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My cock jerked off. Appearance soft or carnally aggressive, shocking, the urge to suck undulates. "Say, draw me a penis! »
Oh, my sex, you coppery piece of meat! Hey you! Touch her. That's how the body is made. To deny it is pure nonsense. Whether you like it or not.
I saw the penis, the little sister of a wanker, and from the height of its erect shaft, it said to me: "Eat, this is my sex! Drink, this is my sperm".
My dick is my friend. It's my boy's prerogative. I like to be what I am in the first place. I love my erect sex as much as I love my flaccid sex.
Even and especially when it is touched by love, the couple is a matter of non-desire. This love becomes a repulsive thing.
To decry sexual exhibition is to deny the reality of coitus, the most banal of our realities, in favour of an illusion of self, the mother of all violence.
My great adaptability is an absolute violence to me. I hate any relationship that forces me to do so. Rare is the one that goes the way I want it to.
Work isn't interesting. It's being inspired that is. To be inspired is to be called to something more challenging than what was intended.
The shark is one-eyed, the surfer fought back. Oh, God, it's so annoying to have a one-eyed child. Blind and deaf.
Artists, the real ones who would have something to say, hate the world and won't say anything to it, right? And it's much better that way, isn't it?
