Muse

“There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.” ― Sappho

New York City — Spring 2003

A hot and bitter maté sipped on nights when thoughts run away with themselves while trying to put together a puzzle which is an existentialist’s dream: a puzzle in which all the pieces fit together perfectly but in the end reveals absolutely nothing.

She often appears to you at the most unexpected times — reaching out, slowly removing her dress, offering you her lips and moist vagina. Her eyes — black eyes, Goya eyes — will look into yours, wanting you to show her what you got.

You will embrace her, allow your hands to roam over the curve of her waist, her firm, round ass, her tight thighs, let your mouth explore freely between her legs, and wait for that moment of ejaculation where inspiration comes flooding out, hoping to look at her face and see her beautiful, relaxed, satisfied.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.