I Like Looking. An Essay by Frank Moore 2011


I like looking into pussies whatever color of trim, or shaved hairs from your skirts.  But that does not define what my companion is, or my life and spirituality and why this powerful screw beat loudly.  I am not definitely not surrounded by people based upon folds of skin, colors of the bodies, or whatever else painted by nobody.   But I screen people to see if they want to get booked up with my whole body, if they are available, practical, willing to jump into possibilities and fully play together within intimacy…  Playing adventures, dancing nude, sliding warm juicy sweaty rubbing aroused, smiling outside of themselves, loving life, willing to risk all kinds of ridiculous poems for me, willing to stay together within experimental play together.  I don’t have a tape measure for tits, cocks, noses and all other body parts!  If you see someone with such a policy of tape measuring, run!  We all came from Africa!  Yes my companion is willing to melt into possibilities and fully sexual experience with my cock.  Well among various other things! 

Can I look up your pussy?  I don’t really know why we cannot talk that directly.  I’ll promise you I will.  I don’t really know why the naked female nipples are so dangerous that they need to be covered at all times or reality crumble!  All the hill of milky white, sunburn golden brown, Shining black beauty, or whatever comfortable colors of the Nursing infant…  Hills of warm juicy flesh pleasure hot can be uncovered bosom of Emma.  But the reddish brown tip nipple with the orange yellow surrounding circle of desire of magical orchids have to be covered /hidden under the command of taboo or else everything will go wacky into chaos of the likes of Emma!  But this death ray can be squelched by the sheerest of fabric.  Of course some dangerous imagination magnified of desire will leak out of sheer spirits.  I can travel the thread that has the birth /pleasure hole, the hard satisfaction wand and the grunt outlet all taboo, hidden vices passages…  If I squint and get tipsy and twisted perverted blues emotional problems with eating by mouth of my philosophy.  After all shitty form of frustration, and sewage pissed flowing green, and crimson blackish patches spread on white underwear and all dirty fun smelly and sewage fish terrified beyond imagination, magnified everything else painted upon folds of skin.  I can travel that perverted blues emotional problems with certain faculties of noise of thunder farts.  Even if I love a good shit of all colors and shapes comprised between teenybopper and heckle and consistency.  But the beautiful warm juicy nipple, the source of the mammal milk of life!  What sort of dangerous imagination ray comes from the source of food and comfort?  Zones of passion hidden behind taboo, hidden behind vices passages fester twisted perverted blues emotional problems with breathing IMPAIRMENT fatigue, obnoxious flakes of ice separated us from ourselves into conflict with certain destruction, massacred of passion.  This is why I look straight up taboo, down blouses, up skirts.  Underwear and bras are dams storing up this puss of the mammal unknown freedom, hidden parts of our life including being dirty.  They block breathing of hidden parts.  Dark depths of hidden bodies melting into juicy nipple are locked up.  And nobody asks WHY.  Dark magic of fragmentation is why…  For isolating explosion of pent-up frustration, smolders in a strange hissing noise of the process of transferring. 

In Freedom,
Frank Moore