Moonlight, one of the best scribes on this website, has recommended that I republish this story (embedded in Hetero-Gene

Moonlight, one of the best scribes on this website, has recommended that I republish this story (embedded in Hetero-General a couple of years ago) but now it's this section. I follow your advice and believe, Yes, it is the best love story I have ever written. Maybe because the I did with that: with love Still I tell it as it was told to me. I have added some concepts of their own, but nothing more than to embellish the story. It's called Estela. At 40 something short, he still has the luxury to wear even shorter skirts. It's not very high. The heavy brown hair he fans his head when he walks; He does it with poise and grace, with the step long on thin heels, arms straight, chin challenging the gaze. Confident of herself, she doesn't need to undulate her hips much to make it known that underneath of their clothes "it's carnival all year round". At 23 she married Mario. I have never seen so much love together. He was a rugby-bent-nosed Adonis; captivating, irresistible to any woman, he was such a great guy that you couldn't even have him envy. They loved each other like in fairy tales. I once told them that They didn't look at each other: they threw powder with their eyes, if that's possible and I think which it was. Mario told me that they made love two or three times each day; that they couldn't be together alone for more than a few minutes because, one prays, now the other, sometimes at the same time, frantically sought each other to love each other without exhaustion. So much passion brought consequences. Two children in a row made a greater dent in Estela's stylized body, which gained in hips and grace and breastfeeding curved her figure in such a way that it was impossible imagine her naked and not compare her with a lukewarmly tempting Venus, sweetly disturbing. We shared some coffee or a meal; a trip to the cinema and talks for hours, where we enjoyed as adults the drinks full of phrases accurate, intelligent comments, mischievous jokes and even discussions heated exchanges that only further reaffirmed the friendship that united us, based on understanding and respect for the person. I recognize my vileness: I would not have hesitated for a moment to lack him (that) I respect Estela if it weren't that when (she) looked at her husband one He warned that nothing could reach her. It was the time of the "revolutionary" years (was there ever a time that was not "revolutionary"?) We foolishly wanted to turn into suffering workers to the bourgeois plebs. From improvised stands We ranted against the regime, the bosses, the slavery to which everyone They saw themselves subdued. Our "liberated" people listened to us with stoic patience, They got on the 600, the R-12 or the "Puma 125" and went home to see their real heroes, who lived in "La Ponderosa" or committed the clumsies of the "Super Agent 86" and they fell asleep on the couch in the living room "Watching Biondi". But we were making "the revolution." Estela was the mimeograph magician and her husband was the king of typing in perfect columns of the Rémington 80. Between empanadas and red wine We dreamed of a power "of the people and for the people" of which the people did not even know. knew about it, of course - and in overthrowing the "fascist regime" that ignored us, obvious. Until one day he stopped ignoring us. The alarm signal was brought by Manuel, Lucía's brother, the girl who distributed flyers in front of factories. Sweet and in love, Lucía had disappeared without a trace. When the next day Manuel didn't notice either He came to the gathering, we went to look for him. Their house was chaos, with everything broken or scrambled. His parents: two sources of tears anguished by not knowing what was happening, what had happened to his children. Mario and Estela disappeared in the early morning of May 8. They took everything: Rémington, mimeograph, stencils the paper revolution left Stunned parents, scared children, terrified friends. The group disbanded, leaving behind dreams, hopes and thoughts such as those of freedom, equality, workers' and popular government. We knew we were next, that they would come for us too. that in that world of well-to-do accommodators there was no place for those who look above, who break chains, who cry out for justice. We fled without shame but with panic. First, at neighboring borders. Then, beyond the sea. The exile lasted eleven years; It's not worth telling. Who it has suffered - or still suffers - knows what I'm talking about. Who doesn't will never understand because exile is like a toothache: you can say that you suffer, but No one can suffer the same pain as the one who has it. We came back and everything was different. But if I am objective I can ensure that nothing had changed. "Everything is as it was then", I paraphrased idiotically. One day, hungry for nostalgia, I went to the "boliche" in the old gatherings They were the same tables, the same bar, the same shitty mirror. because of the flies and even the "Galician" at the bar was the same, although fatter and sweaty - if possible - than it was in the past. The hug, the coffee "invitation of the house", the glass of cognac "for old times' sake" and the exchange of memories, names, surnames, nicknames -Yesterday I saw Estela-, he released the bagpipe at me with a whip of his hand. KO. I couldn't believe it. Estela, the goddess, the muse, was alive and there, in the neighborhood. I didn't know anything about Mario, the fat man. The search was easy. The meeting, terrible. Her parents gave me the address. a little house small, with a garden without aromas in front, the walls crying out for a painter and a small barred door that creaked when opened. The Estela that attended to me is the one I describe at the beginning. It I admit: it took me two seconds to be able to swear that I was still in love with she. He recognized me instantly and, sadly, our hug was that of two brothers who haven't seen each other for centuries. We cry openly, each one in the each other's necks, certain that each tear was actually a memory spill. Now calmer, we ask ourselves questions. There were three decades of history to share and we wanted to do it in just moments. Twice I asked him about Mario and he answered me twice. the same: "He's coming. He's going to die of joy when he sees you." The creak of the barred door left us silent. Mario entered making an effort to accommodate the pace of his wheelchair. Do I need to tell what the reunion was like? I don't want to expand on childish details and I turn to the intelligence of whoever reads this to imagine the moment. The Adonis was a bag of old leather stuffed with pointed bones. The sunken eyes were surrounded by wrinkles: one for each torture to the that had been subjected and there were so many folds that just thinking about it was already fear. They had been "sucked" and, hooded, taken for months to different torture centers. They told it to me without rush or nerves. there was not hatred in their voices, but something like a litany. They didn't go into details. It wasn't necessary either. I only noticed emotion when Mario told how he had He was paralyzed from the waist down. He said they had only been able to see each other once in two and a half years. the time they were "disappeared"-. One night they took him to a place a stranger. There was a dimly lit room and Estela was lying on a mattress. grimy. The clothes were in tatters and the face and body were a succession of bruises. You They told me to give the names of all of us (the "revolutionaries" subversives") or she would be raped by the six "milicos" present and he forced to look. "I told them everything," he confessed without emotion, looking me in the eyes. I put a hand on his arm and squeezed hard to make him knowing that he understood, that I would have done the same. "But they raped me anyway," Estela said with a break in her face. voice. Again and again and again the jailers played sex with a Estela who watched as her husband was forced to watch. I, who know them so much, could write hours about that moment and those looks. But I will never be able to express even a tiny part of the feelings that were transmitted during that period. - When they got tired they threw me and kicked me. One "One of them stepped on me with such violence that it broke my back," my friend concluded. The boys? Well, each to their own. And the work? Well, we're doing our best. And how did they get free? We don't know: We believe that due to some influence from my father-in-law. "They left me at the door of a Hospital in Moreno," said Mario. "I was lucky," said Estela. they were going to me put to work in a whorehouse but a soldier who was in love did that they would leave me at the old people's house." They didn't need to tell more. So that? There was more history and more pain in the silences than in any words that could be said. I stayed to eat, telling my story that I told shame before those who had suffered so much. We continue with coffee, a little "Legui" cane, some mate it was three in the morning and we were limpets, ivies. We couldn't and didn't want to get away. I felt, from time to time, a warm thing from my brain to my feet, of hand in hand. A love as great as I had surely never felt. like never I will feel Love in everything, in every gesture, in every laugh there is so much to laugh after so much pain. Love in the toast to those who are not there and to those who are not We knew if he would ever be there. Love for those who had been and for those who they would be. Exhausted, full of so many emotions, someone's bed reached me of the boys to try to give peace to my ailing body. I couldn't sleep. Estela and Mario's film occupied every corner of the imagination and the senses. I smiled silently as I remembered his youthful kisses and I cried like a boy when I imagined her there, lying and naked and raped in front of the loved one. I heard the typical noises of the house closing around the corner. rest. Mario's chair in the bathroom, the collection of the remains of the toast, Mario going to his room right in front of mine, which had the door ajar-, Estela in the bathroom, then in the bedroom and then silence. But a murmur. Two people speaking with voices drowned A faint ray of light came from my friends' room. I couldn't avoid it (I'm only human). My right eye stuck to the millimeter slit from the door and from there I saw, thanks to a full-length mirror, the bed marriage where Mario was, naked, face up. I was talking to Estela, who was out of reach of my spying for which I cursed myself but from which I was unable to resist. Their voices were unintelligible whispers. I see Estela now. Her nakedness is a bouquet of jasmines, star shining through storm clouds, the winter sun. He approaches Mario. When he wants to touch her, she takes his hands. hands and joins them above his head; my friend is there, inert at will. His penis is a flaccid object that does not participate. Estela gives him a "beautiful, turgid, full" breast, which Mario kisses warmly. I imagine his tongue playing with the nipple that will become erect. He releases it and blows on it gently, cooling the moisture of the saliva. She gives him the other breast, as if it were nursing life. When Mario wants rise to take more of so much deliciousness, she holds his forehead and I hear clearly the whisper that says: "shhhh slowly" and gives him a long, long kiss. Sure I feel that their tongues are entangled, they touch each other; that palpate lips and gums to touch and rub each other again in a thousand circles; I am sure that your breaths They melt and each eagerly drinks the other's saliva. Estela's mouth falls away reluctantly. His body covers every inch of the chopped Adonis. From the forehead to the feet there are not two but one wanting to be less. There are only gaps between the armpits, necks, feet Slowly the woman descends. It is a serpent that slides with exasperating slowness touching everything, feeling everything, making everything felt. The pink nipples reach the flaccid member. Estela raises her arms and makes one pray, the other pray, each breast pampers with lust the area where a goat once lived. I've never seen anything like it I haven't even lived it. But I imagine (what do I say: I feel!) the hot touch in my groins of that soft skin, of the petal buttons that seem to kiss hair, penis, eggs; and my blood boils and my fever burns and I die of jealousy As expected, next is the mouth. Heavy hair It prevents me from getting into the detail of what I sense when I see slow movement of the head. Upwards, stretching the neck, licking long from the scrotum to the glans. Down, swallowing everything. To the sides, playing and pampering with sweetness infinite what was once a formidable tool. Mario's hands squeeze the bronze bars tightly. of the back of the bed. I don't know what he feels, but I do know what he is feeling. Breathe with your mouth open, eyelids tightly closed. Travel on the back of caresses through the most beautiful valleys of sexual pleasure. He is being loved. The mop of blonde hair rises and falls more and more fast. They do not speak, nor moan, nor ask. There is only air on fire that is drunk mouth open and lunges with clenched teeth. Like a clarion, Mario does not sigh but exhales passion contained. The straight hair barely moves. My friend's hands They take off painfully from the cold bars (perhaps some reminiscence of what past? I wonder). Estela stands up. He is on his knees, with his sex resting on the helpless legs of her delighted husband. I admire the splendor of its beauty. The perfect curve of the back, the rounded roundness of the outlined hips. The low light prevents us from seeing more details. A reflection allows me guess the radiant skin of the thighs and the play of shadows confirms the slenderness of the arms. Literally on all fours, Estela's body rises from the pubis to Mario's face. It is she now who clings to the bars - these others bars, different and perhaps reminiscent. He is squatting and his sex is rests fully on the face of his beloved. It starts to move and it does slowly. The back curves and arches, the shoulders shrug and stretch. The pelvis moves with the impulse of the hips and I guess, again, the tongue of the man sunk in that place where passions begin, satisfy and die. I imagine the wet vagina and the lips swollen with desire; prominent clitoris demanding to be slurped, kissed, bitten to the limit of known pain-pleasure exactly by the repetition of the act. The silence amazes me. No, it's not silence. They are the same flaming airs from a few minutes ago, only now it is the woman who exhale. The rhythm-dance of the hips-pubis-sex is done, every time, faster. I notice the urgency in Mario's hands holding my waist tightly. slender, helping and insisting on the movement of a wave, a wing, a steeple. I hear a plea: "More." One request: "More." A plea: "Give me more, now." An order: "Now, yes, now, give me more." Three moans: "Now now now." Hands twist metal bars. The dance is violent and frenetic hips. Head back reveals the shine sweaty neck while it swings and suddenly the mouth opens in a scream inside that has no end. All the air in the world is absorbed in an instant and it launches again like a thousand screams in barely whispers. Stars explode. Abysses sink. Heaven and earth they touch There is nothing and there is everything. The hands go limp. Heavy hair covers the falling face slowly. I tremble. I tremble. I feel her orgasm in every piece of the body. Panting. Desire, passion, springs from every pore. I feel so much, So many things, I don't know what to do. I suffer. An unusual tear falls down my bearded chin. Seeing, hearing, feeling, hurts the erect penis and the swollen testicles. My face burns and my heart makes African rumbles in the head. How can I get back to my borrowed bed? He didn't want to touch me even though I was dying to do so. The act that I had seen and felt was repeated to me over and over again. I had it in my eyes, mind, body. It was a crazy movie that went back and forth over and over again. times. The sounds were repeated, they went away, they came back, the same, different. After a while - a long time - and now more serene, I realized that there was witnessed an incredible act of love, an extraordinary delivery game, the perfect combination of the Nexus, the Plexus and the Sexus that Miller was looking for. I was trying to get into Mario's brains. What would it feel like kiss that sex violated a thousand times and violated again? And what about her? I didn't want to, no I could, I did not know how to advance in that line of thought. I realized that I wouldn't know how to get out if I started to delve into those paths. I was lucky that sleep overcame me. In the morning, a cool hand on the forehead and a sweet voice in my ear reminded me that the world had to be given a shower so that it would continue turning and to the body a coffee so that it would be of some use. I said goodbye to Mario with a hug when he left for work. The second cup of dark potion opened my eyes while Estela began the hustle and bustle of the house. I looked at her and she knew it. "I'm leaving," I told him. He put his arms around my neck, hugged me hard, very hard. "I love him," she whispered to me. "I wanted you to see it, to know how much I loved it." "I love him," he added without needing it. On the way to anywhere, the voice of "Negra" Sosa me sang from the heart: "We still sing, we still dream, we still laugh, we still love" "There is still hope," I added offhandedly. To Rosana F. my wife, whom I love madly for being able to understand what I want to say and encourage myself to do it every day Postscript: I don't know if this website is the right place to post. this short story. I do it here because like everyone who wants to say what they have seen, I need other eyes to look at the same thing. I know there are myths and taboos on the sex of and among the crippled and handicapped. The truth is that they They love, feel, enjoy and suffer just like any "normal" person. To know more, You can look like I did at the website http://www.minusval2000.com/relaciones/validos_para_ser_padres/ to whom I thank the inspiration for this writing.