[Original] Ladybugs
Monica wears a sexy red dress, fitting her rich chest, covering just a bit above her skinny knees. Sheela lightly holds her hands, playing a love melody with her fingers. Her black Turkish pants escort the red waves next to her like possessive guards.
They ramble in the green sky with clouds of dandelions and forget-me-not, breathing the fresh spring.
It is then that they find themselves free from the worry-chains of routine, escaping a reality which is certainly not bad, but it is just heavy.
They run for some yards across the field and then they start dancing, just when the golden sun starts directing the wooden chorus of the willows.
Is there really a river flowing near by or is this water the tears of lovers’ promises?
Monica and Sheela are now resting on the grass, Monica’s head on Sheela’s lap, while their hands play hide and seek. And this ballet is tender and strong, and yet so natural.
Above a luxurious ocean of transparent water swallows the pale mirage of the moon. Have you come to feel all this love, lonely Lady of the night?
There is no other drum than the kisses and the dizziness of the two girls’ souls that overwhelms the landscape with a bittersweet joy. They roll into the green, one on top of each other, an eternal wheel of love, lust and pleasure. And all is so natural, right and beautiful. New and yet older than the old world.
Red and dark, dark and red into an immense leaf, two gentle ladybugs are making love in a forever moment.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Manhattan 460668 Webcam
[Original] Poses
His eyes are trapped in a romantic wondering, when he softly walks in the room. He is petite as a teenager, but he has the elegance of a man in his arhythmic steps.
Once someone said that his almost limping walk is a mirror of his personality, half a joker half a Pierrot.
He forgot, because forgetting is his way to heal, that the other gay friends use to label him as “classy and pricy furniture”. Perhaps because of his shady eyes of hunter and his confusing smile. Or because it is not easy to hear him laugh or talk while he sits on the corner of a pink sofa listening to the wordy river of some friends.
He has been no-man’s man for so long that at first anybody could believe that someone has taken his heart.
“The Prince finally swallowed some milky pride.” Was the rumour spreading around. They giggled when they saw him passing by, without denying their jealousy or their envy, still looking hungrily at how the black jeans fitted his back.
If they only had known how much he hated his shyness, his childish appearance and his soft tone!
He has not yet forgiven himself for betraying his own expectations, probably he never will. There will always be that little aching slash in his chest of feeling cheated by himself, the same only person he has ever trusted for the first twenty-five years of his life.
As always, as he sits alone in the bed, the sun light shining behind the light curtains, a tear unsuccessfully tries to fly from his eyelids: he does not allow to show his weakness to the silence of the room. He unties his black snickers and rolls into the bed in a dance of movement, imitating a vigilant sleep.
Still, he is fighting to breath.
I remain immobile on the threshold, his stunning beauty preventing me to entry. I am his, my Love, my Soul. The contact of our glances becomes a sticky net, my gracious spider. I breath his oriental lily scent, I will give him everything.
It is unbelievable how he can complain about himself, about not being “enough”.
I have never wished for something else than him, I can not imagine something sexier. A ray of sun spots his chest beneath the white shirt.
I cover the distance in three large steps. I want him to touch me or I am going to die. He powerfully grabs my hair, pronouncing nothing, but clearly spelling love and desire from his hips. And it’s a fight of allusive kisses and promising caresses, while our clothes fall on the floor.
His fingers of ice imprison me, he is the wind lifting me up. I surrender, my thunder, I’m gladly defeated.
After love, I welcome him in my embrace, drying his moonshine drops, reassuring him that he is in a safe place, that he can trust me. This is the only magic moment when he allows himself to loose control.
And I love him even more.
His eyes are trapped in a romantic wondering, when he softly walks in the room. He is petite as a teenager, but he has the elegance of a man in his arhythmic steps.
Once someone said that his almost limping walk is a mirror of his personality, half a joker half a Pierrot.
He forgot, because forgetting is his way to heal, that the other gay friends use to label him as “classy and pricy furniture”. Perhaps because of his shady eyes of hunter and his confusing smile. Or because it is not easy to hear him laugh or talk while he sits on the corner of a pink sofa listening to the wordy river of some friends.
He has been no-man’s man for so long that at first anybody could believe that someone has taken his heart.
“The Prince finally swallowed some milky pride.” Was the rumour spreading around. They giggled when they saw him passing by, without denying their jealousy or their envy, still looking hungrily at how the black jeans fitted his back.
If they only had known how much he hated his shyness, his childish appearance and his soft tone!
He has not yet forgiven himself for betraying his own expectations, probably he never will. There will always be that little aching slash in his chest of feeling cheated by himself, the same only person he has ever trusted for the first twenty-five years of his life.
As always, as he sits alone in the bed, the sun light shining behind the light curtains, a tear unsuccessfully tries to fly from his eyelids: he does not allow to show his weakness to the silence of the room. He unties his black snickers and rolls into the bed in a dance of movement, imitating a vigilant sleep.
Still, he is fighting to breath.
I remain immobile on the threshold, his stunning beauty preventing me to entry. I am his, my Love, my Soul. The contact of our glances becomes a sticky net, my gracious spider. I breath his oriental lily scent, I will give him everything.
It is unbelievable how he can complain about himself, about not being “enough”.
I have never wished for something else than him, I can not imagine something sexier. A ray of sun spots his chest beneath the white shirt.
I cover the distance in three large steps. I want him to touch me or I am going to die. He powerfully grabs my hair, pronouncing nothing, but clearly spelling love and desire from his hips. And it’s a fight of allusive kisses and promising caresses, while our clothes fall on the floor.
His fingers of ice imprison me, he is the wind lifting me up. I surrender, my thunder, I’m gladly defeated.
After love, I welcome him in my embrace, drying his moonshine drops, reassuring him that he is in a safe place, that he can trust me. This is the only magic moment when he allows himself to loose control.
And I love him even more.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Exotic Mamals For Sale
Forget-me-not
Few steps in the sunset
hearing the serene giggles
of this wide-blue eye.
Hiding.
I feel comfortably lost.
Nothing is real no-more
no sadness, no pain.
Somewhere you were watching me
whispering a sophomoric lullaby
in dizzy tunes.
This duvet sky
is a symphony of soap
where I can pretend nothing happened.
Leave me here
just for one eternal glimpse
of quiet:
I'll mumble an ocean
notes and wrongly assume
That you will not let me go.
Few steps in the sunset
hearing the serene giggles
of this wide-blue eye.
Hiding.
I feel comfortably lost.
Nothing is real no-more
no sadness, no pain.
Somewhere you were watching me
whispering a sophomoric lullaby
in dizzy tunes.
This duvet sky
is a symphony of soap
where I can pretend nothing happened.
Leave me here
just for one eternal glimpse
of quiet:
I'll mumble an ocean
notes and wrongly assume
That you will not let me go.
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