Every touch gives you the smell of the other until it should overwhelm you. It is so repulsive otherwise when associated with something else why then isn't it considered repulsive regarding this? Your taste upon their taste and their sweat upon yours. You're in them and they are all within you and they behave as if they're experiencing some degree of satisfaction yet their moans, huffs and puffs and all exclamations sound rehearsed. It is a play, it isn't real.
Real is silence. Real is the quiet, the unexclaimed where the beast is untamed and yet not savage. Where the touch isn't a touch but a revelation, where the breath IS the breath of life, where the act isn't a play. In the real the play is love. This wasn't that. That would've been surreal, this was just thighs and ribs rubbing each other and nothing more.
Men have spirits don't they? And they have souls do they not? How is it that this can be considered real when it births neither? It can't be attractive, it can only be deceptive. The touch was coarse and the smell was vulgar. There was acid on the tongue, mine and hers, and our minds were corrupt. Our minds were miles apart. I was fixed on HER but she was perhaps far from even speculations. There was no unison. There was no reality. This was a hoax.
