* (103) Paris in a full demolition, or reconstruction. Only fragments of walls, buildings, anything goes. Roadways, sidewalks are only wooden walkways on the dirt, superposed to protect us from the mud. No cars then, some carts, and hand my bike to walk through this labyrinth teeming with people, all the people of the halls temporarily exiled to rebuild their stalls. I met Patrick, one of my yoga teachers. He smiled at me with its glare blond. Then he told me he had found during a week that I can give I know not where.
He leans over to kiss my lips I n'entrouvre not too many things cluttering my mouth pieces of mucus thinner that I pull with my hand on the sly at risk to remove my teeth at the same time. His kiss is so chaste it causes me no trouble. Then I see Patrick naked, his skin suffused with the famous blonde. The kiss, his head wrapped up my belly, giving me her back as my hands slide up to catch her buttocks. There is nothing sexual in my pleasure, I feel a fetus who wants to return to his home.
0 comments:
Post a Comment