The roots of voyeuristic pleasure

This order, remember, you gave with a laugh on March 16, 202* at 9pm, two hours after a guy who wasn't yet called " flonflons " rang your doorbell. Wet with your urine, a few shreds of cellophane still stuck to my chest, my buttocks reddened and my ass glistening with lubricant, I rose painfully from the red carpet on the still's parquet floor.
The weirdest part? That it didn't seem at all bizarre. Especially since a dazzling, grandiose, transcendent epiphany had just imposed itself on my mind: you're beautiful, Madame, when you're peeing on me.

To this day, I still wonder what it was about you that piqued my curiosity and prompted me to request an interview. Your licentious writings, your hypnotic voice, your offbeat photos? Probably a combination of all of these. Madame Lule's little world in which, from that first meeting, I obviously misplaced something important that I miss and that reminds me of you. I don't know what you've stolen from me, but hide it carefully, here, close to your breast, where I'm forbidden to venture.

You recently published a text entitled "Obsession". For a while, I myself thought I'd become obsessed, captive to a phantasmagoria and obsessed with a stage persona. Then I felt tenderness and sorrow for you. I was happy for you, worried for you. Finally, one day, for a probably trivial reason that I've since forgotten, I hated you. With that all-consuming, visceral hatred that I only give to those I love deeply.

Why did I write to you when nothing was missing?
What are the roots of the voyeuristic pleasure I get from watching you torment me?
What are we to each other, and what will we be tomorrow?
I ignore all that and more. I don't care. Because my emotional life doesn't have to be the frantic quest for answers that my professional life is, I choose to leave these questions unanswered. In short, I choose to take a leak.

A wise decision for this March 16 anniversary which, as everyone knows, is the day of the dandelion in the Republican calendar.

blows,

who, on this special day for him, dares to kiss you. Respectfully, on the varnish of your peanut toes. And perhaps on the serpentine trident coiled on your ankle. Cautiously, though, as he's not quite sure how far he's allowed to go.