Metaphors Of A Dancing Beast

I suspected that she wanted something with me, something to do with our carnality. I was always a beast wanting to taste her blood, her fire. In business we were always very committed, in each meeting we felt the excess of seriousness that we had when talking and making plans. But we were like werewolves, at night the whole city could hear our howls, while we bathed in our chilling breaths, the cold that every orgasm evokes. Alicia loved being a book editor, correcting, translating, even making conversations about certain works, unlike me who only did it for money although there was a time when I liked literature too much, in fact I still remember Walt Whitman's poems and Franz Kafka's stories. But I always thought that literature should evoke the carnal encounter, if art does not inspire that, it is not art, in my opinion. Alicia was the first to understand this. When I met her, she was a young and simple girl who practiced pole dance, an art that always seemed strange to me but at the same time admirable for lovers. Whenever I could I looked at her ass, it was strange, a little fat but it looked delicious and exciting.

The first time I saw her, I was spying on her while she was dancing alone in the air like a nymph, until I saw how she began to rub the tube gently between her legs (with care not to hurt herself) with an infernal intention. She stopped dancing and began to masturbate in front of the mirrors, full of sweat and with the salon scented with the motive of her life. "This. ""What?""It's poetry. "What do you know about literature, what are you doing here?""Same as you, finding a form of pleasure. As we talked she stopped (not at all) giving herself love. She looked at me as she continued to touch herself gently, until she heard my sentence and let herself kiss her neck as she looked at her breath in the mirror, her eyes relaxed, her mouth open, love like a beast awakened by an unknown lover. That night, the planet shook.

Among millions of beings in a forgotten country, she and I, embedded like a rhyme, like verses from Shakespeare. Her feet moved desperately, a tickle of pleasure was the cause of the strong winds. Her hands caressed my back as if playing a ballad with that passion that an abandoned piano requires. Alicia's breasts begin to give me love as if she were the mother of the sun, shows me the way to the universe, life and endless, because death no longer exists. Because only she and I existed. Who created the universe. "I don't know who you are. "I do know who I am. The best lover in the love story. ""Ah, now love is part of the social sciences. "Oh, now you're smarter than I thought. You're a beast and it's what I love about the beasts that make love like you. "How do I make love?""Let's see, more than making love is how you live life. With passion. You live as if you were always doing pole dance. That's what's exciting, and that makes the world tremble by making love. ""And what is your passion?". . . "I just looked up while we were still lying down. I never liked to talk about my passions or plans, because I feel that by talking about them we are underestimating them.

At that time my passion was her, my favorite beast, who now publishes books and was able to materialize that moment in the form of literature. We are in the middle of a meeting, years later. Nobody knows the secrets of the publishing house. Every time we meet as directors she starts kicking me under the table, insinuating that she wants to suck my penis. Sometimes we ask permission to go to the bathroom, we are the bosses, today has not been the exception. "Yes, yes, give me hard, motherfucker. Put it in me. "Take it, bitch, you're mine, do you like to be fucked like that? Very hard?"Oh, yes, I love you, I l o v e y o u. "Say you're mine. "I am yours, I belong to you, you are the only one in my life. Give me your dick. "This is poetry. . . "Until I bit him slightly on the ass, giving him as a gift my fiery tongue in his sex and some of the sexy secretaries will join our meeting and multiply the pleasure in a place as small as a bathroom, where you breathe sweat, carnality, without interruptions. And so she learns to keep a secret. Our encounters are as grotesque as they are beautiful. We insult each other and at the same time we love each other. It is like a form of healthy hatred. Slaps, spankings, bites, scratches, which in the end are verses that complement my literary ignorance and our perfect union in a world devoid of pleasure. "We are crazy. "There is no doubt. When we returned the book was almost published, only our signatures would be missing. We no longer know how much time has passed, perhaps hours, days, weeks, decades. . . Decades. Cover art by me and source of the image when you click on it.