From: joe@spdcc.com (Joseph Francis)
Newsgroups: soc.motss
Subject: Re: Tim Chain Porn
Date: 26 Jan 93 14:41:55 GMT
Article-I.D.: spdcc.1993Jan26.144155.11243
Organization: S.P. Dyer Computer Consulting, Cambridge MA

In article <ALLEMANG.93Jan25165316@liasun7.epfl.ch> allemang@lia.di.epfl.ch (Dean Allemang) writes:
>
>Is there something about living in French speaking places that makes
>us do this?
>
>In article <15604.2b5fa101@ohstpy.mps.ohio-state.edu> msp@ohstpy.mps.ohio-state.edu (Michael S. Pettersen) writes:
>
>
>   "There is no reality beyond that of the senses," said Jose.  Gently
>   he moved le Jojo's hand aside, and took hold of the monstrous erection
>   engendered on Jojo by the imaginary Tim.  "I must experience it directly
>   for myself."  He turned Jojo's stool, and pressed his mouth towards Jojo's.
>
>
>Jojo placed his hand firmly on Jose's chest, and pushed him away - but
>from the force, it was jojo himself who wheeled away on the casters of
>his chair.  `Non, je n'y arrive pas!' gasped jojo, realizing that he
>Jojo turned toward Jose, tears streaming down his cheeks.  `Be
>gentle,' whispered Jojo.
>
>   Jojo felt the rough stubble of Jose's dark shadowed jaw on his lips and 
>   the gentle exploratory caresses of Jose's hand in his lap,
>   and the bristles of his own blond moustache tangled with the jet
>   black of Jose's.  Burly white arms circled a slim waist,
>   and olive arms circled burly shoulders.
>
>
>Another pair of lovers in Paris - the city took no notice.

Dino took off the VR helmet, and turning to the DC Motss.con crowd,
said "I'm going to put that on CD-I. My god, the textures alone!"

Nelson MINAR and Jess ANDERSON grinned. They knew about textures. The
previous evening at the Gayety Burlesque theatre they had been
speaking, and holding hands quietly, and slipping off to another
smaller, lesser knwn Gogo boy theatre off McPherson Square indulged in
a private ritual all their own. Had the other Motssers been there,
they would have seen a nude Jess, flat on the floor with an equally
naked Nelson towering above him. Squatting slightly, Nelson twisted
and tirled his head and lashed out at Jess with his tresses as Jess
recited "Post-Scriptum": "Leave me, let me wait unspeaking;" WHIP went
Nelsons tresses, enflaming the tight button-like nipples of Jess's
well-seasoned chest "I was born at your feet, but you have lost me;"
SLASH the hair went, Nelson looking all the world like a pre-columbian
figuringe about to impale himself on Jess's joint "Too well my fires
have defined their kingdom;" Nelson, now twining his raven cois around
Jess's balls, while his cock jerked with impatient rage "My treasure
struck your chopping block and sank." Jess touches Nelson's cock, and
as Nelson unrolls a rubber on Jess "The desert -- refuge for the mild
lonely firebrand --" and lets it sink deeply into his bowels, savoring
the moment. Jess's hips supporting gladly the weight, "Has never named
me, never turned me out." The scene turns more intense, Nelson
whimpering gently as Jess strokes his firm body, not unlike his own
had been "Leave me, let me wait unspeaking;" and Jess holds firm the
bucking youthful hips, grabbing the fat root, delirious "The clover of
passion is iron in my hand." Onlookers startled, the stage rotating,
the whipping of Jess's chest by the hair more frenzied "Like a horse
aimless in bitter plowing" arching whipcrack muscles in the duo, "In
the torpor of air my ways are opening", Nelson jumping back quickly to
grab the gushing serpent with both hands as his own cock untouched
streams with creamy dew. Slowly the evening winds down. "And little by
little time will prune my face." 

"Face Pruning?" is heard, the crowd turns, and George Madison is at
the door with the bear-police. "Anyone pull a razor, and they'll get
it between the eyes," he says, holding an Ouzi. Jess hands him a glass
of Suze, looking remarkably like poisin piss, and says, "it was a pun,
George". Cheers.

-----
"Post-Scriptum" by Rene Char, part of "Le Visage Nuptial"

Ecartez-vous de moi qui patiente sans bouche;
A vos pieds je suis ne, mais vous m'avez perdu;
Mes feux ont trop precise leur royaume;
Mon tresor a coule contre votre billot.

Le desert comme asile au seul tison suave
Jamais ne m'a nomme, jamais ne m'a rendu.

Ecartez-vous de moi qui patiente sans bouche:
Le trefle de la passion est de fer dans ma main.

Dans la stupeur de l'air ou s'ouvrent mes allees,
Le temps emondera peu a peu mon visage,
Comme un cheval sans fin dans un labour aigri.

English Translation by Louise Varese (pretty awful, if you ask me,
though another from Gravity (Man Ripening) is exquisite: I have
pressed the whole weight of my desire/On your morning beauty/That it
burst and escape/Then came strong drink but no Magi/The throb of your
triangle/The day-labor of your eyes/And gravel upright on the
seaweed/An odor of sunstroke/Guards the coming bloom. But even then
the translation is odd. Oh well.)

-- 
US Jojo; damp, slighly soiled, but tasty nonetheless.
Newsgroups: soc.motss