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A Cipher Unencrypted free porn video
A Cipher Unencrypted
A true confession, word for word
I have been away. I have been lost in dreams, in dreams of you, in
dreams of togetherness.
Love--I do not understand it. It consumes me, abandons me, beckons me,
saddens me, disappoints me, arouses me. But, then, a breakthrough: a
realization. Love is an idea; it is not real. Nothing we think or
feel--especially feel--is real.
Only the moment is real. The now. The incident and the event are real,
but only as long as they happen, for memories, also, are unreal.
Very well. Let me explain. Perhaps an example will help. My breasts are
real when their weight is in my hands--or yours. They have density, then;
they are tangible; they are measurable. Unmistakably, they have
existence. But, after the moment, when they are no longer held, they are
just ideas, nothing more than memories.
Eva, my former love, says I am too philosophical: "too philosophical
for your own good," she says. (She is not philosophical enough for her
own good, I say.)
Thom (is it pretentious to include the "h"? I maintain that it is; Thom
or Tom insists it is not and tells me that I am a snob.)
Only recently, I have begun to consider not only my breasts, but also my
testicles. They generate--or procreate--while my breasts nurture, but we
can't have the latter without the former (and, of course, eggs, which I
cannot supply.)
Semen is a mystery to me. I understand the science. Once, I could even
tell you what the chemical components of ejaculate are. I do not
comprehend the poetry of semen, though, or the metaphysics, if there is
any longer such a branch of philosophy. (Logical positivism and
scientism may have vanquished the study of first principles altogether;
like the speaker in Eliot's "Wasteland," I am not sure.)
Understand this, if nothing else: having both female breasts and male
genitalia is a hoot! It is! A hoot!
Certainly, mere males and females cannot know what it is to be whole, to
be entire, to be both a man and a woman and, at the same time, neither
completely. We really are a third sex, although to suggest such a thing
nowadays would be considered socially incorrect, to say the least.
Karen slurps when she sucks my cock, but not when she licks the risen,
taut nipples of my beautiful, buoyant breasts. I love it when we play
Pygmalion and Galatea. I love it, too, when she asserts herself and
fucks me, fast and hard, without mercy, in my ass, making me submit to
my knowledge that I am just an It, a Hole, to enter and to fill. I love
the tickling warmth of her seed as it trails down my perineum, proof of
her victory, an emblem of my nothingness.
Close, then, we become (hot sex always makes me think and write, but
never speak, like Yoda, my syntax scrambled like my brain; I wonder how
it makes Yoda speak, or Yaddle?)
Oh, yes, I know. I smile, because I know. You probably think, whoever
you are, that I am mad, but I am sane. I see now, you see. I hear now,
you hear? Having tits and cock and balls and an ass that doubles as a
cunt--cloaca is the polite term--and we should always be polite,
right?--and now I have forgotten my thought! Politically correct and
chaste and restrained we must ever be, and ever, ever so polite, even as
we are being led, gently and tenderly, for our own good, to the cages
and the camps and the common graves.
Close, then, we were, in our ecstasy. I wore her cum between my buttocks
and upon my perineum and between the tops of my inner thighs, her brand,
her mark, her claim upon me, until it dried in brittle flakes and
crumbled from my flesh in ruins.
Karen knew, as I knew, that such a catastrophe would befall me, befall
her, befall us. But she is not alarmed; like me, she knows we can
always, always and forever, make love again. Again and again. And, now,
if you were attentive; if you paid me the attention I am due; if you
read closely, with focus, you know the our secret, for, in this
confession, I speak for both Karen and myself; it is an admission we
make freely and with great joy.
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