You know, the anniversaries of birth are ideal times to stimulate memories and reminiscences.
The other day I was adjuvanted in this complex process and virtual synaptic connection from a very real and prosaic: a book. Indeed, a booklet.
I was throwing in the mountains of books bibliospazzatura-unused objects, some resplendent apologies-human idiocy when picked up inside the box has a volume which immediately piqued my airhead memory.
Anaïs Nin, "The Delta of Venus."
A collection of erotic stories dating back to the 40s in paperback and pocket the Bompiani, with lots of options. Pages spermofobe. It
fathers, of course.
And all of a sudden I knew where I had seen the black book.
year of middle school.
There was no internet, there was not even a computer at home for me.
The most opulent of hand to destroy the raisins went on sale itchy and make you beg the various The Hours, Lando, ThunderTopa, Tit to Dodge, and so on.
I, who had poor man and had no car of thousand pounds to invest in expensive oboli to my hormones, I was a bit 'with what was there.
And it was precisely the book by Anais Nin.
At thirteen, I beat the immortal writings of jerking off on one of the greatest authors of the surreal story, rooting on the pages of secret ink-stained by the lover of Henry Miller, the friend of André Breton and Georges Arnaud, grunt hedonistic fantasies of filthy 'author of Logs , the female version of Recherche of Proustian memory.
I am convinced that the intellectuals This recognizes real. Tell me how you masturbate as a child and I'll tell you who you are: a man fucking a certain level.
Booya
