How beautiful you are! Oh, how beautiful you are and how it would be good to love you, beautiful and inaccessible female, discreetly sited on the front bench of the "Passy-Porte des Lilas" bus!
My greatest desire would be to cross the red line that separates us, you and those other momentary insensible passengers sitting on the front benches of bus 96, carrying them and carrying you, beautiful foreigner, God knows where.
And I look at you, and I forget that it is prohibited to me by the apartheid conventions, to cross the red line that separates me from you, and that separates us, males, of the contact with these other females, and me from you, sitting, quiet and vulnerable, on the front bench of bus 96.
I would like to make love to you, but I know that this is prohibited to me and that it is also prohibited to you; but I do not know if I will be able to restrain myself until the end of my journey and your's, because your strange beauty does nothing but agitate my senses of male who has fast for such a long time, undoubtedly a too long time, of having dreamed of you and of so many other females, in silence, often, too often, that he does not know if he will retain for a very long time, the rut he is in at this very moment. Will I resist longer, the temptation to cross the red line that protects you from me, and that prohibits me to thrown myself on to you, to strip you by force and to rape you, there, on the front bench of bus 96 that moves bumpkingly towards the terminal of "Porte-des-Lilas"?
Oh, beautiful female, who believes she is sheltered from the predatory males, behind this fragile red line! Oh, how vulnerable you would be if you could understand all the animal thirst that furnishs my spirit! You just had to look at me so that my rut be transformed into a premature ejaculation; please, do not wait any longer and come close by me. I only have to close my eyes, and all the social conventions will disappear, as well as the presence of the matron on service, this "fhemale" disguised as a "policewomen", sitting on the opposite bench to that of the "bus driver", she who spy on us with her inquisite eyes behind her bullet-proof partition. I look at you and I see you crossing the red line of the social conventions; you kneel with dignity in front of me, you pull down my zipper, you open my trousers and you calmly release my penis of its prison of cotton; you lean and you engulf yourself in me as no other female could do it and had ever knowed to do it before you; you largely opened your mouth, you sucks me, fixing me with your rascal eyes to make me enjoy an orgasm that none of my dreams could ever bring to me, throughout this long purgatory, imposed to me, on me and on my male congenerics, by the Churchs' Ministers of the social rightness.
But I am afraid, I am afraid that these thoughts I entertain, be the reason of my forfeiture; yes I am afraid, I am afraid that, where there is no more necessity to punish the acts, the thoughts and the dreams would be subject to the inquisition of the "managers" of the general public morality.
God help me, help me God, divert my thinkings from the carnal body of this too beautiful girl; why, if you prohibit me to love her, don't you destroy the beauty that feed my thirst?
The bus travels along the rundown wharfs of "Quay d'Orsey", it crosses the Seine at the "Pont Alexandre", the nauseous odors of this open sewer infiltrates into the skeleton of the bus. In other times, I would have travel by the "metropolitan", before it becomes infested by the "loiterers", the "renegades", the "quidams", the "homeless" and the rats. On "Place Trocadero", the populace howled its enthusiasm in front of the wood-pile that consumed unrepentant machos. Then, the corroded superstructure of the "Eiffel tower" disappeared at the time we reach the "Champs Elysées", here and there, filled with calcined skeleton of "tourist cars". We circulate with difficulty, around the remains of the Louksor obelisk scattered around the "Place de la Condorde". Then all along the "Rue de Rivoli", we undergo the assaults of the "hooligans" ambushed under the arcades.
A sudden stop of the bus draws me from my somnolence. The bus is immobilized. I must go down here. I do not even have more time for a last glance at the young female that so agreeably furnished my dreams of man in love. I get off the bus on Sebastopol boulevard to walk towards the strange building shaped like a "refinery" where I regularly come to deposit the only still useful ingredient of my poor skeleton of disgraced macho.
She is there in front of me. She went off at the same time as me, she is at only a few meters so that it would take so little for my lubricous dreams to be transformed into real adventure. She is there very close, so close that I could touch her, that it would take so little to caress her large ass, her buttocks that are moulded perfectly under her flowered cotton dress; her dress so short that it is slightly raised at each of her steps, outrageously releasing her thighs to the birth of her buttocks, drawing them clearly on both sides of the secret crack that divides them into two basins so appetizing to be crunched, such as her nipples are to be sucked.
How beautiful she is, as well from behind as she is beautiful from front, and than it would be good to screw her from behind, as she is so appetizing to be screwed from front!
My God, my God, protect me from my instincts of male in appetite!
She suspected my presence behind her. She slightly moved her head, fainting to recognize me. She did not accelerate her pace. We are near the "Research Institute" installed in the former Beaubourg museum where she seems to go just like me.
She crosses the glazed doors of the head office of the SOGEC. I approach the facade stuffed with gigantic laboratory pipings, which makes, the building of the "Somatic Germline Engineering Company", resembles a gigantic intestinal biomass. I crossed the transparent doors at the same time as she does, without exchanging any word together. We are now in the hall, vast and deserted, which reverberates the sound of our steps in thousand of dodecaphonic complaints; I move, as I always do, towards the long "reception desk" to take a numbered ticket from a ticket dispenser fixed to the wall next to the "desk"; she did the same thing, and we sited on the uncomfortable benches of the vast "waiting room", joining these many other anonymous, passive and indolent visitors.
I look towards the benches reserved for the "females". She is there, isolated from the other females; she deposited on her sides, a worned out "american magazine" that she took from the "shelves" along the walls. She pretends to read. And I do not cease looking at her and questioning myself for the reason of her presence in this place, this same place where I come to depose this invaluable liquid I would like so much to share with her. Does she comes here, like me, to give, or else, is it to collect what I would like so much to give her, in an other way?
