home | login | register | DMCA | contacts | help | donate |      

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z


my bookshelf | genres | recommend | rating of books | rating of authors | reviews | new | | collections | | | add





* * *


There are things that are impossible to recall or to describe so that others can understand. For example, hunger, that epiphany of hunger that you reach when you're hard up for months and don't have enough to eat.

A flaming bowl of soup is transfigured into a solar disk you remember it for years.

What wonderful and bloody horrors occur to you when you're hungry! What executions and tortures you invent for the rich and well-fed when you bump into them in the streets, as they come out of the brightly lit restaurant doors in fur coats and tatters! And what pleasure indescribable for an ordinary man, a man with hungry eyes if you manage to fuck a rich girl. You meet her somewhere accidentally, and then you fuck her. I, a plebeian, lumpen, still I'm fucking you, that's right, I'm fucking you.

It's a supreme kind of sex if you have a woman who's higher than you, who's clean and belongs to another. Now that I've come of age I often feel like fucking a wellgroomed, high-society lady, on her way to becoming a plump, respectable mother, a wife to some gray-haired idiot.

I want to fuck her in a rude, inconsiderate way, peasantlike, and no foreplay or petting either. Freud, Freid, however you pronounce it, Old Sigmund, whenever this heavy ass appears from under her redolent rags, I forget everything you've taught me and there's only vengeance, vengeance, and vengeance: I'm fucking their woman without any right, their woman! They say black men feel this when they have a white woman. I'm not black but I feel it.



* * * | Diary of a Loser | Training