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Sunday, April 29th 2012

9:42 PM

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Related article: Date: Wed, 02 Mar 2005 18:00:32 +0000 From: alfredo garcia Subject: Confessions poem (revised)In the afternoon cold of autumn, The scent of the wet earth brings old images. Adolescent, I stare through a window at the wind moving the trees, As two hands slip inside of my shirt, gliding upwards. My eyes close; finger tips play on my nipples. I hear the rain, As my friend X caresses me from behind.Z, the man in the warehouse, with a penis of polished marble, Lowers my pants.I want to sleep but my friend nibbles my neck. Y begs with dark, beautiful, sad eyes. I can not resist his hands on my body. His lips caress my legs. I open them, I want to like him. His desire wakens mineflatters me.The great white penis of Z, With a drop of glass on the tip.A spring morning with X, in the forest with snow, I undressed for him. What was the pretext? To bathe in the snow? Alone at night, in a cold room, I want to be with him.Z sits on a sofa in a warehouse of furniture. He has taken off his pants And shows me his smooth thighs. He sits me on his lap, And interrogates me on the cause of my small erectnesss. I remember nothing else.The storm has passed, the sea is blue and calm. Again with X, on the beach, near here. At twenty I read the Leaves of Grass. Whitman did not feel what I felt.He made love to me. I made him happier than his wife, he told me.I was twelve, Y was fifteen. I almost an adolescent, he almost a man. Full of passion and desire. His gravity attracts me. Yet I refuse him, but permit his hands on my body, And his sensual mouth kiss me, like a girlfriend. His desire pulls me in.Slowly I walk toward Z and I kiss him in the mouth, His penis grows between my trembling legs. He promises me rides on his motorcycle, A wooden machine gun, A scale model ship he is building. He wants me to touch him and take The white milk of his penis in my small hand.On a mattress of wool over a forge, Or in the rustic inn with X, always with X, My obsession, my great love. He did not know it then, But when he did, young nymphet lolita bbs it scared him, And he left me drowning in a marshes of disaffectionIt was Y who first put his tongue to my ass, Y who made love to me with lolita forum ls series his lips, And his fingers. I dreamt of his penis inside me, As those dark eyes penetrated me deeper still.Where was that paradise, How did I wreck the ship of love?I was also happy with some girls, And wanted others that I did not have, Like little W, whose intense histories of love, Lived only in my 13 yr lolita pics imagination.So, it is not what I had that I miss, But that I will not have again.I lick the white and beautiful penis of Z, Till his semen flows endlessly. I am not able to swallow it all. It slides down my face, my chest, my legs, And on to my small sex erect.Paris, two youths run joking along the Champs d'Elysee. At night they will sleep together on the white bed, In a room papered in flowers. But that love passed long ago. Lost lolita forum ls series moments of happiness, Unrecoverable, Yet their beauty justifies the universe.In the room of the old hostel of London I dream that X makes love to me. His voice soft and sweet to my ear, His legs crisscross mine, Our sexes beat together.I never had Z inside me. I am sorry for him, and for me.It still moves my soul, That image of a young man and an adolescent making love, Before a closet mirror in the furniture warehouseToday, on this melancholic afternoon, The leaves of the trees becoming agitated, Before the sea, at end of my life. On a night at the end of the summer, Two young friends, tired after a long trip. Nude on the soft sheets In a distant highway hotel, Hair wet from a recent shower, Eyes peer into the dimness. One of them at least, longing, Penis erect, in love, Unable to ask his friend's favor. Was that my name mumbled in the darkness? It was not repeated. Did it happen at all? Another time when the world became less beautiful.Oh my God!, the passions of my past revive, Now, just as life declines. But the fire is strong, Every day, At every hour. Will it consume me? The images thrust forward. Only when I obsess with work, Grappling some complexity, Or submerged in alcohol, do they pale. But still they hover there, Always waiting to torment me, Diabolic but wondrous, And I invite them in.-----------------------------------Please, write me with your comments.
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Saturday, April 28th 2012

12:00 AM

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