Have One On Me

CHAPTER ONE This diary-my diary-shall never he read by anyone except myself. I don't wish anyone to read what I have to say and especially after reading it would merely lift their insensitive shoulders. I don't even know i what I am Baying here has any importance or not. Bat for me it has, and the hell with others. As soon as I had the idea of putting down all the things that happened to me, I decided to put down the honest truth and nothing hut that. I swore to make it the intimate itself, the most personal kept diary one could find. And it is for this reason that this work, without arti fice, without the vanity of literary pose, will never be published. And besides it is scarcely publishable, except for some minor sections. And yet... everything is seemy inside... so discouraging. By nature I am already somber, not made for the kind of life one ordinarily leads. Perhaps if I had lived in the time of the Renaissance, I would have been able to come to the fore and present my true personality. Now, I am just one of the anonymous flock of sheep that drags on drearily. I don't. know whether my writing can rightly be called a 'journal'. I have just begun. And I have to reflect, memoriae the moments I have lived. Here on my bureau desk, there are many scribbled notes. It is all very human all this . Constantly I must struggle in this strange chapter of my life, telling myself that I am writing for myself and nothing has to be cattered to for the great public. I am just as I am, and this is the way to be.... Let me begin, hoping that I shall have a good deal of pleasure in rereading what I have written one day, something special in turbulent s*x, pleasantly true, hot, verv perverted and above all, highly personal. It is in the depths of oneself that we dig out the pleasures of the senses. The others, lovers, friends, are only the tools which help us crystalize and perfect the pleasure that is born within us. I ignored all this when I was eighteen. Who could have instructed me at that time? My parents were very dull, without any imagination, without passion unless it concerned making money. That is the way I judged them when I was eighteen. Perhaps I was too hard on them. But one thing is true and undeniable, they loved money and to be left alone. It is easy to see that I had a well-cared for youth. Everything went on calmly right up to the time I entered high school. My parents had some strange ideas. They were under the impression that I had learned enough. It was then that a sudden burst of boredom drowned me. I staid at home and watched my mother work in the kitchen. Now and then I would crack a nut or lick a bowl of sugar. Once in awhile I would chase a fly. Oh, how terribly bored I was with it all. It was so awful just hanging around the house that I took on new habits. I began to observe my patents, even spy on them and judge them. But what I noticed little by little wag more than I had expected. I can pardon my atrocious behavior for I was young. Quite often during the afternoon, my mother locked herself in her room, the room she shared with my father. She left me to loiter around the bouse alone. 'When she went to the bedroom, she never came out until an hour or so later. Even a thunderstorm couldn't make her come out and she knew I was afraid of thunder and lightning. The house was concealed and even during the later hours of the afternoon, it was dark inside. It was an old house and I wound up liking it. I was amused by the mysterious darkened hallways, the turning stairways, the creeking steps and the silence. There were strange reflections in the boose and it made me pretend that I lived inside an aquarium. The mirrors were green and when the windows were .open the sun barely streamed through the layers of dust. When I left school I slowly discovered this fantastic haunted house in which I was living. I myself became mysterious. I took advantage of my mother's siestas to rummage around the house. I knew every nook and cranny to such an extent that I was able to disappear for many hoars without leaving the slightest trace. If I wanted to, I could not be found. One of die rooms which attracted me the most was my father's library. The first time I went into privated Welling I noticed that the bookcase waa locked. I tried all the keys I could find, but none of them fit. The day after I offered to do the shopping. She was rather astonished. Actually she didn't have much confidence in me for this sort of thing for I was always forgetting one thing or another and more often than not something would break before I got home. However she let me go to the market and bid me what to buy, especially merchandise that was at a reasonable price. I was well-acquainted with her avaricious Ways. I had saved a bit of money and during my shopping I visited a key maker. There I bought a skeleton key that would fit any door to any bookcase. I had to tell the keymaker that our house was old and that many of our keys were missing. I had that innocent air I know how to have on such occasions. It worked perfectly well and he was quickly convinced of my good intentions. I waited. A few days later her fancies started np once more and she once again took her habitual siestas. I was left alone. As soon as she shut her door, I took my skeleton key and silently crept to the library. It worked and soon I was delving in the deep throes of my father's private collection. Before me was his greatest possession. His books were all dirty ones, with drawings and sometimes even photographs. I managed to take one of the more interesting looking ones out and I was sure that no one would notice a book missing, the bookcase was stuffed with so many of them. It was in this manner that I acquired the habit of taking a siesta and just like my mother, my eyes grew deep with lines after an hour of 'repose'. After I had read die first book, I found out what m**********n was and that this solitary pleasure was a marvelous thing. Naturally I learned that it was unwise to abuse this very special pleasure. I was reasonable. I held off for a long while and fingered myself little by little. After I bad rested I started up once more. I did the same thing with my reading. I never over did it. I was more of a gourmet than a gourmand. Before I took another book, I exhausted the erotic potential of each book. I had all the time in the world in front of me. I wag able to linger at my ease and whet my appetite. Bit by bit, during my nightly escapades, those which I spent passionately and peacefully in my room, I dreamt up a lover, a prince charming, whom I called to whenever my morose and delicious moments arrived. I created a marvelous person. He was sixfeet three. He was muscular with a V-shaped torso. His p***s was superb, always hard and ready when I needed it. I took off his clothes, one piece at a time and this is how I discovered him. This is the way I preferred to reach his cherished possession. When he would take me in his arms and kiss me on the mouth, I received an unheralded pleasure. I practically melted. Soon his bands were on my thighs and then they were between my thighs. And yet it was my hand fondly caressing my sensual parts. I would treat my s*x delicately and at the same time, I was rather violent with it. This rleased me enormously. And all die while felt his huge tongue exploring me, pressing in my mouth like a slithery serpent. And he kept on his attack touching me here and there. I was wet and sticky with slime. Then, after he managed to make me so awfully wet, he crawled on top of me. He roughly spread my legs apart and placed them drapped over his shoulders just like in the pictures I had seen. I found .this position particularly inviting. Then he would penetrate me with his immense dart. At that moment it was no longer my hand that was working but it was his d**k, or at least what I imagined it to be. I became his slave of paasion. Little by little he gorged mo out. Oh, how I felt hi* huge prick in my abdomen. I could feel his hardness and I bit my lip with joy. I had the impression that I was being had by a handsome male instrument that would never grow tired of such lubricity. I knew he would net give up until I was crashed and broken by a steady stream of pleasure that would send me off to dreamland and the wakes of joy. It was this phantom that I named my shadowy angel, who, one night suggested to me, while speaking in my ear with hit lascivious and perverted bustling voice, that we go see my parents and find oat whet they were up to. Of course we'll do it, but first my orgasm. I wasn't interested in another node besides myself. Once my appetite was vanquished, I was ready for other pasture*. My imaginative adventures became my greatest and most dear activity. He was an unusually diabolical creature, my lover, that handsome shadowy angel. "When he took me in his arms he would speak of my mother, telling me about her breasts, her stomach and her thighs. He told me about her in a heated tone and with satanic sensuality. I really didn't want to listen to him* but inspite of myself the words he pronounced in his rough voice became indelibly printed in my mind. Whenever I tried to rid myself of them, they came back all the stronger. Once in awhile he asked questions, questions that I even asked myself... Is she attractive, in she sensual, hot? Does she love to have pleasurable explosions, does she experiment, is she lascivious? Does she get as wet as I do? And her lover, her husband, what is he like? The physical make-up of my mother was undeniably a sensual one. She was big without being Cat. In the proper places she was quite firm. She was the right size for caressing hands. And because of the incessant questioning of my nightly lover, I asked myself if my father was sufficient enough for the task. One day I saw my mother walking about the house with a thin nightrobe on. It pronounced and highlighted her nudity. I even noticed that during her siesta her robe was lightly tossed aside and that she also had a spiritual lover who would force her into the most filthy trials. Suddenly I saw her in a new light. She no longer was the tight, dried-up woman I had seen. When I saw her m**********g, I believed her to be good and affectionate after all. What a stupid person I was and how sentimental. It isn't because she enjoy herself that she will cherish and give affection to her own flesh and blood. I found this out later on and at my own expense. My mother seemed to live in the clouds perpetually. Erotic clouds more than others. She loved to make love, she was after her joy and pleasure and everything else was secondary. This is what she told me one day, when she had found out that I was aware of her. If she thought of anything else, it was money. Certainly she never thought of her daughter whom she left forever in a state of solitude without any moral support. But I wonder what she could have given in the way of moral support. My life was consumed by two people who were profoundly egotistical. If I had never known what pleasure certain positions were capable of giving me, I would have found her gymnastics absurd. Just seeing her on all fours with her big ass a foot or so away from the mirror and her head slightly inclined to watch her own spectacle as she fingered her private parti, gave me a desire to perform on myself. Then she straddled the big armchair in her room and started in her strange antics. Another favorite trick was to lay on her back and push her head up on a pillow so as to watch her every movement. The obscenes faces she would make at the time of her orgasm fascinated me. I felt I was watching a strip-tease show, a moral strip-tease. All her pride and pompous barriers tumbled and I saw only a woman who was out of breath and lamentably alone. Perhas she wag happy... Who knows? I found in her all the female characters of the booke 1 had read. She was the living creation of them all. She showed me all the facets of erotism. A strange thing occured to me. When I watched my parents make love, I became disgusted with love and even with m**********n. I tried to forget this couple of lovers, just my father and mother, and I took np once more with my satanic black lover. I learned many things from him. He hurdled me and I could almost feel bit enormous prick run into me. It was wet and hard and it felt like glue was plugging me up. I let myself go. I listened to his raucous voice with the greatest of pleasnre. He told me, among other things, that my mother was damned. She was the prostitute variety and she even had lesbian instincts. Even my father was denounced as a brute and depraved individual who didn't know how to handle women because of his weak forces. And I ought to admit it. Next to my mother, my father seemed like a small piece of macaroni . Undoubtedly he was a poor bum who didn't know how to f**k for a penny. If he got inside her, I could bet that she hardly even felt it. Her finger was probably fatter than his c**k. Well this is the way I was between eighteen and twenty years of age. Oh, I nearly forgot... During that time, I was a very good Catholic. With my parents I went to church every Sunday. Much like them, I confessed regularly and went to communion at all necessary times: I noticed that it was that day, Saturday night to he exact, when coming home from church, that my mother broke loose. Every time collection time came, my mother would put her garter button in the collection box. This might have given her some ideas. Maybe it was because she had so many faults that one more or less wouldn't hurt. She would toil of her misgivings when the proper time came. It was that night that they went to bed early. And I went to the cinema. Well, let's get straightened out. 1 didn't have any money to go to the films but I watched their entangle* meats in the dark. This was my Saturday eve cinema. I saw how she emptied the male's bail and all. She sacked long and hard and then dragged the instrument between her thighs. Then she would take the instrument and place it between her enormous breasts. There were a number of other things she managed to do, without any real modesty. Then she would masturbate in a rage right in front of her man. She did all this in the big armchair and she was clad in a peekaboo outfit. As I recall she even wore glasses. My dear mom was full of ardent passion. She knew how to take care of herself and my pop too. Her face was screwed up by voluptuous pleasure which insulted my poor father who was not up to such doings. The dear lady was triumphant and she took great pride in showing off her pleasure to her weasel-like Husband. How well she expanded her orgasm. She would tell him how much pleasure and delight she had emptying her load in front of him. And little by little I began to enjoy myself as much as she, and maybe even more. I wanted to destroy the two human beings that had made me. Or perhaps to be more precise, I wanted to destroy myself in the greatest of all thrills, that of the senses. Very quickly I became adept in the most vicious and extraordinary ways. Listen closely and I will tell all.