O cu da uma arquiteta
There isn't a pot, according to my Trans-Andean friends who complain about this lack and are amazed when they travel through Latin America. I myself almost got stuck at the Baluarte de San Francisco wall during the last Hay Festival in Cartagena de Indias so as not to have to go back and be able to keep admiring the endless parade of cartageneras or barranquilleras whose high-altitude booties deserved no brief article but an encyclopedic treatise or a poem like the Canto General.
Of the things women do for their butt, what gives me the most tenderness is when they bring it close to the stove to warm it up. They can't help themselves. They pass in front of a chimney or radiator and bring their butt closer, warming it up for a while. The butt is the coldest part of a woman. It always surprises by touch that temperature, the freshness of the cheek on the first encounter with the hand.
During the embrace, you can reach the cheeks two ways. One is from above, if the woman has on pants, but it's difficult and the tight fabric prevents the maneuver and vital palm. The other way is from below and that's the best, when you reach the butt by lifting the dress up little by little through the thighs and suddenly you're there at those orbiting twins, that abundance in full hands. In that instant, you feel like your hands weren't made for anything else but to palpate that happiness, to feel with all the muscles of your body the soft gravity, the exact weight of the terrestrial roundness.
It's often thought that, during sex, being on top submits the woman. But it has to be said that approaching a powerful-hipped woman from behind can be quite the opposite: it's like coupling with a locomotive, like hooking onto the force of life, you have to follow her, it's not easy, you're left subordinate to her energy, you have to work hard, give her lots of coal, fuel for the machine. You're the one who stays subordinated to her great expectation, absorbed, subdued, emptying yourself forever into the double living sphere of that praying mantis.
Once I saw a 45-year-old man running around the park, chasing after his personal trainer. The curious thing is that it was a personal trainer, and her blue leggings showed she had a Ph.D. in glutes. Like a donkey after a carrot, the man ran after her without thinking about anything else but that personal pursuit. I wouldn't be surprised if an hour later there would be a group of runners trotting behind, in caravan. The music of the booties is the flute player's tune from Hamelin. Men, with their legion of rats, follow her, hypnotized.
Women know how to make the most of their resources. I worked at a company on the same floor as an architect with a sexy nose and a great butt. When she appeared in my line of sight, everything would stop for an instant, the memo, the mail, the phone call, everything would curve suddenly, not be straight anymore, everything would ovalize, bulge out, and the office worker's heart would start dancing. I'm not exaggerating.
Plus it was a 2002 crisis. Everything was falling apart, ministers were resigning, presidents were falling, the economy was collapsing, the currency, the stock market, everything was falling, except for the architect's butt that seemed to be rising and rising, more and more, each time more vivacious, more morsable, more esfétasty, more bucked up in its oscillation through the corridors, passing with a vain swagger that seemed to be saying no, look at me but not, follow me but not, dedicate poems to me but not. I hope she reads this someday and finds out how much good she did for me during those two years just by being part of my daily routine, passing with such grace in front of the giant peach-colored butt of her dreamed-up ass.
There isn't a pot, according to my Trans-Andean friends who complain about this lack and are amazed when they travel through Latin America. I myself almost got stuck at the Baluarte de San Francisco wall during the last Hay Festival in Cartagena de Indias so as not to have to go back and be able to keep admiring the endless parade of cartageneras or barranquilleras whose high-altitude booties deserved no brief article but an encyclopedic treatise or a poem like the Canto General.
Of the things women do for their butt, what gives me the most tenderness is when they bring it close to the stove to warm it up. They can't help themselves. They pass in front of a chimney or radiator and bring their butt closer, warming it up for a while. The butt is the coldest part of a woman. It always surprises by touch that temperature, the freshness of the cheek on the first encounter with the hand.
During the embrace, you can reach the cheeks two ways. One is from above, if the woman has on pants, but it's difficult and the tight fabric prevents the maneuver and vital palm. The other way is from below and that's the best, when you reach the butt by lifting the dress up little by little through the thighs and suddenly you're there at those orbiting twins, that abundance in full hands. In that instant, you feel like your hands weren't made for anything else but to palpate that happiness, to feel with all the muscles of your body the soft gravity, the exact weight of the terrestrial roundness.
It's often thought that, during sex, being on top submits the woman. But it has to be said that approaching a powerful-hipped woman from behind can be quite the opposite: it's like coupling with a locomotive, like hooking onto the force of life, you have to follow her, it's not easy, you're left subordinate to her energy, you have to work hard, give her lots of coal, fuel for the machine. You're the one who stays subordinated to her great expectation, absorbed, subdued, emptying yourself forever into the double living sphere of that praying mantis.
Once I saw a 45-year-old man running around the park, chasing after his personal trainer. The curious thing is that it was a personal trainer, and her blue leggings showed she had a Ph.D. in glutes. Like a donkey after a carrot, the man ran after her without thinking about anything else but that personal pursuit. I wouldn't be surprised if an hour later there would be a group of runners trotting behind, in caravan. The music of the booties is the flute player's tune from Hamelin. Men, with their legion of rats, follow her, hypnotized.
Women know how to make the most of their resources. I worked at a company on the same floor as an architect with a sexy nose and a great butt. When she appeared in my line of sight, everything would stop for an instant, the memo, the mail, the phone call, everything would curve suddenly, not be straight anymore, everything would ovalize, bulge out, and the office worker's heart would start dancing. I'm not exaggerating.
Plus it was a 2002 crisis. Everything was falling apart, ministers were resigning, presidents were falling, the economy was collapsing, the currency, the stock market, everything was falling, except for the architect's butt that seemed to be rising and rising, more and more, each time more vivacious, more morsable, more esfétasty, more bucked up in its oscillation through the corridors, passing with a vain swagger that seemed to be saying no, look at me but not, follow me but not, dedicate poems to me but not. I hope she reads this someday and finds out how much good she did for me during those two years just by being part of my daily routine, passing with such grace in front of the giant peach-colored butt of her dreamed-up ass.
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