His knees are an obsession that takes me by the hand since I was a child, a place where even wrecked all my senses and my memory: the place where whenever I want, I can return the child.
We are the knees, on which the child sits and swings his legs in the air and lies down his head in the lap of her mother, who strokes his hair with velvet hands, then there are the knees where the baby is lying face down and receives the spanking as he tries to wriggle out of the hands of strong and determined mother, and sobs and cries and gets all red. In these two poles, one of which is necessarily complementary to each other, these two poles swings the charm for me play his knees.
His knees are a symbol of maternal strongly evocative: situated near the womb, are an accessible area so inaccessible to the child as an adult. I am the light of childhood oasis, where the child finds comfort in the caresses of the mother or is punished (but then pardoned and consulate) for his pranks; a gray area for the man: for he is no longer a mother on whose lap sit (or lie) to release their emotions in a cathartic way to find comfort under his warm caresses or atone for their sins in the most innocent, that is precisely what the children.
Beware: it touches the sphere of sexuality, which does not exhaust the subject, being only a part (albeit important) of it. I consider myself to have the charm that the age of the child and the figure of "mother" as something absolute and abstract, in my sexual fantasies are an appendix. These are perhaps my desire to make concrete and present those ideas so distant and untouchable, like memories shrouded in the fog of nostalgia that becomes tangible when we meet again an old friend and is recognized on the face of the old smile.
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