The desk is all fruit and pissed at him, nibbling. I? Holding me not to vomit at the entrance of my house. As I walked out late this morning, forgot to close the little window in the bathroom, and was probably there that he entered. Quick and agile, with that horrible tail. What I find most disgusting is a rat tail. Swaggering and tough, like an antenna, it gives the rodent an even more menacing than he already has by nature. The tail that walks through the kitchen counter is broken, probably in some street fight. And that caused the drops of blood he left on my floor, dishes and fruit that ate the rat and the piss with it and messed it all around to give my house this afternoon, a small hellish and surreal aspect. So it does not escape to the rest of it, quickly closing the kitchen door to the room and I think what to do. And that was a
victory, because no exception to the rule, I get no reaction to the presence of a mouse. I've always been so petrified of being, to have outbreaks. Just do not do fiasco because I was born a man, and since my earliest childhood my father told me to do something fiasco is not a man, but of:
a) Women and
b) Faggots.
"Women," I did not take me long to understand what they were: those beings around us, much like us, men, but more fragile, no hair, her voice thinner and smelling better. What I did not know, because my father had not yet explained to me, is that women also have other characteristics which, although not exclusive of them, are attributed mainly to the female condition, such as if they mask, they have longer hair and wearing jewelry. Besides, of course, wearing dresses.
dresses like those that Samantha wore me after school from kindergarten last year. Priscilla, the younger sister, was hitting Palminha and laughing as he finished Samantha put lipstick on me. A single mother of them worked all day, and the maid seemed to do nothing, but to watch all the drama of the 15 inch Globe that she had in her closet. That meant we had the whole house to play without anyone bother us.
As I was very small, and there was therefore aware of things, I did not mind having to wear dresses that Samantha and Priscilla made me use. For Dad told me that the difference between boys and girls is that boys had pinto, and girls, frog. Therefore, I have enough on my dick between his legs that was okay. Having my dick and do not faint because of rats.
Speaking of paint, after the two girls finished getting dressed, Samantha crouched in front of me and lowered my dress would put my mouth on her. When she did, the laughter of Priscilla grew, and mine too. One of the most wonderful feeling I've ever had in my life was having my little penis swallowed by Samantha when we came together and I Priscilla's maternal. I remember that at the same time that his teeth were giving me a little tickle and pain, his tongue behind them had the same consistency of cotton candy. Like she did me a kindness by wet and gelatinous I have had the courage to face, with my sex, teeth and Samantha managed to reach there. After a while the girl's warm mouth, I began to feel an intense itching, followed by spasms, and then Samantha sucked me even harder, until I see a strange feeling so hot about. At these times, I stop laughing and sobbing Samantha high to stop.
You must be wondering how I let that girl do that to me. You should understand that, as I said at that age I knew nothing of things, so little difference for me between Samantha would suck my dick or, say, my finger. I myself still sucked his finger, and certainly suck the dick, if he could reach.
Once, however, things went very badly. As I said, in addition to fellatio and dresses, girls spent lipstick on me. I ended up swallowing a little of it, and I had a severe intoxication. The girls, very frightened, they called the old housekeeper, who called his mother them, they called my family and I went to the hospital. He almost died at age five. When my parents came to visit me, asking for the room where I was hospitalized, they had a shock almost as great as the coma, know the way in which I arrived dressed.
see, my family was (and is) very religious and conservative. For my father, at least I'm pretty sure it was preferable to have died in that I eat that way embarrass the family. After I recovered from the poisoning, had not yet left the hospital bed, and my father and my mother came to a very serious talk with me. My mother told me that I do not I could dress like that I wore with Samantha and Priscilla, it was wrong in a boy. That what I have ended up in hospital was a punishment from God, that God was good, that God made girls and boys to be, each one, the way it should be. I had to redeem myself from my sins. And that, primarily, from that day, I was not going to see Samantha and Priscilla.
It fell upon me like the roof of the hospital room. I think, remembering the point of view today, I would rather have died in nearly comatose. My father, who was quiet and dark all the time, saw the dress I had been using, thrown over a chair in the room where the nurse had placed him. He rose from his chair, went to him, grabbed him and shook him in my direction. I was still dirty makeup smeared out by a wet cotton on the operating table. My father pointed to my face, very excited, and said:
- Look at you. You're like a fag.
And that's when I discovered the meaning of:
b) fagot.
The mouse now hides behind my stove. I hear noises and see him walking around my house. I know I'm never going to kill him or anything like that. It is very difficult to catch these animals to the nail, they are very smart and quick. My father told me that the only way to prevent rats entering their homes is put poison in all corners regularly. And never, he repeated, never leave a crack in the wall becomes a crack. My father was a skilled hunter of rats. He was not sick at all. Kill creatures - all animals, my father hated pests - with gun and then took them by the tail and threw them into the vacant lot at the end of our block. He learned to do this with his father in the town where he came from. And all men were like my family, though not with as much exaggeration as my father.
Soon after the encounter with Priscilla and Samantha, I started to give me very well with him, did not give me as before. Maybe to better monitor, or perhaps realizing that I was not paying attention enough (and why I behaved that way perverted) My father took me to "adopt". Being a real father. He took me to the playground and played all kinds of sports. I was just asking, that he provided: soccer, tennis, basketball, baseball, everything. Taught me to run, taught me endurance under water and, especially, taught me to fight, punch, hold punch dodge punch, kick, tie, trailing. Some principles of jujitsu and karate, too. But I was not violent. Via the fight more as a diversion. Many people think that just because someone knows how to fight, that person is violent. But I was not even my father. He, my father became my best friend, and I became, or at least thought, a normal guy. Healthy, without those past problems.
When I reached puberty, my mother and my father stopped me manage both, thinking that I had overcome all that, forget the terrible incident of the past. Was almost healed, and brought the fear of rats (the only thing I still do not like my father, unable to hold a rat by the tail and throw it in the vacant lot), was a very macho guy.
And yet, I have not forgotten anything. Never could I forget Samantha kissing my balls and sucking my dick. OK, so my dick was small then, but Samantha's mouth too. In fact, about what, I did not feel sick. Or shame. Just nostalgia. Because after all, the problem was being dressed as a woman, is not it? That was hardly a girl blowjob a boy of seven to five? Gave up some pride. When, at fourteen, my eighth-grade classmates were talking about first kisses or lied about the first fucks, I always shuts up everyone's saying it had been five years blowjob to a girl two years older. It was really cool, and because of that I had a reputation for stud. I missed the gourd that year, even if, in fact. With a girl in my class named Lourdes. I played great ball and was getting nice. -Faced little man. It made me popular with the girls, who liked flirting with me. Then, in a birthday party for a colleague of ours, hunting came to tell me that Lourdes was to me. I went to her awkwardly, and without saying anything, I gave my first kiss. Two months later, we were dating, and as the mother of Lourdes was single and liberal, we could be alone in her room.
took a little to happen. I even think that Lourdes was more willing than I am. After that, we started to climb much. We were like rabbits: I did not want anything else. Lourdes took the pill for us not having to use a condom and then it was very good. Lourdes said I did good. She was not a virgin, had sex already with two or three guys before me, all older and more experienced than she. Therefore, Lourdes was not just a young girl dazzled by her first boyfriend, she had the authority to talk about sex. According to her, I had an abnormal sensitivity. She wanted to stay with me forever, and I obviously wanted to stay with her forever. It was my first love. My first female. More importantly, the end of fear that my father, my mother and even I had that I became a b) fagot.
We were together three years ago, preparing for college entrance. Lourdes and I were studying in the same prep school, in the city center, as well as most of our friends. Ali in the final, early December, had left a simulation of the feedback that we had all done in a famous prep school downtown.
I was in charge of passing the preparatory course, the answers get feedback and then redistributing them to my class that was studying the whole house hunting. I went into the prep school, I got to the wall where they were nailed to the responses of the simulation, and started copying them into a sheet of notebook paper. Anchored on a wall, had a guy with an official uniform prep school, a guy a little older than I, already looking like a university, staring at me. I stopped, stared at him and saw he did not look away, then decided not to establish if and continue copying. But he stopped looking at me, quite the contrary, came closer to me and said:
- It is amazing that after all these years you're like, Hugo.
I stopped for a moment and turned to look better for the guy who tava interrupting me like that and asked
- How do you know my name?
The guy, smiling a lot, looked me straight in the eye and told me
- Can not you recognize me, Hugo? It's me, Samantha.
His name is Felix. And he is beautiful. He has green eyes and blond mustache. It gives me a chill run your hand on your head and feel his brown hair and bristly. Its walking is rhythmic, synchronous with the movement of your shoulder and your hip. I'm not used to it, but I must admit that was a good while since I felt a warm touch as well, such as a contact Felix. Since I got out of prison. Since before then, anyway. This is one of the problems of being a lonely man: we are closed so that a simple creature as he narrowly missed snatching in the heart.
Oh, yeah, I could love Felix. I could get him off the streets, taking care of him and all his needs for years, until it wither and die and I cry in his grave. I could be the mother he never had. But no. Felix did not come here for my love. He already has it, somehow. Felix came here for a bit of hot blood in his mouth. Blood of dead rat. Felix jumps off the couch to the curtains, shaking her beautiful brown tail, and the curtain for one of the corners of my room, where just a mouse trap. I was careful to close all windows and doors. It's hopeless.
The mouse tries to escape from Felix, but this is faster and then throw it into the air with his legs, as if he were a shuttlecock, kills him with only one gear, holding it with his teeth, while the rodent squeals and kicking to death. After a while in this position Hunter, Felix release the mouse and walk through my kitchen, dirtying her blood (much, much more than the simple blood drops from my original surrealist scenario). Felix, accusing anything horrible that you just do as I, between disgusted and relieved, I wonder if the animals thought to realize what it means to kill.
guess, obviously, something they must feel when they kill. Lust, maybe. Like the ancient ancestors of these predators. Or guilt? No, do not say that. Not that I speak of feelings. I mean, an awareness of death. Death as we humans to rationalize. I'm sure it does. They must feel everything we feel and see and perceive, to kill a alive. Live, as we did. They also know that his body lying there will never arise. They know what is the end all, that is what should be avoided until it is completely unavoidable. And I'm sure that they, the animals, they know as much as we humans who impose such inevitability to be any other than yourself is a bad thing. Something very bad. They feel bad, they also feel the worm in the belly. I see it now in the eye of Felix. I see that it is not normal. It's not like was when he arrived here, excited, elated. As someone who desperately follows another one by a dark street, after a full day following him, and waiting a moment, an opportunity. Then the moment arrives, realizes that nobody is around, shoots two bullets from his revolver and then a snap in mind, the smell and color of blood, and finally says to himself "what have I done" and begins running aimlessly. But then it's too late. Guilt. The disorientation. Police sirens. The bullets arouse people looking out their windows. Someone recognizes you and soon you think. Two years of his life in prison, first in a smaller house, and then in a correctional institution. And that's because you're a good family. If not, much more! Now you're a loser. All your friends have left, you can not get a job anywhere. The feeling of worms in the belly you still travels. Do you still feel bad. And is not at least. You are bad!
Felix is \u200b\u200bnow exhausted. And me too. I call the guard at the parking lot where I work and say that the cat eats the remains of his lunch was stationed nicely. I'll give him a bath and take him back. He's too dirty to be delivered this way. The guard says that cats do not bathe at all, you'd better hope he is clean. Hang up the phone and I'm watching Felix begins to clear, while I remember my father saying, "to prevent entry of rats, the important is that cracks in the wall do not become cracks. "
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