tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30618330603961726692024-03-21T04:58:58.708+01:00Les nourritures terrestresLittérature, érotisme, homosexualitéUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger40125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-47081108406270965772008-12-20T15:26:00.004+01:002009-02-07T18:25:45.507+01:00Sonnet LVII"Being your slave, what should I do but tend<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Upon the hours and times of your desire?<br />I have no precious time* at all to spend,<br />Nor services to do, till you require.<br />Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour<br />Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,<br />Nor think the bitterness of absence sour<br />When you have bid your servant once adieu;<br />Nor dare I question with my jealous thought<br />Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,<br />But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought<br />Save, where you are how happy you make those.<br />So true a fool is love that in your will,<br />Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">William Shakespeare - 1609<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfsIqulmCUXJf8MBBV058rNoKHYvh1-UaCwTmeqSxbxMOoKHpS3Ky0cIHmm264xwuinIHkQpZzlRFwiSR1nxw4-EhjfqDHvHlI3SwPN5h-c4kaGaqAE4gk-kqAEj_sJy0DJx1jTdTDETr/s1600-h/%23Boucquet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfsIqulmCUXJf8MBBV058rNoKHYvh1-UaCwTmeqSxbxMOoKHpS3Ky0cIHmm264xwuinIHkQpZzlRFwiSR1nxw4-EhjfqDHvHlI3SwPN5h-c4kaGaqAE4gk-kqAEj_sJy0DJx1jTdTDETr/s320/%23Boucquet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281882900669311090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sonnet 57</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Étant votre serf, ai-je autre chose à faire qu’à attendre les heures et les moments de votre caprice ? Je n’ai pas de temps précieux à dépenser, pas de service à faire, jusqu’à ce que vous les réclamiez.<br />Et je n’ose pas gronder l’heure qui n’en finit pas, quand, ô mon souverain, je regarde l’horloge en vous espérant, et je n’accuse pas les amertumes de l’acre absence, quand une fois vous avez dit adieu à votre serviteur.<br />Et je n’ose demander à ma pensée jalouse où vous pouvez être et où vos affaires vous supposent. Mais, comme un triste serf, j’attends et ne pense rien, sinon comme vous rendez heureux ceux avec qui vous êtes.<br />Si fou est mon amour que dans ce qui vous plaît, quoi que vous fassiez, il ne voit rien de mal."<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-15750757055043743162009-02-07T18:05:00.003+01:002009-02-07T18:25:25.317+01:00The Wild Boys<div style="text-align: justify;">" "Bend over Johny" ... the boy picked up a tin of Vaseline and slowly with a calm intent expression rubbed it on his cock ... "Bend over Johny and spread ass" ... feeling the eyes and fingers on his rectum ass hairs spread the slow penetration ..."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">William S. Burroughs - 1969<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMn6CTdjQoMXKSFsPD5-RF2BLiqrSY45V9MC1sLvZMZ5YwB7B6zb84iGO9oP0hSDT-Z8yIgHD4DpHFwDUaYVESYxP-zQSa9OJ-tvTx-ZCTz0lfRTXzvU-3FhAOf75tuzXK1TMt_yVoKPyN/s1600-h/%23burroughs+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMn6CTdjQoMXKSFsPD5-RF2BLiqrSY45V9MC1sLvZMZ5YwB7B6zb84iGO9oP0hSDT-Z8yIgHD4DpHFwDUaYVESYxP-zQSa9OJ-tvTx-ZCTz0lfRTXzvU-3FhAOf75tuzXK1TMt_yVoKPyN/s320/%23burroughs+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300107728545428034" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Les garçons sauvages</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">" "Penche-toi Johny..." Le môme ramasse le pot de vaseline et doucement mais avec une ferme intention il enduit sa bite... "Johny penché doit écarter ses fesses"... sentant les doigts et les yeux sur son rectum les poils du cul s'écartent comme un rideau et lente pénétration... "<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-89492886549527903892008-06-07T22:21:00.002+02:002008-12-10T05:34:01.806+01:00Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs<div style="text-align: justify;">"Entremêlant ainsi dans ce rêve leurs gestes, Mignon et Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs tramaient sourdement une amitié fraternelle. Qu'il m'est dur de ne pas les accoupler mieux, de ne pas faire que Mignon, d'un coup de reins, rocher d'inconscience et d'innocence, enfonce loin, désespéré de bonheur, sa queue lourde et lisse, aussi polie et chaude qu'une colonne au soleil, dans la bouche ouverte en O de l'assassin adolescent pulvérisé par la gratitude"<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jean Genet - 1948<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb7hkrwxTLOHa9ge7rrYoZW63YC8wpLx-UPQ8IEEX0V1lx4yafAysHkhLqwMkCu2zHRV2B-0w3hUu-Esuls2JZkx66HD0U8tmeM40WAUfZNdUoK1N9Ov_-Fahf5LsKYEFOhWEyyP6j-qr/s1600-h/z0i70010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb7hkrwxTLOHa9ge7rrYoZW63YC8wpLx-UPQ8IEEX0V1lx4yafAysHkhLqwMkCu2zHRV2B-0w3hUu-Esuls2JZkx66HD0U8tmeM40WAUfZNdUoK1N9Ov_-Fahf5LsKYEFOhWEyyP6j-qr/s320/z0i70010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209417609481938834" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Our Lady of the Flowers</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"And so mingling their gestures in this dream, Darling and Our Lady of the Flowers quietly wove a brotherly friendship. How hard it is for me not to mate the two of them better, not to arrange it so that Darling with a thrust of the hips, rock of unconsciousness and innocence, desperate with love, deeply sinks his smooth, heavy prick, as polished and warm as a lovely column in the sun, into the waiting mouth of the adolescent murderer who is pulverized with gratitude."<br /></div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-70127737780463366402008-06-07T23:08:00.002+02:002008-12-10T05:34:01.469+01:00Le Livre blanc"Un des élèves, nommé Dargelos, jouissait d'un grand prestige à cause d'une virilité très au-dessus de son âge. Il s'exhibait avec cynisme et faisait commerce d'un spectacle qu'il donnait même à des élèves d'une autre classe en échange de timbres rares ou de tabac. Les places qui entouraient son pupitre étaient des places de faveur. Je revois sa peau brune. A ses culottes très courtes et à ses chaussettes retombant sur ses chevilles, on le devinait fier de ses jambes. Nous portions tous des culottes courtes, mais à cause de jambes d'homme, seul Dargelos avait les jambes <span style="font-style: italic;">nues</span>."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jean Cocteau - 1928<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYaa8a-3oZYeTAAACAcWhZE_qpkJHw5vGLOmNHRsS3Ka-d7CBgtIlPzE5GLgDBQozl5-g4cfDCatY4OuqrEdH0W_47wMl27ww_XjHs_QgpXjcGa2URfoV76yO3wUEskvsgIPIwbV0hO8P/s1600-h/florian-gaida00.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYaa8a-3oZYeTAAACAcWhZE_qpkJHw5vGLOmNHRsS3Ka-d7CBgtIlPzE5GLgDBQozl5-g4cfDCatY4OuqrEdH0W_47wMl27ww_XjHs_QgpXjcGa2URfoV76yO3wUEskvsgIPIwbV0hO8P/s320/florian-gaida00.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209490919578571410" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />The white Book</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;" id="result_box" dir="ltr">"One of the pupils named Dargelos enjoyed great prestige because of a virility far above his age. He exposed himself with cynicism and trade a performance gave even for students from another class in exchange for rare stamps or tobacco. The places around his desk were places of favour. I remember his brown skin. At the sight of his very short pants and his socks drooping on his ankles, one guessed he was proud of his legs. We were all wearing short pants, but because of man's legs, only Dargelos had <span style="font-style: italic;">bare </span>legs."*</div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-34251246278619295152008-06-07T23:36:00.002+02:002008-12-10T05:34:01.098+01:00Mémoires d'Hadrien<div style="text-align: justify;">"Il avait d'un jeune chien les capacités infinies d'enjouement et d'indolence, la sauvagerie, la confiance. Ce beau lévrier avide de caresses et d'ordres se coucha sur ma vie. J'admirais cette indifférence presque hautaine pour tout ce qui n'était pas son délice ou son culte : elle lui tenait lieu de désintéressement, de scrupules, de toutes les vertus étudiées et austères."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Marguerite Yourcenar -1958<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXDSfrR0jQeKZ4l3ZewI9F2cIexwUpHbcdp-uSJsA8VLvIBmK9tS6AEMiDJFvWwba54tt331kCnIE1rTr9hzpv1jA3K4U2luTbC4uxI9YNobd8m78TwunFS9dD3_MKUBsRLuW6b13ngNb/s1600-h/milchbarte5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXDSfrR0jQeKZ4l3ZewI9F2cIexwUpHbcdp-uSJsA8VLvIBmK9tS6AEMiDJFvWwba54tt331kCnIE1rTr9hzpv1jA3K4U2luTbC4uxI9YNobd8m78TwunFS9dD3_MKUBsRLuW6b13ngNb/s320/milchbarte5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209258161314491570" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Memoirs of Hadrian</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"As a young dog he shows infinite capacity of playfulness and indolence, savagery, trust. This beautiful greyhound hungry of caresses and orders lay down on my life. I admired this haughty indifference to almost everything which was not his religion or his delight: it took the place of disinterestedness, scruples, all the virtues studied and austere."*<br /><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-10952833058086990862008-06-08T10:01:00.002+02:002008-12-10T05:34:00.912+01:00Naked Lunch"I recall this one kid, I condition to shit at sight of me. Then I wash his ass and screw him. It was real tasty. And he was he lovely fellah too. And some times a subject will burst into boyish tears because he can't keep from ejaculate when you screw him."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">William S. Burroughs - 1959<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfcAbYvMpsvr5e0CH4A-Mb4zsKO6arG3_eDVsI80-nf2x6dqkMHkFVHnqvQa7DKYV8VgqoDPSyBnK6spy4MfOCjcsC9JUBUtq2NQCceAZjaqZqHFaBP3BinL2XBskWDfxX2ZQQWFhkZSI/s1600-h/cc2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfcAbYvMpsvr5e0CH4A-Mb4zsKO6arG3_eDVsI80-nf2x6dqkMHkFVHnqvQa7DKYV8VgqoDPSyBnK6spy4MfOCjcsC9JUBUtq2NQCceAZjaqZqHFaBP3BinL2XBskWDfxX2ZQQWFhkZSI/s320/cc2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209419310877589058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Le Festin Nu</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Je me souviens de ce garçon que j'avais conditionné pour chier à ma vue. Je n'avais plus qu'à lui laver le cul et à le tringler. C'était vraiment le pied. Et un bon fellah avec ça. Parfois, un sujet éclate en sanglots juvéniles parce qu'il ne peut pas s'empêcher d'éjaculer quand on le sodomise."*<br /></div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-53324000324626452632008-06-08T12:36:00.002+02:002008-12-10T05:34:00.583+01:00Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs<div style="text-align: justify;">"Notre-Dame se retourna tout à coup sur le ventre, et brutalement, fit entrer avec sa main sa verge encore souple dans la bouche entrebâillée de Divine. Elle retira sa tête et pinça les lèvres. Rageur, le sexe devint de pierre (allez-y les condottieri, chevaliers, pages, ruffians, nervis, sous vos satins bandez contre la joue de Divine), voulut forcer sa bouche fermée, mais il buta dans les yeux, le nez, le menton, glissa contre la joue. C'était le jeu. Enfin, il trouva les lèvres."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Jean Genet - 1948<br /><br /><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-MISizzEDmyHzI3paVe2sAEqhTVYveBatcbdHl3BRI9P0l8_RqjR1lDa7k7T827L0M0xaHCVUwjad4Lxl65jKSOxtS8ASih6GMcmw-4FP5N6bSv380TUBGl71WFvELwIgIFtIDD40t5x/s1600-h/z0s19034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-MISizzEDmyHzI3paVe2sAEqhTVYveBatcbdHl3BRI9P0l8_RqjR1lDa7k7T827L0M0xaHCVUwjad4Lxl65jKSOxtS8ASih6GMcmw-4FP5N6bSv380TUBGl71WFvELwIgIFtIDD40t5x/s320/z0s19034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209460618430322082" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Our Lady of the Flowers</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Our Lady suddenly turned over on his belly and, holding his still supple tool, roughly thrust it with his hand into Divine's open mouth. She drew back her head and pursed her lips. The violent cock turned to stone (go to it, condottieri, knights, pages, ruffians, gangsters, put the stiff prick under your satins against Divine's cheek) and tried to force open the closed mouth, but it knocked against the eyes, the nose, the chin, slid along the cheek. That was their game. Finally, it found the lips"<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-14438593579437043562008-06-08T17:17:00.009+02:002008-12-10T05:34:00.200+01:00Les Nourritures terrestres<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGrUua3WocCi8JiULLCVAJpENjO1ArEcEho0C0drPzWjtAgm-Xgo9XDO-Sw32O6f6wcKlrBb0QDiwjZ8m9JiRgs5NcCbLKsPEDvodfG3RLkhHUgwI7eqesLmulhSCnjrG8r7J_ZozaMaE_/s1600-h/tress5.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">"Certes, tout ce que j’ai rencontré de rire sur les lèvres, j’ai voulu l’embrasser ; de sang sur les joues, de larmes dans les yeux, j’ai voulu le boire ; mordre à la pulpe de tous les fruits que vers moi penchèrent des branches."</div><br /><div align="right"><em>André Gide - 1897</em></div><br /><div align="right"><em></em></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209537568924708930" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtG7pVp0YkW2rsQk-0Xr_Gntu9K1zOZ3rbBffi6NQQu7_5FLtbcWYODdxqyAD7Lurtum6ugu16Ab9jUDI3aV_TLtMO2OCMu3_03DOgvwrqJgVjSjrqoWq_iP291HHE25OwVTgfjPF2y44/s320/tress5.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><br /><p><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" >The fruits of the earth</span></strong></p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Certainly, all that I came accross of laughter on the lips, I wanted to kiss it; blood on the cheeks, tears in the eyes, I wanted to drink; biting the flesh of all fruit that over me branches bent. "*</p><div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-64323407020426618232008-06-08T18:08:00.007+02:002008-12-10T05:34:00.066+01:00Petite prose<div style="text-align: justify;">"Mais nulle part l'invitation à l'amour n'est aussi douce ni aussi obsédante que sur ces rivages. L'étranger nouveau venu est aussitôt abordé par les garçons, interrogé, flairé, palpé, moqué si ses réponses ("Ta femme, elle est loin ? ") sont par trop évasives. C'est la leçon particulière de l'amour sur la plage. Ô combien de maris teutons, venus en toute innocence faire trempette avec bobonne et mouflets se sont trouvés embarqués sous les cyprès dans de surprenantes embardées !<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">[...] C'est le "Bois de Venus", une retraite, une folie - comme on disait sous Louis XV - où les mandragores pulluleraient s'il était vrai que ces plantes poussent où tombe le sperme. Trois garçons y tiennent remise. Un Blanc, un brun et un Noir. Ils vous accueillent à tour de rôle, n'admettant d'être rebutés que par préférence pour l'un des deux autres."<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Michel Tournier - 1986<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCV9QmAwevive3nr6bLKpfOdCfjNNVOaSkGXkf9nRvNBpw8l00f9Mkhu2p1x-rw083ccnzUNnWfHyMyfF4FPnn2juy3dWEOrJQTUAg1hBd1_RblcmMby2TOoQcoTPaK43FIwPOLjPxGJPo/s1600-h/4761876azm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCV9QmAwevive3nr6bLKpfOdCfjNNVOaSkGXkf9nRvNBpw8l00f9Mkhu2p1x-rw083ccnzUNnWfHyMyfF4FPnn2juy3dWEOrJQTUAg1hBd1_RblcmMby2TOoQcoTPaK43FIwPOLjPxGJPo/s320/4761876azm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209554169740809378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Small prose</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"But nowhere the invitation to love is as sweet nor as haunting as on these shores. The foreign newcomer is immediately approached by the boys, interviewed, smelled out, touched, teased if his answers - "Your wife, is she far? "- are too evasive. This is the lesson of love on the beach. Oh how many Teuton husbands, came innocentely to have a quick dip with little housewife and kids found themselves taked away under the cypress trees in surprising yaw!<br />[...] This is the "Bois de Venus ", a retreat, a folly - as said under Louis XV - where mandragores would swarmed if it were true that these plants grow where sperm falls. Three boys burn around. A White, a brown and a Black. They welcome you in turn, allowing to be rejected only by preference for the other two. "*<br /><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-30298740672643569192008-06-08T19:04:00.008+02:002008-12-10T05:33:59.892+01:00Le médianoche amoureux<div style="text-align: justify;">"J'écartai un peu la couverture du lit, et je lui dis : "Entre !" Ses rares vêtements tombèrent sur le sol et il se glissa près de moi. Je serrai dans ma main les petites fesses dures et contractées comme deux pommes, d'un de ces garçons à principes qui ont la sodomie en abomination"<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Michel Tournier - 1989<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZO76Vmtkm5hLYkUcSdjFM11UBnZ2HFSw1yLpbW9Qptg6iXbCi0SWM-x0PIAsCKX70eTKRc4B_zqCrYj-WPnE03izW_u4v8yk9TjU8iRLFg_PFeZewKOhr2XVePmOs0ziEeCeJ1d4453ry/s1600-h/26594_1058mxs2_123_690lo+bw.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZO76Vmtkm5hLYkUcSdjFM11UBnZ2HFSw1yLpbW9Qptg6iXbCi0SWM-x0PIAsCKX70eTKRc4B_zqCrYj-WPnE03izW_u4v8yk9TjU8iRLFg_PFeZewKOhr2XVePmOs0ziEeCeJ1d4453ry/s320/26594_1058mxs2_123_690lo+bw.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209564588772014562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">The enamoured supper</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;">"I open partaway the cover of the bed, and I told him:" Come in! "His scarce clothing fell on the ground and he crept in near me. I clapsed in my hand the small buttocks, hard and contracted as two apples, those of principled boys that hold sodomy in abomination"*<br /><br /></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-40001304509575321552008-06-09T21:39:00.006+02:002008-12-10T05:33:59.769+01:00Le Ramier<div style="text-align: justify;">"Par instants, interrompant nos jeux, je restais, soulevé, penché vers lui, dans une sorte d'angoisse, d'ébahissement, d'éblouissement de sa beauté. Non, pensais-je, même Luigi à Rome, même Mohammed à Alger n'avaient pas à la fois tant de grâce avec tant de force, et l'amour n'obtenait pas d'eux des mouvements si passionnés et si délicats"<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">André Gide - 1907<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPYVpKSCkoIeKVioaEFbPHdYJHVKUoJ1HCa0zTTrUDxaWXrXrRhWEa6fgm4TDgPdiHFPLGpGkbbU2pYAIau6uxiAnq6_SA35XwI21Qz39mYIbpw608YWwWzgeCyqaEf0L1kiIpMdemDYIa/s1600-h/Pose-0319.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPYVpKSCkoIeKVioaEFbPHdYJHVKUoJ1HCa0zTTrUDxaWXrXrRhWEa6fgm4TDgPdiHFPLGpGkbbU2pYAIau6uxiAnq6_SA35XwI21Qz39mYIbpw608YWwWzgeCyqaEf0L1kiIpMdemDYIa/s320/Pose-0319.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209976946304420338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Woodpigeon</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"From time to time, interrupting our games, I stayed raised, bended over him in a sort of anguish, of stupefaction, of dazzle toward his beauty. No, I thought, even Luigi in Rome, even Mohammed in Algiers did not have both such grace and such strength, and love did not give them access to movements such passionate and such delicate."*<br /></div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-70929780763644513812008-06-13T21:40:00.005+02:002008-12-10T05:33:59.580+01:00Naked Lunch<div style="text-align: justify;">"Mark begins to undress with fluid movements, hip-rolls, squirm out off his turtle-neck sweater revealing his beautiful white torso in a mocking belly dance. Johnny dead pan, face frozen, breath quick, lips dry, removes his clothes and drops them on the floor. Mark Lets his shorts fall on one foot. He kicks like a chorus-girl, sending the shorts across the room. Now he stands naked, his cock stiff, straining up and out. He runs slow eyes over Johnny's body. He smiles and licks his lips"<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">William S. Burroughs - 1959<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9cBqRt5koia8_G3SZR3sl-n03zXxgDHSLSGhzNvBUkQgrw06ynPl7pYQngEOfelcmWVPSA-sSFmrTH0xtEbkGpu73FIBkhChPrGBGzRUj161asFvgMrdNT3H95uRbipksLMYwl2lhBoE/s1600-h/Short_BW.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9cBqRt5koia8_G3SZR3sl-n03zXxgDHSLSGhzNvBUkQgrw06ynPl7pYQngEOfelcmWVPSA-sSFmrTH0xtEbkGpu73FIBkhChPrGBGzRUj161asFvgMrdNT3H95uRbipksLMYwl2lhBoE/s320/Short_BW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211461776370092578" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Le Festin Nu</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Mark commence à se déshabiller en mouvements fluides, roule des hanches, se tortille en dehors de son pul à col roulé révélant son beau torse blanc dans une danse du ventre moqueuse. Johnny gueule figée, face gelée, le souffle court, les lèvres sèches, retire ses vêtements et les jette au sol. Mark laisse son short tomber sur un pied. Il donne un coup de pied telle une danseuse de cabaret, envoyant le short à travers la pièce. Désormais, il se dresse nu, sa queue raide, dressée et tendue. Il parcours lentement du regard le corps de Johnny. Il a un sourire et se lèche les lèvres "*<br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-55878672989232454472008-06-13T22:17:00.004+02:002008-12-10T05:33:59.365+01:00Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs<div style="text-align: justify;">"Le goupillon est toujours humide d'une petite gouttelette, comme la queue d'Alberto qui bande le matin et vient de pisser"<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Jean Genet - 1948<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgv6K3g2l9p7iyREC3xP_8NjWhSP9PLjVYDWlrT6zVnf3AQoJDInuE67am6JYVF56HHS4VtBNSDXsSbO0kEzm4Yu_aTKwen2mvvJkwJLIP66MjN3uJMeB7JrrRtzrVJSFEs1YyTBn0ff2f/s1600-h/Piss_BW.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgv6K3g2l9p7iyREC3xP_8NjWhSP9PLjVYDWlrT6zVnf3AQoJDInuE67am6JYVF56HHS4VtBNSDXsSbO0kEzm4Yu_aTKwen2mvvJkwJLIP66MjN3uJMeB7JrrRtzrVJSFEs1YyTBn0ff2f/s320/Piss_BW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211464466618278418" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Our Lady of the Flowers</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"The sprinkler is always moist with a tiny droplet, like Alberto's prick which stiffens in the morning and which has just pissed."<br /><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-167829363031182322008-07-14T14:49:00.004+02:002008-12-10T05:33:58.956+01:00Pompes funèbres"Il dit dans un sanglot presque :<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">- Tu ne m'auras pas ! Non tu ne m'auras pas ! Tu ne me défonces pas ! alors que dans un bond il s'empalait lui-même profondément. [...]<br />Tout le membre y passa et les fesses de Riton touchèrent le ventre chaud d'Erik. Ce fut le grand bonheur pour l'un et pour l'autre et un grand désarroi car ce bonheur était atteint. "<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jean Genet - 1953</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOne_VW_-nQ49_lLJL1xagCMFycGU-8NEhXbP2RbnVGzEBB4FUlJ_BGQQYIoTZXRWqlctKtn-RxZ3A6gTEVUoWJ5e0j5pQkwYGiqjddvq-D21yjIbO7i_-ixEv2TCP5XfafrpG_OA0vKUD/s1600-h/Pompes+fun%C3%A8bres.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOne_VW_-nQ49_lLJL1xagCMFycGU-8NEhXbP2RbnVGzEBB4FUlJ_BGQQYIoTZXRWqlctKtn-RxZ3A6gTEVUoWJ5e0j5pQkwYGiqjddvq-D21yjIbO7i_-ixEv2TCP5XfafrpG_OA0vKUD/s320/Pompes+fun%C3%A8bres.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222856124620093026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Funeral rites</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"He said almost sobbing :<br />- You will not get me! No you will not get me! You do not fucked me! while in one leap he became impaled deeply. [...]<br />All the didk went in and Riton's buttocks touched the hot belly of Erik. This was the great happiness for one and another and a great confusion because this happiness was achieved."*<br /></div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-57681812602365512562008-07-14T15:30:00.005+02:002008-12-10T05:33:58.688+01:00Pompes funèbres"- Suce ou je tire.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Je le dis sur un tel ton qu'il suça. Mon corps était collé au sien. De ma main libre je caressai ses fesses.<br />- Ça doit te faire bander puisque tu aimes ça.<br />Délicatement je m'arrangeai pour glisser ma main à sa braguette que j'ouvris. Sa queue était molle. Je la caressai, je la triturai. Peu à peu elle s'émut et grossit un peu sans pourtant atteindre cette rigidité que je suis fier de provoquer s'il me plaît.<br />- Suce encore. Allez, suce, jusqu'à ce qu'il décharge."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jean Genet - 1953</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWX392eAu2EdWGjLh7Eydk9UrDLFcnjzRJH8Y1dtjp8i4gc1xffH78HFe4TvOUzUI8btP4sZtT8Mfb1rSXecjKd7VCDEHZTJVcQ5f7HlV9QULqSiQljDrIjo3_vmZrAzworYeILYs_qcq/s1600-h/64.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWX392eAu2EdWGjLh7Eydk9UrDLFcnjzRJH8Y1dtjp8i4gc1xffH78HFe4TvOUzUI8btP4sZtT8Mfb1rSXecjKd7VCDEHZTJVcQ5f7HlV9QULqSiQljDrIjo3_vmZrAzworYeILYs_qcq/s320/64.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222866539694864114" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Funeral rites</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div id="result_box" dir="ltr">"- Suck or I shoot.<br />I said it on such a tone that he sucked. My body was press against his. With my free hand I strocked his buttocks.<br />- This should give you a hard-on because you love it.<br />Delicately I managed to glide my hand in his fly that I opened. His dick was soft. I strocked, I pummeled. Gradually it moved and grow a little without yet reaching this rigidity that I am proud to aroused if it pleases me.<br />- Suck. Come on, suck, up to it fires. "*<br /></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-35182427918175597752008-07-14T15:56:00.006+02:002008-12-10T05:33:58.522+01:00Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs<div style="text-align: justify;">"Gabriel avait acquis une telle virtuosité qu'il pouvait, tout en restant immobile lui-même, donner à sa verge un frémissement comparable à celui d'un cheval qui s'indigne. Il força avec sa rage habituel et ressentit si intensément sa puissance qu'il - avec sa gorge et son nez - hennit de victoire, si impétueusement que Divine crut que Gabriel de tout son corps de centaure la pénétrait ; elle s'évanouit d'amour comme une nymphe dans l'arbre."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jean Genet - 1948<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGqjLQXuTnYonBICQKQNIwPZ8L4gfYSQYzpaadLJ0LANFN2gbJYZa9-_hbYnGSD0EPqMX89NWLq3yVf4QCK1wKBmdZ5eYlGKRvjwvyUBYiCgQKdqY4g1_vje93r6GZLU1af__EWR2vPY3/s1600-h/NDDF.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGqjLQXuTnYonBICQKQNIwPZ8L4gfYSQYzpaadLJ0LANFN2gbJYZa9-_hbYnGSD0EPqMX89NWLq3yVf4QCK1wKBmdZ5eYlGKRvjwvyUBYiCgQKdqY4g1_vje93r6GZLU1af__EWR2vPY3/s320/NDDF.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222871593763618674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Our Lady of the Flowers</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Gabriel had acquired such virtuosity that he was able, though remaining motionless himself, to make his tool quiver like a shying horse. He forced with his usual fury and felt his potency so intensely that—with his nose and throat—he whinnied with victory, so impetuously that Divine thought he was penetrating her with his whole centaur body. She swooned with love like a nymph in a tree."<br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-79039611332518105692008-07-14T17:15:00.011+02:002008-12-10T05:33:58.299+01:00De uita duodecim Caesarum libri<div style="text-align: justify;">"Pudicitiae neque suae neque alienae pepercit. M. Lepidum, Mnesterem pantomimum, quosdam obsides dilexisse fertur commercio mutui stupri. alerius Catullus, consulari familia iuuenis, stupratum a se ac latera sibi contubernio eius defessa etiam uociferatus est."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">C. Suetoni Tranquilli - 121<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyytzngUaBAvmEzwm8txcyOPfa61QV-xu5A4q6iOJmZZ58NoWCsTG0jJvudEdZ3I-tnCHBSEm4U6p3nYcHCGo8WV307JRWKeu78AzE21XQpNL7Q_BvGn38KPvRP3BU5HjYXfDDi9A-f4z/s1600-h/classical12.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyytzngUaBAvmEzwm8txcyOPfa61QV-xu5A4q6iOJmZZ58NoWCsTG0jJvudEdZ3I-tnCHBSEm4U6p3nYcHCGo8WV307JRWKeu78AzE21XQpNL7Q_BvGn38KPvRP3BU5HjYXfDDi9A-f4z/s320/classical12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222891699335178322" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Vie des douzes Césars - Caligula</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Il n'eut aucun souci de sa pudeur ni de celle d'autrui ; et il passe pour avoir aimé d'un amour infâme M. Lépidus, le pantomime Mnester et quelques otages. Valérius Catullus, fils d'un consulaire, lui reprocha tout haut d'avoir abusé de sa jeunesse jusqu'à lui fatiguer les flancs."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Twelve Caesars - Caligula</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"He respected neither his own chastity nor that of anyone else. He is said to have had unnatural relations with Marcus Lepidus, the pantomimic actor Mnester, and certain hostages. Valerius Catullus, a young man of a consular family, publicly proclaimed that he had violated the emperor and worn himself out in commerce with him."<br /></div><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-6787931505020090542008-07-14T21:58:00.006+02:002008-12-10T05:33:58.011+01:00Der Tod in Venedig<div style="text-align: justify;">"Sein honigfarbenes Haar schmiegte sich in Ringeln an die Schlaefen und in den Nacken, die Sonne erleuchtete den Flaum des oberen Rueckgrates, die feine Zeichnung der Rippen, das Gleichmass der Brust traten durch die knappe Umhuellung des Rumpfes hervor, seine Achselhoehlen waren noch glatt wie bei einer Statue, seine Kniekehlen glaenzten, und ihr blaeuliches Geaeder liess seinen Koerper wie aus klarerem Stoffe gebildet erscheinen."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thomas Mann - 1912<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_VCarU5f_5dtR_9AwIdB1aw3cIafWB77oo0yt_JV2Kpe90B14ltOjBGMv6Sm5XDfvaDvbFFecc4Fb4Uka1utt9EsqoRHYleIzQoCdM2R2Mnx8D0DHnN6Sy6AIHZFYukzYy5LLhwQcPKsx/s1600-h/A_boy__colour_version_by_Wildwood_f.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_VCarU5f_5dtR_9AwIdB1aw3cIafWB77oo0yt_JV2Kpe90B14ltOjBGMv6Sm5XDfvaDvbFFecc4Fb4Uka1utt9EsqoRHYleIzQoCdM2R2Mnx8D0DHnN6Sy6AIHZFYukzYy5LLhwQcPKsx/s320/A_boy__colour_version_by_Wildwood_f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222969935177095026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">La Mort à Venise</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Sa chevelure ambrée glissait en boucle carressantes sur ses tempes et le long de sa nuque ; le soleil faisait briller le duvet entre ses omoplates ; le dessin délicat des côtes, la symétrie de la poitrine apparaissaient à travers la peau collée au thorax ; les aisselles étaient encore lisses comme celle d'une statue, le creux des jarrets luisant et traversé d'un réseau de veines bleuâtres auprès desquelles le reste du corps semblait fait d'une matière plus lumineuse encore."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Death in Venice</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"His honey-colored locks caressed his temples and the nape, the Sun illuminated the fluff of his upper spine, the finely drawn rips, the symmetry of the breasts was accentuated by his tight-fitting bathing suit, his armpits were still bare as in a statue, the hollows of his knees were shining, and their blue maze of veins made the entire body seem to be fashioned from some translucent substance."<br /></div><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-48893521992849390962008-07-14T23:04:00.005+02:002008-12-10T05:33:57.931+01:00Les Mauvais Anges<div style="text-align: justify;">"La salive de Gérard avait une fraicheur d'eau, mais son baiser la rendait brûlante. D'une voix tellement basse que je dus le lui faire répéter, il me dit : "tu es beau." Mon regard lui répondit combien je l'admirais : ce furent nos seuls serments d'amour."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Eric Jourdan - 1955</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRN2BtfxYXyzAHVNxsGPm0v7JM_cRBXP-GwwL98UlBilC5yXKT7eUvwFvjdoQ6KWJfNsYNAOHdUWVI-k2SKpwzOXR1qedrvyviP-RhhUCryQ5JQ_cS3JPArzdmtCOHkWpjHfAq4s8v8Lez/s1600-h/Mauvais+anges.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRN2BtfxYXyzAHVNxsGPm0v7JM_cRBXP-GwwL98UlBilC5yXKT7eUvwFvjdoQ6KWJfNsYNAOHdUWVI-k2SKpwzOXR1qedrvyviP-RhhUCryQ5JQ_cS3JPArzdmtCOHkWpjHfAq4s8v8Lez/s320/Mauvais+anges.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222980105855330306" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">The evil angels</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"The saliva of Gerard was as fresh as water, but his kiss made it burning. In a voice so low that I had him repeat, he said: 'You are beautiful'. My eyes told him how much I admired him: these were our own and unique oaths of love."*</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-20854938531173871242008-07-15T23:34:00.005+02:002008-12-10T05:33:57.808+01:00Tristes tropiques<div style="text-align: justify;">"Les Nambikwara résolvent aussi le problème d'autre manière : par les relations homosexuelles qu'ils appellent poétiquement : <span style="font-style: italic;">tamindige kihandige</span>, c'est-à-dire "l'amour-mensonge". Ces relations sont fréquentes entre jeunes gens et se déroulent avec une publicité plus grande que les relations normales."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Claude Lévis-Strauss - 1955</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2p-AA9GV8fTu88E2ummehuLnS5XJPk2aQBKFO0CXqW7cHvD9NeIqh0usNKf78xbtSQ6YijK-MvPe9m0H9q6F9X6e27V6iq6afe-AqLwQgmJTiZVomCaymEk9Em7OPbKWnGbXOzKbOeekI/s1600-h/Strauss.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2p-AA9GV8fTu88E2ummehuLnS5XJPk2aQBKFO0CXqW7cHvD9NeIqh0usNKf78xbtSQ6YijK-MvPe9m0H9q6F9X6e27V6iq6afe-AqLwQgmJTiZVomCaymEk9Em7OPbKWnGbXOzKbOeekI/s320/Strauss.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223363943415380754" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">A World on the Wane</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div id="result_box" dir="ltr">"Nambikwara also solve the problem in other ways: by homosexual relationships which they call poetically: tamindige kihandige, ie" love-lies ". These relationships are common among young people and take place with an advertisement bigger than the normal relations. "*<br /></div></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-9064511579124571652008-07-16T22:24:00.003+02:002008-12-10T05:33:57.441+01:00Le Livre blanc<div style="text-align: justify;">"Un matin d'août, je rôdais dans le parc avec une carabine chargée d'amorces et, jouant au chasseur, dissimulé derrière une haie, je guettais le passage d'un animal, lorsque je vis de ma cachette un jeune garçon de ferme conduire à la baignade un cheval de labour. Afin d'entrer dans l'eau et sachant qu'au bout ne s'aventurait jamais personne, il chevauchait tout nu et faisait s'ébrouer le cheval à quelques mètres de moi. Le hâle de sa figure, son cou, ses bras, ses pieds, contrastant avec avec la peau blanche, me rappelait les marrons d'Inde qui jaillissent de leurs cosse, mais ces taches n'était pas seules. Une autre attirait mes regards, au milieu de laquelle une énigme se détachait dans ses moindres détails."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jean Cocteau - 1928<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVpK-RzYGrIcbNjtc0IbjVPtCYGx7PYgjH-jChlAwSmdIXdt5zOWo_NTSSKUFe3LxLzkbVSFP6InAZpiv51TBMg8j8GbHzZUKZk4TzWotZBvnKwFZrSE6v2iQtWAz_ncKTA7IbeS8cvmE/s1600-h/Cocteau.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVpK-RzYGrIcbNjtc0IbjVPtCYGx7PYgjH-jChlAwSmdIXdt5zOWo_NTSSKUFe3LxLzkbVSFP6InAZpiv51TBMg8j8GbHzZUKZk4TzWotZBvnKwFZrSE6v2iQtWAz_ncKTA7IbeS8cvmE/s320/Cocteau.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223720761083300594" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">The white book</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"On a morning of August, I lurked in the park with a rifle loaded with caps, and playing the hunter, hidden behind a hedge, I watched out the passign of an animal, when I saw from my hideout a young farm boy leading a workhorse to bathing. To enter the water and knowing that no one ever venture at the end, he rode naked and made the horse wash a few metres from me. The tan on his face, neck, arms, feet, contrasting with the white skin, reminded me of chestnuts when emerging from their pod, but these dapples were not alone. Another catch my glances, in the middle of which an enigma distinguinshed itself in its smallest details."*<br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-64149491743669190582008-07-19T17:58:00.006+02:002008-12-10T05:33:57.275+01:00Satyricon<div style="text-align: justify;">"Sed non fuit contentus iteratione ephebus plenae maturitatis et annis ad patiendum gestientibus. Itaque excitavit me sopitum et: "Numquid vis?" inquit. Et non plane iam molestum erat munus. Vtcunque igitur inter anhelitus sudoresque tritus, quod voluerat accepit, rursusque in somnum decidi gaudio lassus. Interposita minus hora pungere me manu coepit et dicere: "Quare non facimus?"".<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Petronius - circa 60</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KRbV6-5qybJFfBWMv5DIhZUhQjeaqOaUk2B5EAdpyv6H4oQPfSFl2ctezMLuUODcspwDg989fdXddX_Wy6rZ4407JVrvt-uoaGHbua0uU7BTrEAPK4lNjKEjuiQhquOGNsNK4essW52W/s1600-h/z0h67039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KRbV6-5qybJFfBWMv5DIhZUhQjeaqOaUk2B5EAdpyv6H4oQPfSFl2ctezMLuUODcspwDg989fdXddX_Wy6rZ4407JVrvt-uoaGHbua0uU7BTrEAPK4lNjKEjuiQhquOGNsNK4essW52W/s320/z0h67039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224762302072932578" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Le Satyricon</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Mais l'éphèbe ne se satisfit pas d'une simple répétition : il était en pleine fleur de l'âge et ne brulait que du désir de se prêter au plaisir. Ainsi m'éveilla-t-il dans mon sommeil et : "tu ne veux plus rien ?" me dit-il. Le présent n'était certes pas encore tout à fait dépourvu de charmes. Aussi, me démenant, soupirant et suant, je lui donnait ce qu'il voulait, et je me laissais de nouveau tomber dans le sommeil, brisé de plaisir. Moins d'une heure plus tard, le voici qui me pique avec le doigt et me dit : "pourquoi ne le faisons-nous plus ?""<br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Satyricon</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"But the stripling was not satisfied with only one repetition, all ripe for love as he was and just at the time of life for passive enjoyment. So he woke me up from my slumbers, and, 'Anything you'd like, eh?' said he. Nor was I, so far, indisposed to accept his offer. So working him the best ever I could, to the accompaniment of much panting and perspiration, I gave him what he wanted, and then dropped asleep again, worn out with pleasure. Less than an hour had passed before he started pinching me and asking, 'Eh! why are we not at work?'"<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-64181054117073640642008-07-20T16:31:00.004+02:002008-12-10T05:33:57.215+01:00Les 120 journées de Sodome<div style="text-align: justify;">"Ici Durcet, que ce récit venait d'enflammer, voulut, comme le vieil abbé, sucer le trou d'un cul, mais non pas celui d'une fille. Il appelle Hyacinthe: c'était celui de tous qui lui plaisait le plus. Il le place, il baise le cul, il branle le vit, il gamahuche"<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Marquis de Sade - 1785<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzpFc5XBjDw_0WyWOFhugLe7t-H4jKq3AFfzvXaqkuUW26YM2FnPAjchhYYClDb3A5xYn2y4gt9TLs-hh8WdC7LxTmcxSELQp7hBqtzBUjFFKhEDLPUL26TfID2_nGiarxnSTlwxAlN8_j/s1600-h/%23Sade.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzpFc5XBjDw_0WyWOFhugLe7t-H4jKq3AFfzvXaqkuUW26YM2FnPAjchhYYClDb3A5xYn2y4gt9TLs-hh8WdC7LxTmcxSELQp7hBqtzBUjFFKhEDLPUL26TfID2_nGiarxnSTlwxAlN8_j/s320/%23Sade.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225107214428198882" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">120 days of Sodom</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">"And now Durcet, whom the story had inflammed, like the old priest was moved to suck some asshole or other, but would not have a girl's. He called for Hyacynthe, who of them all pleased him the most. He place the little chap, kissed his ass, frigged his prock and sucked it"<br /></div><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-86925753433884254822008-07-20T20:25:00.005+02:002008-12-10T05:33:57.049+01:00Si le grain ne meurt<div style="text-align: justify;">"Mais, saisissant la main qu’il me tendait, je le fis rouler à terre. Son rire aussitôt reparut. Il ne s’impatienta pas longtemps aux nœuds compliqués des lacets qui lui tenaient lieu de ceinture ; sortant de sa poche un petit poignard, il en trancha d’un coup l’embrouillement. Le vêtement tomba ; il rejeta au loin sa veste, et se dressa nu comme un dieu. Un instant il tendit vers le ciel ses bras grêles, puis, en riant, se laissa tomber contre moi. Son corps était peut-être brûlant, mais parut à mes mains aussi rafraîchissant que l’ombre. Que le sable était beau ! Dans la splendeur adorable du soir, de quels rayons se vêtait ma joie !… "<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">André Gide - 1926<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eGLPp0rkDDYYitQ0rbHMKc8zNeo01GtYNuqtpKJ82yx41ouRakF6aKTtUZxSqhDP9qTLq31zBrde5xSAFjG5RdgrCADP5g030zAnqYVfuB4XxhcS_PbtALofyzuA3ipDSm02JidOBaKY/s1600-h/%23Gideruman_003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eGLPp0rkDDYYitQ0rbHMKc8zNeo01GtYNuqtpKJ82yx41ouRakF6aKTtUZxSqhDP9qTLq31zBrde5xSAFjG5RdgrCADP5g030zAnqYVfuB4XxhcS_PbtALofyzuA3ipDSm02JidOBaKY/s320/%23Gideruman_003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225177672352144690" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">If it die</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"But, seizing the hand that he lended me, I made him roll on the ground. His laugh immediately reappeared. He did not get impatient for long with the complicated knots of the laces which he used in place of belt; taking out of his pocket a small dagger he cut trough the all. The garment fell; he rejected off his jacket, and drew naked as a god. One moment he shot his slender arm skyward, then laughing, dropped against me. His body was certainly burning, but appeared in my hands as refreshing as the shadows. What lovely the sand was! In the splendour of a lovely evening, my joy was bejeweled with such rays!…"*<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3061833060396172669.post-798865664667318312008-07-21T15:50:00.004+02:002008-12-10T05:33:56.631+01:00I'm the boy"I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br />Ombre parmi les ombres<br />Des nocturnes torrides<br />Je me perds dans le nombre<br />Pour atteindre au sordide<br /><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br />Masque parmi les masques<br />Tragiques ou d'amertume<br />Le cuir noir et les casques<br />Scintillant sous la lune<br /><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br />Âme parmi les âmes<br />Fébriles dans leurs angoisses<br />Lorsque brille une lame<br />Ou un regard salace<br /><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br />Homme parmi les hommes<br />Dans le noir ou l'ivoire<br />Recherchant les symptômes<br />D'orgasmes illusoires<br /><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br />Putain parmi les putes<br />J'enfonce dans la fange<br />Où s'étreignent les brutes<br />Et se saignent les anges<br /><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité</span>"<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Serge Gainsbourg - 1984<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMxQhztZfoTxlAzvig9Mqj6_bFdTgpGDIPE6_-n0etztNRpjWe-GtCt9c4zqJU5E02xb_aD49KVnHDgc8aqAqJKBBcQBkC2gW8mHgF5e8IAQozZdfRYcr8gVDr4u3l3kbhyphenhyphendjkpZC8kYb/s1600-h/%23Gainsbourg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMxQhztZfoTxlAzvig9Mqj6_bFdTgpGDIPE6_-n0etztNRpjWe-GtCt9c4zqJU5E02xb_aD49KVnHDgc8aqAqJKBBcQBkC2gW8mHgF5e8IAQozZdfRYcr8gVDr4u3l3kbhyphenhyphendjkpZC8kYb/s320/%23Gainsbourg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225472121094502786" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm the boy</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br /></span>Shadow among the shadows<br />Of the torrid nights<br />I lose myself in crowds<br />To achieve the sordid<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br /></span>Mask among the masks<br />Tragic or bitter<br />The black leather and the helmets<br />Sparkling under the moon<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"> I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br /></span>Soul among the souls<br />Feverish in their anguishes<br />When shines a blade<br />Or a salacious gaze<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br /></span>Man among men<br />In black or ivory<br />Looking for symptoms<br />Of illusory climax<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité<br /><br /></span>Hooker among the whores<br />I sink in the muck<br />Where hug the brute<br />And bleed themselves the angels<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility<br />I'm the boy le garçon qui a le don d'invisibilité</span>"*<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0