This is not a real confession; it is a declaration I make to the woman who, without remotely imagining it, inflames my thoughts and my senses.
I present her. Sixty years old; inside her body marked by time, every sexual impulse seems to be extinguished. But the red and curly hair; the high cheekbones that frame the eyes as a seductive mirror; naturally fleshy lips; the small and triumphant breast on the belly of Venus; the narrow hips; the small buttocks; the hard thighs; the manicured feet; all these characteristics seem to reveal a deep and unknown to her seducing desire.
Perhaps, if she ever reads these words, she will taunt herself behind the belief that she has passed the time of sex. But I still hope; I hope to be able, one day, to hear her cuming; to hear her moan, getting wet and coming, in whatever way this can happen. I hope, at that moment, to become her confessor.