Qué Porqué

Me dijo que no escribiera más de ella, que al amor muerto no hay letras que lo reviva. 

Me dijo que mudó la muda de ropa mía por un trajinar nuevo. 

Con despecho en sus labios, me dijo que él sí tuvo valor y se tatuó su amor por ella. 

Sin ruido deje que engordara su aislamiento de mi, sin ruido deje que le corrieran lagrimas de rabia. 

Me cerré a escuchar sus campanazos, mientras ella seguía vendiéndome derrotas y porqués. 

Su soberbia quería respuestas, mientras en silencio yo la dejaba. 

Agitada empezó a gritar, qué porqué yo no era él, qué porqué yo no la amaba...

Press Play

Part 39

By now most of you are aware that this Herculean attempt of mine to bind the relationships that swim about me into a dog eared Pulitzer has a few virtual outlets. 

The progress of the work is anticipated by a few amongst you. Some devour the words that melt them from the inside out as quickly as I impregnate paper with ink. 

The obvious risk for the writer in publishing his art as the brush strokes strike life onto the canvas, is that the untrained eye gets exposed to the slow journey into the madness of the creator.

Nonetheless the mindful reader demands fire and brimstone, and I stitch passion onto their flesh. 

Every one wants to pleasure themselves, the writer, the reader and the flesh that comes between them. 

Speaking to a writer in the midst of his madness is as perilous as baiting a fresh bull. 

My readers reach out to me and I encourage it. Of late the dialogue is filled with torrid tales of self pleasuring and requests for drops of blood. 

Reading my readers absorption of my work onto their flesh is the life blood I thrive on. 

I struggled with the first video I received, I couldn't get the sound to play, but after a while I figured out it had none. 

I saw movement and as I focused, the sheet heaved and then the party was on, there was a hand stroking what I prayed to god was a swollen clit. 

I heard nothing the camera was in such a peculiar angle, all I could see was the tips of her toes, the rising of her knees and the glistening between her legs, this animal was pleasuring every rib that rubbed her innards. 

Moisture bleeding through the thin sheet I had now gone from shifting gears to melting.

The rhythm intensified, the camera panned up by accident and now I had a fresh look at the brave who lost in her abandon was unaware of my prying eyes. I now saw her tits and they were a site. 

Movement on the bed and it wasn't my fan, this daredevil had gone through some trouble to film herself in this vulnerable state with what appeared to be her unaware husband. 

I love the thrill but this eye popping pornography was dirty and I loved it. 

I suppose if anonymity was her thrill mine was seeing her. 

Keep up with me, I might be the sorcerer but if I write it and you read it we are both going to hell. 

The second video came in a few days later, immediately I suspected that it might have been from the same source but as quickly as that thought invaded it was dispelled. 

This video was grainy, the images would come in for a few seconds and then it was pitch black. What was constant was the heavy breathing, broken by long chest sinking moans. 

Thought was put to this video, whoever produced it was as twisted as a bread bag twist. 

What I initially thought to be a poor quality video was a deliberate attempt to titillate me with sensory deprivation. The grainy images, the silhouettes that sent my imagination on an out of control journey. 

This fan was trying to one me up on the stimulation game. 

A peek here and a lot of darkness there, I was blindfolded from a distance. 

I never saw her lips, I couldn't tell if she was blond, brunette, black, white or redhead. 

I just knew that if I got my hands on her my fingers would plow her dirty mind and plant the fruit of hunger. 

To be continued. 

art is long life is short 

Part 38 

I knew of Alexa through our mutual friend Marta Lorenzo, they had gone to Miami Beach High all four years. Marta always with her dinner parties trying to play match maker. 

I had chatted with Alexa in one of these gatherings. Immediately I recognized her in the pictures that Lazaro couldn't bare to see, I knew who she was. 

I might have over reacted by reaching out to her but I've been in this city for almost forty years and knowing what I knew and how lost Lazaro was, I couldn't just sit on my hands.

I asked Marta for Alexa's phone number under the guise that I wanted to get to know her.

All the while what I was doing, was putting her on notice that she had been caught tying Lazaro's wife. 

As sensationalized as the wild cocaine days of Miami, the Versace murder and our face eating cannibals might be, if you looked closely you would see the most prevalent underreported crime, so much so that no one bats an eye when it happens. Murder suicide is as old as passion itself. 

I invited Alexa to Smith and Wollensky on South Point Park for coffee but when she got there I already had Macallan melting the ice. 

Reader, in the beginning of this Pulitzer worthy quest of mine I had latched on to the likes of Mario and company but this that is happening of late is Freud couch shit. 

I now have Lazaro confiding his and his wife's and their lover's trysts to me and it has made me uncomfortable, guilty and horny. 

To be continued. 

No se hablar

Nací para tenerte, lo demás es lo demás. 

A primera vista supe que te tendría. Me desinterese de ti y tu porqué, me dediqué a ignorarte. 

Te convertí en una obsesión a la cual con delicadeza y maña haría mía. 

Desvíe mi vista y malamente escuche los cuentos que contabas.  

A mi solo me importaba la saliva de tu boca y el rozar de tu labios con los secos míos. 

Entable un tema contigo sin propósito más que seducirte violentamente. 

Sin que te dieras cuenta te ahorcaría en el abrazo de mis brazos hundiéndote en mí.  

Me puse para ti muchacha, y tu te dedicaste a jugar el juego que se pierde a propósito. 

Si no te lo e dicho todo es porque no se hablar.... 

Cessna

Part 37 

She had no clue, why would she suspect that destiny had the death card under her sleeve and would play it. She after all felt entitled to happiness. 

Newlyweds shouldn't part from each other for extended periods of time. Fresh happiness is at times devoured by the thirst of others. 

He had logged many hours, but he hadn't flown solo this far. 

This nondescript dirt road in El Departamento de Nariño, en la Selva Colombiana, that doubled as cocaine runway was far as hell from the arms of his freshly minted bride. 

He was excited to prove his wings, after all he was now head of the household. 

Silver with red and blue pinstripes, twin prop Cessna 421, it got as much local coverage as the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. 

It's was on the news from Halloween to the New Year's, but to no avail the airplane and its novice captain vanished. 

In Amelia Earhart's backyard he reincarnated in local folklore. 

"The kid with wings and the silver bullet never to be seen again."

How could destiny rob her of him. Was she destined to be alone. 

These sad stories she told me in an attempt to justify her rope tricks.

I'm not buying her agony, maybe she was into girls from day one and on day two she decided that they where prettier tied up. 

To be continued. 

Chalet

I'll put myself up in a chalet, in a foreign land, where my tongue will be a foreign tongue. 

I'll lock myself up with a great vintage and produce a great novel. 

I'll be kept by my desire and she will be my muse. 

I won't see the sun nor the moon, only the light from her eyes and the fire from her loins. 

I'll fill my novel with words that will render every bite into legible desire. 

I'll close my eyes and trace her body with my writing hand so I can write her curves into my pages. 

I'll love her and the pages will show. 

Azul

Se llama, todas las huellas de mi mano acariciando su cuerpo, yo la llamo mía, y ella me llama carne.

Rastreando mis letras encontró su nuevo tatuaje, al instante eche mi corazón al fuego, y estrené uno nuevo. 

La seduje hasta cobrarle el azul de sus venas, y el rojo de sus labios. 

Calle mis palpitaciones al escuchar su lengua foránea y doblegue mis dedos a surcar sus costillas. 

Ella seguía murmurando en su jerigonza mientras yo clavaba mis espuelas en su porvenir. 

Me miró con cara de terremoto y yo la salude con hambre de hembra. 

Se despidió de mi con su lengua entre mis labios, y yo le dije adiós, con un suspiro de nunca más.