Fucking and fondling

Since I'm a sex machine, that's all I do. I fondle and I fuck. When I'm not fucking, I'm fondling. When I get tired of fondling, I fuck again. Occasionally I take a nap. Then, it's back to the usual. I'm purely physical, and my English is quite deficient, which is nothing quite revealing, considering I'm a mental retard. So... I'm purely physical. There's no love within these muscles and bones. No reason to cry or die for. At least that's what she says. Not she, the one I care about -the one I love-, but the other one: the blonde and stupid one -a genius, as a matter of fact, as she, the other she, would remark-, the one with the Greek lover, the one with the french way of saying Henri. Guess that's the way Anaïs called her lover: Henri, pas Henry. The latter must have been the way June called her husband: Henry, not Henri. Did Henry -or Henri- love these women, that we'll never know. That June loved him, that's for sure. That Anaïs was aroused with desire when she saw and met him, that's absolutely true. An actress and a writer. Perhaps Miller preferred the writer. Perhaps the actress scared the hell out of him. Perhaps he couldn't bear such a passionate love. Perhaps.

In the meantime, I'll fondle and fuck. But first, I'll cry until I dry. And die.

There's a title of a book I now remember: Too Loud a Solitude. Nothing really matters. Not now. Not when you're dead and still dying.