Confession of the writer (answers).The one who writes. They

Confession of the writer (answers). The one who writes. They ask me so much that I have to tell them that the one who writes He is just under 30 years old. He lives in Mexico City, although he was not born there. He likes the city, he likes to walk around it and see his women because suddenly jewels appear, and not only where good girls usually gather, in the patios of the Ibero, or in Plaza Loreto, for example... The writer works as a bureaucrat in an office government, a job that has nothing to do with what he studied or what he like it, but relatively well paid and really easy, although its colleagues suffer and get upset. That explains why he who writes, writes: tedious dead hours in front of the computer are filled with women's bodies, with fantasies, and write then. Furthermore, the writer works there while finishing his work. doctorate and leaves with a fresh wind, which we hope will be very soon. He who writes, does it as training. one day will leave to write this to produce the novel he has in mind. He who writes loves pleasure. The pleasure of a good book and a good movie. Of a good meal, long, long, seasoned by a long after dinner, abundantly watered and finished off with a good Dominican cigar or Cuban. The pleasure that soft drugs ingested very occasionally provide and the pleasure of having known some other things. The pleasure of swimming and running. That of betting on the legs of a horse. That of a good soccer game (and that the Pumas win) or a good bullfight. The one of friendship and talk but, above all, that of the body of a loved woman. The writer is skinny and of medium height (1.77 and 65 kilos, more or less) and has less experience than his stories tell: only half a dozen are based on events that happened directly to him, some ten, in situations experienced by his friends and the rest are pure and absolutely fantastic. I challenge you to guess which are which. The one who writes touches his cock when he writes, locked in his office. It has never been measured but, as the Sabina and Krahe song says, "and his there were reproaches / they were in summary / for his performance / not for his volume / And the praises that were also plenty/must be attributed to a fourth dimension". He who writes touches and remembers. Remember "Elia" in her hotel bed, he remembers "Telma", his fleeting lover, he remembers his girl, who Last night I was waiting for him, when he got home, apnea dressed and more than ready. He who writes fantasizes. Imagine that there are sweet grannies and precocious teenagers who masturbate in front of the computer while reading it. He likes it think about them, the pretty ones and the ugly ones ("an ugly woman is worth as much at night as a beautiful during the day," said Don Francisco Gómez de Quevedo y Villegas, the greatest poet of the Spanish language, although the writer is not very convinced that this is TRUE). The writer assumes that there are also guys who screw up when you read it: well hello friends, but you prefer not to imagine them. The one who writes responds in this way to those who have written to him, and wants to be written to more: he likes to read emails from people he is not going to never know. He likes to imagine what kind of people write to him and he likes imagine He who writes sometimes gets tired of writing: yesterday he had a delicious and tiring session with a beautiful woman and today, because I am reading the latest stories on this page, for thinking about continuations and variants of the stories of Ariadne, Mini or Elia (not the Countess: that story came to a dead end, because what follows is the rape of the countess by the Germans and the fantasy of the writer is not enough nor does he like to recreate that), for thinking about one of his office colleagues (sex in the bathroom from the office, it should be called my next true story, but I don't see it easy...), he already had to go around the bathroom in question (don't worry: I have a private bathroom and I neither take any risks nor invade areas that others will use. for more pedestrian needs). The writer says goodbye and waits for them to write to the place always: sandokan973@yahoo.com.mx He promises to answer and asks that, if he does not answer, you insist, because lately that account has become saturated, so it offers a alternate:pablotas72@yahoo.com.mx The writer clarifies that his name is not Sandokan nor is he called Pablo: both are pseudonyms for his stories.