Those familiar with my work are aware of my LATAM writing erudition. Few know of my inspiration for such knowledge, my (sexual) drive. I wish to share with you samples of the greatest love poetry of the twentieth century, which I believe relate now more than ever, to the twenty-first. Love letters from the eminent Irish poet and novelist, the unparalleled James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (who taught me the importance of both literary and physical erection), to his wife and muse, Nora Barnacle:
To NORA
Dublin 2 December 1909
………………………….
My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.
You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.
Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.
- JIM
feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me - When I was fourteen, I was making out with Gabriela Montanari (then sixteen, Brasileira and the apple beholding of all my eyeball desires). She had taken me to her parents' house after a kegger. She lay on top of me as our lips and tongues introduced each other. The couch was made of leather and it was white. Her skirt was also white, and short. Inexperienced as I was, I reached down between her thighs from behind her back, a sort of primitive reach around you could say. My finger reached a hairy fleshy crater, Gabi took a hard bite at my lower lip and told me in a grunting whisper "Get your finger out of my asshole faggot." I spent my adolescent years shunning myself away from the most precious asterisk. It wasn't until my nineteenth year with Julieta P-----, who had read Joyce's love letters, and who later showed them to me, that I felt comfortable exploring past the penetrable pit. She sucks me off, and as I get close to ejaculation, sticks a long middle finger up me and tickles my prostate. An immense orgasm.
I read these over, still think of young Ingeborg lying underneath a see-through white sheet on a hotel mattress by the shore in Barcelona on a breezy summer afternoon, humidity radiating love between her thighs, resting on a sloppy puddle, my head pressed to the mess, sniffing away.
sem-vergonha
