Pravda 1
I sweat all day profusely. Not from running around like a mad man or fever, nothing of the sort. Drips of sweat covered my forehead, a thin layer stands on my back, a single stream runs down my chest. I am moving small items from the front room to the back room, discard them in a carton box, or drain a half empty bottle of liquor down the kitchen drain. Nothing heavily exhausting, all minor movements around a limited space, I am taking my time. This moist New York climate is getting to me. I open a bottle of water, throw some ice cubes in a glass and immediately gulp the glass of water down my throat. I sense the cold stream run down my stomach. With every move, I burst out in a horrendous fit of sweat again. I am a swamp monster laying in the dried out mud, waiting for my prey, a burst of cool air. But at this time, just now, the sweating and the heat grow on me. I become erotically pleased by this heated state, my body’s craving for a cool down, my senses on alert. Any short breeze engulfes me with a satisfaction that lasts minutes. I blow a breath of air up my own face, with my underarm, I wipe the sweat off my stirn. While in the last days I felt erotically poised, I now rupture in general desire. I walk to the bathroom, jerk off in the sink, wash my sperm down, and continue cleaning up.