When I was growing up, I felt you with the tips of my fingers.

You were soft, closed, and timidly you opened up with that touch.

Your lines converged almost perfectly at the center with fear.

Your interior was kept secret, which I only knew when we performed the act.

You hardly opened up at all, just a small dilation when we enjoyed my little finger.

Time passed and the body changed, everything grew, and our hair increased.

But you, veiled, denied accepting the change.

Crouched between two buttocks, it embarrassed you to show me something of you that bloomed.

Your folds hid small hairs that peeked out, the transformation that guided

that irritation that over time turned to color.

It hurt you when I began to know your inner secrets.

That finger wanted to dig deeper than you allowed at first.

I understood that I should treat you gently, you were sensitive and got bothered easily.

You didn't know how to moisten yourself alone; I calmed your spasms only with saliva in the perineum.

And although it was hard for you to decide, you let me in, you relaxed, and understood that it was all done kindly.

Time went by, we practiced together; you were already open to explore,

the cylindrical shapes that penetrated you with some difficulty.

It was no longer just those childhood fingers that visited you,

now you accepted lifeless phallic forms, whose radius increased and increased.

Internally you always prayed that I wouldn’t forget to moisten you in case you needed it.

The little asterisk that you once were had changed.

Now you are an angelic halo, like a path to heaven, as you assumed it was a portal,

for those pleasures that we secretly tried to hide.

Those now toned muscles were like barbarians with chest hair ready to fight.

You no longer feared showing me your secrets, but were you ready for real penetration?

You welcomed those remnants of my preseminal fluid, with which my fingers visited you.

You always asked for that offering to open your floodgates of pleasure,

but now another visitor, strange, foreign, wanted to enter and discover what was there to see.

You returned to the insecurity you once had.

Who were these visitors who were entering for the first time?

A chin with hairs like a rake, a mustache with a pronounced nose,

a long and sharp tongue that moved like an oyster in the sea, stirring up sand to pearl.

You were shy, you couldn't even exhale that air that came out of you like any other day,

You simply accepted that I was an invader, with flames and torches ready to plunder,

that temple that only I was allowed to enter. The heat was just the beginning of this embodied struggle.

Your gates burned internally, at the door of the sun: The ...