Tuesday, October 6, 1970

Fig. 018

His father's last words. They were spoken with ferocity.

My first mistake was touching. My next was tasting. Sin had never felt so ripe on my tongue. It was sweet. Juicy. I was in love with it's intoxicating scent. Inhaling was that next mistake. Back to the touching. We'll dwell on it a bit. The amazing feeling of her hip bone pressed in my palm. My fingers moving ever dangerously closer. Hands sliding up her body. the way they bend along with her curves, shifting slightly at the point where her ribcage begins to rise. feeling each rib as I slowly pass. My hand gently cupping her neck as I pull her face closer to mine. Tasting. We're tasting again. Next will come other tastes. Salty, bitter and sweet. Sex is wine. It is palpable. For hours after I still taste her. Thrusts go from slow and steady to rampant and carnal with no warning. She wants more out loud. I beg her not to break me inside. I will break her inside. Slapping and screaming and clawing and creaking and moaning. She is not ready for this. I am not ready for this. We must grow up somehow.