A summer in Sicily

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A summer in SicilyIt was during the hottest month of the year that I encountered Lorenzo in that Mediterrean paradise. Back then I was fifteen and passionate about antiquity. My family used to have the habit of spending the summer holiday in Czech visiting old relatives in the small and forgotten villages s**ttered around South Bohemia. But that year, under my insistence, my mother finally yielded to my wish to spend a holiday in Sicily. I had always been passionate about the South. In my dream, Sicily was always covered in gold. Everything was gold: the golden Baroque cities glistening under the glowing sun of August, and far away, the gently rising mountains of Theocritus directing our gaze to Homer’s wine-dark sea. Now when I look back at myself at the age of fifteen, I recall only two pieces of literature that lent my monotonous school life a subtle romantic air: A la recherche du temps perdu illegal bahis by Marcel Proust and the Eclogues by Virgil. For a short time I was so fascinated by Eclogue II in which the handsome shepherd Corydon, mad about the beautiful youth Alexis, chases his unobtainable lover around the sinuous valleys of Sicily and, now sunk into the bottomless depth of his melancholy, throws his empty songs to the ever-flowing, irresponsive rivulets in the Sicilian woods, that I dreamed about a romantic rendezvous with a beautiful Sicilian boy on that golden, glowing island. This was partly the reason why I insisted on going to Sicily. Of course my parents had no idea of the turbulence that went through my heart at the sight of a beautiful youth. In the gentle gloaming of April I often deliberately chose the longer way home after school in order to pass the football field of the university and catch illegal bahis siteleri sight of the robust, youthful bodies of the football lads. The silhouettes of their running bodies in the dusk often evoked a sense of heroicism in me, that sense of golden masculinity, strong, powerful, ready to conquer the world, which I myself lack. At the age of fifteen, I was thin and had a rather pale, melancholic complexion. My natural air of melancholy was often mistaken for unhappiness caused by some trouble, hence my fellow students always tried to cheer me up in vain. I knew exactly the cause of this melancholy: I was in love, not with a particular person, but with the notion of love and masculinity. My burgeoning body longed to be touched, kissed, dominated. Its thirst demands to be quenched by a virile body. Every night, in the dark silence of the night, my hand would caress my entire body canlı bahis siteleri and experience the unknown excitements of new territories. I would pause for a long time at my penis, wondering at its changing shape, the hard, powerful phallus in contrast with the softness of the balls, I would gently touch it first, moist as if between the crimson lips of a blooming youth, then strike it violently, my whole body and mind borne u*********sly to the bottom of the darkness by an uncontrollable whirlwind of passion. There, at the bottom of the darkness, the blooming bodies of those legendary Grecian youths glistened, covered in green vines, their eyes drunken with passion and love, their lips trembling, they uttered their sweet moans, gently, continuously, and with a final burst of passion, I would ejaculate on my sheet to the rhythm of their sweet voices. Each night, the darkness was full of the shadows of naked bodies. Love and passion floated in the air. The air of darkness contained a sense of romantic adventure, chanting the mysteries of the Unknown. It was in this mood that I arrived in Sicily and encountered Lorenzo (to be continued).

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