A unique description of Adorno admired ...

I do not often agree with the neighbor boy about what the best ass. Noto general taste of the scrawny ass skinny models. I like big, hospital beds. I like the ass balcony, projecting and self-sustaining as an engineering miracle. The fine ass latin rapper, reggaeton, double pomp and prodigious alive.

I leave when I say ass verses. Maybe because there's more asses old atavistic that on tits, they really are an intellectualization. The tits are Renaissance, but the ass is primitive, neaderthaliano. With its attractive power unambiguous convergence inviting, is a prehistoric hit. Awaken our more bestial side: the mesh on all fours. The tits are a more recent invention, are prosaic. The ass, however, is lyrical, musical, lilting, hip wiggle indiscernible, the rhythm, the beat of the bossa portraying the garota that departs in Ipanema.

Because your ass is always away, always going going, inviting them to follow. It moves in the opposite direction of the boobs, they always come and so often alarming, threatening, almost warlike (I remember the tits of Aphrodite, Mazinger Z's girlfriend, who was fired as two missiles). The face tits, ass flees, is elegy itself be going as life itself and sad men left wondering what cutest thing, most graceful brunette that comes and goes with sweet balance toward the sea .

The Argentineans have ortho, Colombian hopoo, the Brazilian bunda, Mexican pot, jar Peruvian, Cuban or fambeco fridge, the Chilean has poto. Or rather, the Chilean poto not have, according to my friends who complain Transandean this lack and are amazed when they travel to Latin America. I myself almost got chained to the wall of the bastion of San Francisco, at the last Festival of Cartagena de Indias, to avoid having to go back and to continue admiring the incessant parade of Cartagena or whose ass haughty barranquilleras deserved this short article but not a treaty encyclopedic or poems as Canto General.

From the things that make up his ass women, which is more tender when I get close to the stove to heat. They can not help. Pass in front of a fireplace or radiator and close your ass, you hatch a while. The ass is the coldest part of a woman. Always surprising touch that temperature, the freshness of the cheek in the first encounter with the hand.

During the hug, you can get to the cheeks of two ways. One is from above, if the woman is wearing pants, but it is difficult and the tightness of the fabric prevents switching and spanked vital. The other form is at the bottom and that's the best, when it reaches a little ass lifting her dress, her thighs, and suddenly you get to these orbits twin, that abundance with both hands. At that moment you feel that the hands were not made for nothing else but feel that happiness, to feel every muscle of the body's soft gravitation, the exact weight of the Earth's roundness.

People often think that in sex, doggy position subjecting women. But I must say that addressing a woman behind the powerful legs can be the opposite: it is as attached to a locomotive,

as caught on the strength of life, you have to follow, it is not easy, one remains under its power, you have to work, giving much pump, coal for the machine. It is one which is subject to its high expectations, deep, subdued, emptying forever in the living area of this double mantis.

I once saw a man of about 45 years going around the park, running after her personal trainer. The funny thing is it was a Personaltrainer, and blue tights this evidenced gym teacher who had a doctorate in buttocks. As the donkey after the carrot, the man ran after her without thinking of nothing but that staff follow. Would not surprise me that a half hour would have a group of runners jogging behind a caravan. The music of the vehicles is the Pied Piper. Men, with their legions of mice, go after her, mesmerized.

Women know use their resources. I worked in a company in the same floor as an architect nosed (such narigonas sexy) and a 'tremendous fambeco'. She knew it was her best angle and did assert, with tight pants that left all trembling. It was one of those offices square, full of straight lines: the calendar grid, rectangular table desk, window, shelves, file folders. A place unbearable if not for the ass of the architect who sometimes went way to cash or copier. Her round ass was all around this office building. I think the only thing alive. Never tried anything (he reportedly had a boyfriend), but at a time I thought writing a novel with links to her imagined heroic. A novel that was going to head, with a nod to Greenaway, 'an architect's ass'.

Not even two lines I wrote that novel, but some poems that she never read. I remember I saw it before seeing it, sensed in a particular rhythm that had the sound of his footsteps, a weight, a touch of her inner thighs of mulatto false. When it appeared in the corner of my eye, I knew full well that it was her. And happened and everything stopped for a moment, the memo, the mail, the voice on the phone, all curled suddenly had no more straight, everything ovalaba, is bulged, and the heart was dancing half clerk. I do not exaggerate.

He was also full crisis of 2002. Everything was collapsing, falling ministers, presidents, falling economy, currency, stock market, large painted curtain fell on the first world, falling morale, income per capita, all fell except architect's ass seemed go up and up, more lively, more mordible, more spherical, more prancing on his swing through the corridors, passing in a shake conceited that seemed to say no, but do not look at me, but do not follow me, but dedicame poems. I hope she gets to read this one day and finds out the good that I did during those two years with just being part of my working day going so gracefully against the monkey off my hormone. And hopefully also learns that when they cast me, the only thing I regretted was leaving to see her walk down the hallway, wincing the Giant Peach dreamed of her ass.