Blood orgy

My grandpa was a great fan. He used to take me with him to the bullfighting. I remember how extrange it was, more than the spectacle itself, the way of the people to get crazy. There were something else, for them, wasn’t just a man kiling a poor animal, it was a blood orgy, a symbolic rape, something that in other way wouldn’t be ethical at all.

The sexual connotations are unavoidable: the bullfighter is THE MACHO, the inteligent, the agile; the bull is just a cunt (black, bushy, bright, IRRATIONAL) who deserves to be penetrated in one thousand ways till the exhaustion; white scarfs are waving in people’s hands when it is a great “work”, and suddenly the terraces star to eyaculate.

And the blood... the blood gushing forth from the skin of that pussy with legs and HORNS, impure, dominable. Somebody says that just the vision of the blood stimulates a brain area, yesterday destinated to the hunting, today destinated to sex.

For that reason, when the bull catches the bullfighter, the people suffers a kind of shock, something like a “coitus interruptus”. For me is the opposite, when the bullfighter is penetrated, I feel like if from my crotch sprouts a white, hard and polished horn, and it puts me so horny.

We’re blood animals, even if a lot of people insist in call “art” to the slaughters that put us on.

I would love to masturbate myself over Manolete’s tomb.