a cloudy day, almost couldn't see the sun but I felt heat, I looked through the window and thought of the wonder that was the creation of woman, a poetry of sex and hate to which men get drunk to the point of waking up on a hangover of uncountable days...

What do you like to hear? A calling by your name, a female mouth wet by tequila along to yours, a soft and smooth face. Like anyone, you always carry that desire for uncountable vaginas that pass in front of you, or to get lost in only one, feeling its wet and smooth interior.

Who consumes who?  I'd throw myself in front of a train if I had to protect a woman, I'm just a child wanting to play at the playground of sex for a long time searching for new places to have fun, the hand that scale the backs until reach the cervix and the two  hot bodies that evolve themselves in an old poetry that was sang long ago by the Greek ancients at the theater of orgy.

“Aren't you coming to bed?” she said, “just a moment” I answered, she wore my shirt and her smell reached until me “it's so cold”, I think it's time to go...

The smell of sex... The smell of old whiskey... The taste of Camille...