Paris - Île-de-France - France

#ifWomen English version: The following text is originally written in mixed languages french, english and spanish. Here is the english version: You'll have to forgive me for thinking in three languages, but my pussy is international. She is currently working on a beautiful collection of nationalities. I would say up to seven or eight have been carefully captivated and secured, like stuffed butterflies in a huge painting under glass. If during an orgasm my ass could speak Farsi, it would. Either way, sex is universal. Sex is human. Sex is healthy and beautiful and delicious. It’s a sad thing that I must have it with men. I wasn’t blessed with bisexuality nor with lesbiannism, therefore I’m stuck with old boring, dirty, one note, impossible, exquisite, irresistible, scrumptious MEN. What an inaccessible creature is man. Especially the young man. What an incomprehensible beast it is. Perhaps it would be healthier not to try to understand it, because there is simply nothing to understand. The wind must not be given body, and the water must not be filled with stones. Water flows and you have to let it flow. And just like Heraclitus said: No woman should ever step into the same one night stand twice. The cuteness of a hug can confuse a lady. Hormones and love are alike from time to time, unfortunately. If we could discern and abstract the empty reality of the empty soul of a man, we women could cum in peace. But we can’t. Because men do like to act confusing, since they don’t know what they want. It is tragic and pettyful. Men only think they know what they don’t want, and it usually is: stepping into the same ass twice. Give your ass to men and they will set you free. Give them a hug and a smile, they will flee. Leaving a trail on the road with his name, carved into the air for you to remmember the pain of being left behind and hidden under a cluster of women, who are stacked like an Aztec pyramid, one on top of the other and so on, until they touch the stars. To understand there must be some juice deep in the mind of a man, but it seems that these people have been dried up inside. The poor creatures of God. Poor children. My darlings! My divine army of men who do not know they are suffering. To avoid the pain of existence without meaning, one must know oneself to the point where one can escape from oneself and get lost in the forests of a kind lady. Me. I am such kind lady. Poor bastards. Sons of a motherless earth. Poor souls, destined to the solitude of the polygamist. Subjected to drinking from the river water, and always be thirsty. I suffer for you. My toxic empathy cries for your fate. I pitty you, kids. I pitty one more than the other. I pitty you, the one that would understand two of three languages I speak. The one that speaks another language that nobody truly gives a shit about, except for me, who cares about it all. I cared about your empty soul, I thought I could help you fill it up with the vocation you claimed you didn’t have. I could fill it up with joy. As you fill my body with your giant dick. My God, it's so good... But anyway, hormones and love are alike from time to time, unfortunately. I would swap my organs just for one night with you. You obsess me. I think it's because you were so empty that you left room for me to invent whatever I wanted. And that's what I did. I invented. I created. I produced. I loved a ghost in my fantasies. Certainly you are pale, much too pale, almost translucent, like a ghost. I am hurting. Your absence burns. I am not well. I am ill. My heart is ill. My mind is delirious. Set me free. I beg you. SET MY MIND FREE. If for that I have to fuck all of Paris, my dear, I will. I will forget you in the end. You will come back. And I will be somewhere else. What if women simply let go? What if I simply let go? My God, will I be able to let go of the humiliation of my ego that keeps me attached to you, indifferent man, seedy man with ugly manners? What if women simply loved themselves, instead? What if I simply loved myself, instead? I know I am all alone in this, love. If I make love to myself, would you love me then? If I caress my thighs with affection and delicacy, looking at the ceiling of colored clouds that excite my thoughts, would you love me then? If I look in the mirror and smile, because my flirting makes me nervous, would you love me then? What if I insert my fingers between my legs, and I let them dance freely as if moving in a fierce tango? What if I no longer think of you and erase the thought of you in my mornings? What if I set myself free from your omnipresence? What if I touch myself without imagining you by my side? Would you love me then? What if I understand that I am free from you and all the other men who once imprisoned my mind with their memories and my belly with their perverse desires? What if I understand that I am worth gold and diamonds, and that my skin is more expensive than moon dust, and that your emotional wealth is too poor to be able to buy it for you? What if women don’t let them touch them, anymore? What if I don’t let them touch me, anymore? I always let them touch me. Why, mom? Why would I allow myself, paralyzed, to be touched by grotesque men, my ass, my pussy, my breasts, mom? Do as you please men, it seems to me that I am yours automatically. The beauty of a woman is democratic, even communist, I am yours, come on, share. Touch me, in the street, in the rooms, anywhere you want, I am yours. Touch, you men. All you can touch, touch me. Being beautiful is a deadly sin, so touch with confidence, I deserve the punishment, plus I'm gentle, for that I deserve to die. Come on, men, insert your dicks wherever it suits you. Touch me, monsters. Touch my pussy, my legs, my lips, touch me, freely. I understand now that you were not a good ghost, you raped my mind like the monster did when I was little. Farewell to the last of the ghosts, here I am celebrating your funeral. I will be free at the end of this cemetery that I carry on my shoulders because the monster took me. These are things as they are. I will finally be free to understand that I am not a whore, I am not your whore, the last of the ghosts. I will finally be free to think of myself every morning and not of you, you who are nothing, a ghost has no bones. You are nothing. And I know it very well, the last of the ghosts. What if women touched themselves, instead of men touching them? What if I touched myself, instead of you touching me? Would you love me then?