I spend my days untangling between the Petrarchan literary otium and vice according to André Gide, admiring the feats of beautiful young women armed with colorful rubber toys that used to amuse each other, longing for the pink flesh filled with silicone implants, surgical scars on looking for perfect bodies. In the video this morning, Belladonna, her hair in two tight pigtails, she was very pregnant and Played with two other girls. I do not watch videos that include men.
Then when I finally decide to leave the house, I'm surrounded by youths who urlacchiando fill me with compliments and make tongue-in-mouth one another, juxtaposed in the shooting cocks pressing against the tight jeans and I patted his head. For seven months now, seven months exactly no one gets inside me. Nothing, except that the gynecologist's speculum, white-haired prince sheathed in white, the only keeper of the keys to my cervix. During the last visit I found a vaginal discharge, nothing major, banal losses vanilla color with a creamy sauce spends all, I am he, kindly, paternal, perhaps a bit too paternal, while choosing the jack vagina for the smallest available-hand me a speculum by nurse-order Pupetta ipersorridente. In addition to losing
vaginal juice I also lost my moleskine, depositary of my romantic pseudo-literary resurgence, that very notebook that made us fight to death this time-remember? Peace was not sanctioned on the bed, or on the couch, or on the kitchen table nor on the living room carpet, not protected by climbing on the balcony in the garden nor in the glow of dawn, I was hurt to death, you were fearful of giving that lives of fantasies, just because I dared to turn that thing on the stock exchange on which occasionally took notes, neologisms neologisms my beloved! ideas for subjects that I would never have developed, addresses, movies to watch, hard to hear, scrupulous records of dreams in the morning, et cetera-surely lost on the tram tin green caterpillar climbing up to my indomitable suburbs already sung by Pasolini in due course, and I guess the raverino ketazzaro made off that many have found laughter to decipher my scribbles.
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