His kiss was passionate [...]
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A man’s kiss is like his penis; the owner is usually clueless how it rates. Whether he’s good or bad. If you are aroused by it, or disappointed. If it’s inviting you to surrender, or forcing it’s way in. Even if he has missed 24 dental appointments and had his penis broken in three different places, he will still think his kiss and cock are the stuff that dreams are made of. [...] 10 minutes and I’m turning 39. White skinny pants, white top with the distinctive ribbons of a Saph bra showing through. Despite good resolutions not to drink after yesterday’s birthday party, I poured myself a big glass of red wine. My new Madonna Confessions Tour dvd is playing. The Valerie Tasso book, also a gift, is next to me. My duty is to write about the results of my 4 week yoga challenge, but the biggest challenge seems to write about yoga when my mind is clearly somewhere else. [...] Your looks were dark, almost Italian, at your tiny Twitter avatar. Your blogging hit me so hard, it nearly knocked me over. Out of the blue you added me on Facebook, and there I noticed you were a blonde. Slightly relieved I browsed your photos. You didnt look like dark Valentino on any of them. A short film of an interview in your student dorm. I wanted to kiss your stutter. DMs, emails, it rained Tweets. Regards became hugs, love or kisses. [...] Je leek donker, Italiaans bijna, op je Twitter avatar van 1bij1cm. Je schrijfsels kwamen zo hard binnen dat ik even dacht dat ramen en deuren wijd open stonden. Totaal onverwacht voegde je me toe op Facebook en daar bleek mijn nieuwste vriend Mark Schoones blond. Opgelucht bladerde ik door je foto’s. Natuurlijk leek je nergens op de donkere Valentino. Mijn glimlach bij een gefilmd interview op je studentenkamer zag ik aan voor vertedering. DM’s, emails en twitterregens. Een groet werd een knuffel, liefs een kus. [...] Dear Valentino, I remember that Winter. The icy wind blew through my leather jacket, my New Wave haircut was squashed under a black beret. The peanut butter on my sandwiches hard and tasteless, in the windy school yard. And I remember the green eyes that enchanted me, in the early days of January. His lovers kiss on a hard bench in the middle of the city. The intimacy of my warm attic room. The smell of fresh croissants my mother brought us. [...] |
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Copyright 2011 L.S. Harteveld. Design by AlfaBetty, code by Valentijn |
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