It Is The Real Thing

I thought we were friends, and now I see that it was more a fantasy than a real thing. I met you a decade ago, or so, and we kept in touch for so many years on Facebook –I don't even remember when was the last time I saw you, but it was probably around 2008, when I got married and invited you to my wedding–, and a few months ago I even tried to make a deal with you –a podcast–, but you said that you were pretty busy –at that time I worked on awful conditions, teaching classes from 1 pm to 6 pm on a daily basis, among other duties– and I just found it arrogant. 

You have changed, you are so radical now. You act like all men are idiots. You confirmed the stereotype I have about writers: they act like if their readers –the rest of the world– are the dumbest humans on Earth. The writers I talk about don't care about nothing but themselves. 

So disappointing.

I'm So Excited, I Can't Wait To Meet You There

As the quietly room is occupied by cats and sunlight and street sounds and wildlife, I start to forget you. Before the soft and blue substance of these thoughts vanished, I will make my best to maintain you on this secret spot I have been building for the last decade. 

I just can't ignore this calm that invades me. I just can't ignore this atmosphere. It smells like freshly washed sheets and it evokes several cozy ideas on me. It makes me feel like a stupid teenager. It makes me close my eyelids and to travel miles away from my real life.

I almost see myself from my inside.

We are in 1999. 

I'm walking to the swimming pool. 
My parents decided to bring us to these cabins in Cuernavaca.
It's the first time we spend a weekend in this place. 
I can't tell how they find it out, but it's a nice place. 

There are soccer fields and basketball and tennis courts. 
There are twenty or thirty cabins, next to a forest.
There is also a restaurant.  

A few hours ago, we played a soccer game with some tourists. 
We were giving them up a ridiculous beating. 
They were so stupid to play soccer. Most of them were fat and clumsy. 
A moron didn't tolerate the humiliation. He hit the soccer ball so hard that it made my dad bled. I hated him. I'm thinking on revenge.   

I've been also playing tennis with one of my brothers. 
I didn't remember how much I enjoy to play tennis. I even used to watch tennis matches on TV when I was a kid, instead of watching cartoons. I guess female tennis players attracted me. I loved the way the air made their skirts flew thru the court as they ran to hit the ball with the racket. I also loved the shapes of their firm legs. It also surprised me that women seemed fragile and quiet, but they could be so strong and they could scream violently. 

I'm thinking that I barely have the opportunity to play tennis. I think it sucks. 

I'm kind of pissed off. I would have preferred to stay home. 
I have realized that I just find it awkward to be surrounded by my family. 
It's not like our last holidays. We even brought our small nephew with us. He's four years old and seems to be the only really happy one. 

I love my family, but I just don't feel OK. 
I'm just a teenager, pretending to act like an adult. 

The university is on a strike since April. It is a disaster. The last time I went to see how it was goin' –some of my classmates and a few hundred other students, are “taking care” of the facilities–, the School of Psychology was a hotel and the Central Library was a dinning room. The entire Ciudad Universitaria was a dump surrounded by cyclonic mesh. 

It was so creepy. 

Nobody knows it, but it's a pretty stressful situation for me. I'm lost. I'm worried. I'm depressed. The only thing I do, is to be a student. I'm such a coward. 

Why haven't I just looked for a job, to keep my mind busy...? 

I've been obsessively thinking on the uncertainty of my academic future. 
I've been supposedly reinforcing my History of Psychology lessons, but, to be honest, I just cannot tell you about a single topic. I have had difficulties to learn. 

I also have been reading Dante Alighieri's most famous book and I just have had difficulties to enjoy it. I've been daydreaming with my own Beatrice and I've been suffering my own private hell. 

What would happen if I dared to give a 180° turn to my life...?

I could work on Mix up, I could work as a waiter on a coffee shop, if I really wanted to. 
I'm so apathetic. I'm so pathetic. I just can't quit my comfort zone. 

Besides daydreaming with the sudden appearance of my own Beatrice, I read 19th century writers, I write 19th century like-poems and weep and complain.  

The sun rays irradiate my childish body as I walk to the swimming pool.  

“I'm so excited, 

I can't wait to meet you there...”

sings Kurt Cobain inside my head, as my heart beats so hard. 

Though it is the calm part of the song, I'm sure that my heart sounds louder than Dave Grohl's drums and that Kurt Cobain's Jaguar on the noisy part of the song. 

My most precious treasures are an old Aiwa walkman, my headphones and my small collection of cassettes. This time, obviously, I'm listening Lithium. 

Music is so important to me. Nirvana has accompanied me since I started senior high school. It has been sort of a cursed. I am stuck in the past. I know I should listen to different genres and to listen different bands (alive ones?), but even though I have tried, it just hasn't work. 

I've been trying to listening No Code, too. I can't tell exactly why there is something about Eddie Vedder I dislike. This album seems so 1995. 
  
I have a crush. I'm almost sure that I will find you in the swimming pool, like I did the first time I saw you. I'm really excited. 

Suddenly, my legs start to shake.  

Though I don't even remember your face, I feel so enthusiastic about seeing you again.

A few days later, I watched a soccer game on TV. 
Our national team won its most relevant tournament so far. 
The Mexican players beat up Brazil in an exciting game. A young player named Ronaldinho was on the field. TV commentators said he was the next star of Brazilian soccer. He's nineteen years old, or so. 

At the time of the game, it was raining. It had been a hot day. 
At a moment, before the soccer game, I was so bored that I went to swim.

And then I saw you.  

You had a black swimwear. Your natural way of behaving left me breathless. 
You looked so gorgeous. Your brown long hair floated on the water like a living miracle defying the laws of gravity. I would like to write an elaborated thought about each component of your beauty, but I would be a liar. I have to admit it. I couldn't ignore your breasts. They made me feel weak and strong at the same time. 

Immediately, I dove into the water to hide my excitement.
I sort of swim to get close to you. You were swimming, too. 

At a moment, as we stopped swimming, we made eye contact. 
It could be for a second, but it felt like eternity. 

I believed you smiled and waited for me to speak to you.
I sensed it, in the very same way I sensed it in those girls in junior high school I kissed. 

Despite all our efforts to make it clear that we own a neocortex, we're still mammals. 
Our brain has evolved, but we still need water and food, to survive. Our brain has evolved, but we still need sex to perpetuate our specie. Our brain has evolved, but we still have to cut it off when we're starved, no matter if we have to interrupt our most sophisticated cognitive abilities. Hormones, olfaction and sight remind us that we are still animals. It's hard to be exempt from our nature.  

Of course, I didn't speak to you. 
 
                              

Though I barely saw you then, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I have felt like a confused young, like I think of Marcel Proust when he wrote how he idealized mysterious women on his vacations on Balbec. 

(In fact, as I am pounding the keyboard and trying to capture you on this secret spot, I see myself as the main character of In the shadow of young girls in flower.)

Since that hot day, your presence has been haunting me. 

I closed my eyelids this morning, while I was in the shower. 
I had impure thoughts about you. I also thought about your eyes and your beautiful hair floating in the swimming pool. Yesterday, as I fell asleep, I started to have hypnagogic hallucinations on which you allowed me to watch your naked breasts behind that black swimwear. It was so exciting. The images left me breathless. For a second, as I woke up, I had no reasons to consider that dreams aren't better than life. 

I finally arrive to the swimming pool. 
I sit in a chair, a few steps from the water.
I sense on my face the reflection of the summer sun diving into the water.  
My lungs are penetrated by the singular smell of chlorine. 
I'm so happy. 

I turn on the volume of the walkman. I focus on Kurt Cobain's voice. I focus on Dave Grohl's cymbals and snare drum. I focus on Krist Novoselic's bass. 

I take a deep breath. 
I look for you. 

There you are. 

Lithium

Can't Let You Roam Inside My Head

I met you almost fifteen years ago in a literary workshop.

You started to read a poem. 

It was about a woman and a man having an affair. 
She was on her knees and the scene described her in a position on which she was about to give him some sort of pleasure. The man was on his feet, looking at her breasts. 

For days I couldn't get rid of your poem.

The image persisted in my mind. 

It followed me day and night.

I thought it was a poem about you and me.
I could not stop thinking about you on your knees.
I could not stop thinking about you a seconds away from giving me pleasure.

I wondered, on my darker moments, when I was so exhausted of being lonely, about to close my eyes, what kind of pleasure would you give to me.

Once we went to a party. 

It was December. A few days before my birthday. It was cold. 

It was on a big house with fancy walls made of red bricks. 

We sort of slept in a couch. 

We were drunk. Another guy from the literary workshop was in the same couch with us.
He had a crush on you. 

As I closed my eyes and I sensed you by my side, trying to get some sleep in that awkward position on the couch, I remembered your poem. 

Instead of thinking about you on your knees, the first thing that came to my mind was your breast. 

So far, I hadn't thought of them.
Dunno why I thought your boobs were a couple of tiny pears.

In the morning, as we left the house and moved to our own places, we took a bus and the subway. 

You told me that you had noticed that I could not stop watching your breast since you had read that cursed poem. You were convinced of it.

I told you it wasn't true at all. 

Days later, on my birthday, I invited you to a party.
We slipped from people and you told me that you desired me. 
We had a strange thing. 

It was sad. I felt so abusive. 

No matter what, you insisted to repeat the experience.

The second time, it happened on January.
That day we had been drinking on nasty places. 

I just dreamed about you. 
I haven't seen you for almost fifteen years. 

In my dream, we were on an academic meeting, in a round table. 
You spoke about the possibilities of your career. 
You said that a person studying Literature could get a job as an economist and crazy non sense things. 

Then we took a bus. 

It seemed Ciudad Universitaria. 

I felt so sexually attracted to you. 

You wore a black and white turtle neck stripped sweater. 
It made your breasts looked so clear. They seemed a small pair of shy fruits.

You were by the exit door of the bus, about to walk out. I was by your side and we said good bye and we were about to do it kissing our cheeks. 

We accidentally kissed in the mouth. 

Your lips felted like velvetine. 

It excited me. 

I felt guity. 

In my dream, I had a girlfriend and she was on the bus, too. Obviously, I didn't want that she notice that we had just an accidental kiss. 

I felt guilty and excited at the same time.

You smiled and I couldn't stop thinking about your breast. 

Why did I dream of you?

Sometimes, dreams are so meaningless. 

Sometimes, they're not. 

An Airbag Saved My Life

For almost ten years I hadn't had vacations. I decided to take my wife to Taxco de Alarcon. It's located at the southwest of Mexico City, miles away from Acapulco. 

The experience brought me some memories of my childhood. 

Eventually, it reminded me of three guys I met at the School of Psychology. A couple of them were friends from senior high school, or they told me so. The other was a woman and the three of them were also friends at the School of Psychology. I met them at a boring class of Theories of Personality, I guess. We worked together. I've been thinking of them.  

I wonder what's up with her. 

We're In A Dream In The Happy House

Still remember the way you kissed that stranger. 
He told you that he had found you pretty and he asked you if he could kiss you.
You agreed. 

I wanted so bad to be him, but your friend was so obsessed with me. 
She thought I was a weak guy with mental issues. 
I found her sort of cozy. 
I couldn't tell her that I wanted to be with you.
I was so lonely and confused. 

It started by accident. 

At 13 o'clock or so, I was walking thru the alleys of your school and then I unexpectedly found your friend. She was so happy to see me. She thought I was looking for her. 
It was awkward. I wanted to find you. 

You appeared half an hour later. 
You were sort of angst and bored and proposed us to drink a bear. 

Dunno why I accepted. 
I really needed to save money. 
I was supposed to buy tickets for a Sonic Youth show. 

It was almost 15 o'clock but we were already drunk. 
Still remember what you said about that stranger when you came back to our table.
I felt dizzy and jealous. 

Then, we moved to another bar and we never stopped drinking. 

Later, we moved to a really cheap and sordid place. 
At noon, we moved to a tavern full of elderly men. 

We kissed at the end of the journey. 

The entire day I had been thinking about kissing you.
I told you that I desired to kiss you. 

We were really wasted. 
I barely could stand up.

You saw me and you held my hand.

We kissed. 

My first feeling was that your warm lips were like an open vibrating sore. 

Then you murmured: "I didn't kiss you just because she's my friend..."
(Or so I remember.)

For days I was thinking how precise were my memories about this affair. 

Now, it seems another life. 
It happened almost 15 years ago. 

We are completely different.

You're divorced, you have a child genius and you're sort of a freelance writer.
I'm married, devoted to neurosciences (or so it should be) and happy. 

Sometimes I wake up from a crazy dream about that kiss. 

I still feel your warm lips like an open vibrating sore. 

Happy House, a song by Siouxsie & The Banshees on Spotify

The Same Post, But In Spanish (Details Included)

Like Blue Vibration Through The Sea

This is a recurrent dream on which I'm always in my old bedroom.

Though I know it is my old bedroom, it is so different from the real one. 

I'm late to get somewhere and I'm trying to clean up my bedroom. 

Somehow, I sense that the house is built from West to East, rather than from North to South. Everything changes accordingly. 

I feel sort of mad about time. I hate my routine. 

My old bedroom has a big fancy bed with a wooden-dark brown base. The mattress is yellowish and makes me ill. Everything is painted in pale blue. 

A big lamp is on and it irradiates a yellowish light, too.

The atmosphere is cold. 

My nose is like an ice. 

With my naked feet, I sense a soft and warm carpet. 

This is new. A carpet of the color of Cappuccino coffee expands through all the floor's bedroom. The caress is so cozy that I hate to be awake. 

I would love to go back to bed.

altrm.blogspot.com

It seems that it is pretty early in the morning. 

Maybe it is about to dawn. 

It seems one of those December days' of my first year as an undergraduate student. 

I used to wake up early in the morning. 

All my classes started at 7: 00 a.m. 

Sometimes I hated school. 

Especially on Sundays, I had nightmares about getting involved in the school with dangerous guys. They sold drugs and porno movies. I owed them money.

They always locked me inside a fridge and everything I did to escape was useless. 

I woke up feverishly from those dreams.  

At school, I felt out of place. 

My classmates were so dumb and I was so fake. 

They came from private schools and they were always talking about Europe and fancy restaurants. I had a bad temper, but pretended to be nice all the time. 

I was so angst about my future.

I just wanted to meet someone with whom I could speak about music and literature. 

I was convinced that all I wanted to do was to be a writer and there I was, studying a scientific career, dealing with silly guys who were crazy about having patients to tell them how to conduct their lives. 

I was about to leave my old bedroom, when Theresa came in. 

(Dunno why I dreamed about her. 

I always look for an explanation when someone appears out of nowhere in my dreams. 

So far, I haven't figured it out why did she appear on this dream. On the previous day, I didn't think of her, neither saw her or spoke to her. Guess she just kind of thought of me.) 

As she walks into my old bedroom, a strange sexual energy floods the stay. 

I sense that sexual energy through my naked feet. Somehow, I also smell it through my skin. It makes me feel so alive. It makes me forget about my awful routine. 

She smiles. Her lips look so fleshy. 

It seems that we have an unfinished deal and that she just came back to get over it. 

She looked prettier than she looks in the real world, but despite so I don't find her especially attractive.

Theresa is in front of me. So close to me. 

A few millimeters away from me. I can sense through my skin that she's so excited. 

She says something about the mattress or the furniture of my old bedroom. 

I try to say something, too. 

All of a sudden, she puts her hands so close to my crotch in a very sexual way.

She sighs so deeply. Then, she sticks her tongue out and licks her lips discreetly.  

Her attitude makes me feel so excited. 

I know I could make her everything I wanted to. 

Her body language says so. I feel about to have a heart attack.

I notice that she wears a yellowish turtle neck sweater.

Even though Theresa has a big breast in the real world, in my dream she's not.  

We kiss. 

She is so close to me that I feel her breast. It's less impressive than I had thought. 

Her hands are still on my crotch. I can't avoid to feel excited about her touch. 

Again, I know that I could make her everything I wanted to. 

Theresa smiles. I feel her saliva on my lips.

I don't enjoy the sensation. It makes feel dirty and low.

She leaves the bedroom and I walk behind her. 

I tell her I'm about to leave the house and she says that it is so unfair. 

She says that we started something and that we have to finish it. 

She says that I started the fire and now I just turned off the heat. 

Theresa smiles again, but this time I focus on her teeth. 

They're so yellowish and crooked. 

I feel nauseous. 

Woke up at 6: 00 a.m. from this dream, fed the kitties and started to write. 

Theresa's Sound-World

I'd Never Dreamed That I'd Meet Somebody Like You

As my dad drove, I was sleepy in the back seat of the car.
We were goin' to Acapulco for summer holidays.

It was about dawn. The city was so quiet that it was creepy.
There were barely a few cars on the street. 

We passed next to the Estadio Azteca, and I thought of a goalkeeper.

His name was Ángel David Comizzo.
One night before his team had been defeated in that stadium by one of the most popular teams of the country. 

Even so, he had been the best player of the game. 

I had a big interest on goalkeepers. 

I was the goalkeeper of my school team.
Before summer holidays, we had even won a tournament against the athletic guys of our class. 

They were bad lossers. 
They reminded me of the enemies of Ralph Macchio in Karate Kid. 

Also, I had a couple of Uhlsport gloves that I just loved. 
Its fancy plastic smell drove me wild.  

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/

I fell asleep and thought of the girls I used to hang out with.
I had recently discovered that girls attracted me madly. 
And I wanted so much to find out how would it be to have a girlfriend.

I had a crush on a couple of girls.
They were so nice with me.
They were blonde and chubby. 
I never told them that I liked them so much.
I was afraid to lose their friendship. 
I wanted so badly to be with both. 

On that summer holidays, I met a girl that drove me wild. 
She was tall and she seemed a few years older than me. 
She and her family were also staying at the same hotel than us. 

I had found her a few times on the swimming pool.
Her skin was so white and her hair was so dark. 
Her eyes were brown, like big almonds. 
Her smile was so enigmatic, spontaneous and fresh at the same time.  
Her lips appeared so shy and soft that I just wanted to devour them!!!

https://www.visitmexico.com/

She had a small sister. 
Her sister was so naughty and she was always looking after her. 
A couple of times we crossed on the alleys of the hotel. 
Once we even shared the elevator. 
I was so excited!!!
I wanted to tell her that I was really in love with her. 
My mind began to fly away and my heart began to beat like a crazy war drum. 

In the chaos of my senses, I secretly thought how to speak to her. 

"Hi...! What's your name...?
Are you from Mexico City...?
I have seen you at the swimming pool...
Your little sister seems to be really funny..."

But always, at the last minute, I cowed.
Never knew her name. 

One hot night, her family and my family were at the same time in a small supermarket a few blocks away from the hotel. 
The freshness of air conditioning made me imagine the fantastic perfum of her dark hair.
Her sister suddenly ran from one side to another and broke a jar of glass. 
The noise brought me out of my thougths.
The girl blushed and I felt pity of her.   

For a moment, our eyes crossed.
She seemed to ask my help. 
Again, my mind began to fly away and my heart began to beat like a crazy war drum. 
But I pretended I didn't care about her and I walked away. 

I was an idiot. 
I always think of her when I hear this song. 

Wicked Game

New Day Rising

As we lie in bed, your face reminds me of someone. 

The image is blurry at the beginning, but, as I cannot stop looking at you, it becomes clearer.

Your face looks like the face of this girl I met in the last year of Elementary school.

By then, our families had become friends and so we used to visit each other's house once per month, or so.

When I went to her house, we used to sneak out of dinners.

Then we hid in a treehouse in the backyard of her house. 

We had good times in the backyard. 

Mainly we kissed and spoke about cartoons we hadn't seen and drugs we hadn't tried. 

As we lie in bed and your face reminds me of this girl, I remember her lips.

They were soft like velvet, but violent. 

They shone as a sun rising. 

They shone as a new day rising. 

Her eyebrows always seemed so stretched out that her face always seemed to be surprised. 

We were just a couple of precocious kids attracted to sex in an childish way.

By the last weeks of spring of that last year in Elementary school, as usual, I went to her house and we again sneaked out of dinner. 

This girl pushed down to the floor of the treehouse. 

Then she put her face on my chest.

After a few minutes, she sat slowly beside me.

She looked at me and then decided to get rid off her clothes.

Her naked body was something so perfect and bizarre. 

I felt attracted to it in a pretty wild way, but I didn't know what to do.

Simultaneously, I felt so excited and numb. 

She looked at me. 

She asked me to get naked, too.

It was completely awkward.

I was afraid of my body. I felt uncomfortable about my body. 

I was a chubby kid and my belly made me look so silly. 

I watched her brunette skin. The way her naked body irradiated some sort of spiritual shining into the obscured treehouse, gave me the creeps. 

This spiritual shining emanating from her body was made of dark and blue vapor trails of dawn, or it seemed so. 

In my dream, these sort of dark and blue vapor trails of dawn surround the entire bedroom.

As we lie in bed and I cannot stop thinking about this girl, I open my eyes and I focus on your face. Now, I know that I have seen you on a TV show. You're an athlete. 

Now you're on top of me. 
You have a horny looking. 

You bring your face down on me. 
You whisper me something in a sexual language. 
Your breath is so sweet. It smells like vanilla. 
You control me. You ride me. 

Your brown hair with blonde twists spreads on my chest like a rainbow cascade.
You open your lips and suddenly your tongue runs across my chest.

I look at the ceiling. 
There's an enormous mirror on the top of us.
As you lick my chest and I feel your tongue like an aphrodisiac, I see the cascade of your hair soaked on the  mattress. 

You're so horny.

You climb on me and start to move against my crotch.
You make me feel so excited. 
You control me. You ride me. 

You turn around and now I see your back.
You continue moving, back and forth, back and forth, against my crotch. 
You control me. You ride me. 

I feel I'm about to explode. 
I have an erection that I cannot handle. 
I'm slowly becoming a part of you.
I'm slowly inside of you.

I know I should use a condom, but it's too late. 

I cannot stop looking at my erection in the shadows of the bedroom. 
It looks diabolic. I cannot believe what had just happened. 

New Day Rising, by Hüsker Dü

Suicide Blonde Was The Color Of Her Hair

We lived for years in an apartment. 

When we moved to our own house, somedays, after classes, mom used to go to therapy with one of my brothers. My brother had some troubles with his cruel classmates, as he had a severe dermatitis and everyone was joking about his appearance. 

He's younger than me and he's always been a strong boy, but then he needed to understand kids were stupid. Girls were his only friends and boys thought he was a fragile kid and were jealous about him.  

The therapist's office was at the other extreme of the city, and mom and he spent all the afternoon away from home. 

Dad was at his job –he's a chemist and then he worked at a company located at the boundaries of the city– and later he picked them up at the therapist's office and the three of them arrived home late at night.

In that occasions, my smaller brother and I stayed at home.
Even when this visit to the therapist's office occurred twice per month and it lasted just a few hours, it was an important issue to me. I felt I was an adult taking care of his smaller brother. 

Although I was in Junior high school –I was a teenager– and I just thought about women and music, I considered my parents trusted me and I didn't want to deceive them. 

My smaller brother was at kindergarden. 
As the kids of his age, he was a playful boy. I was a typical eleven-year old-teenager and I hadn't enough patience to play with him. I no longer liked toys neither jumping and running nor play 'seek and hide'. 

To deal with my smaller brother's energy and playfulness I had to turn on the TV, give him a bunch of candys, and leave him there watching cartoons, but he got bored so soon. 

All I wanted was to be alone –dunno remember what exactly I used to do to enjoy myself, but, maybe, I used to listen music or something like that–, so, when he got bored, I started to ask him what he would liked to do. 

He had a strange bound to a Goofy's movie. Didn't understand why he enjoyed to watch the same movie once and again –psychologists argue that it reinforces knowledge at early stages of life–, but I pleased him. 

We had a couple of TVs, one in the kitchen and another in the living room, but just one Betamax. I put the movie in the VCR and I left him there, in the living room, watching the adventures of Goofy.   

Eventually, in one of those days of therapy, I discovered that my dad had some Playboy magazines. From that day, each time mom brought my brother to his therapy and then my smaller brother and I were left alone at home, all I wanted to do was take a look at those magazines. 

As soon as mom left the house, I asked to my smaller brother if he wanted to watch the Goofy's movie again. Fortunately, he agreed always and then I put the movie in the VCR.

At some point of those therapy days, while I was looking for the Goofy's movie, I found a movie I hadn't ever seen amongst the personal collection of my dad.

Immediately, I got excited and freezed. It was called Basic Instinct. Still don't know how he got it. We were in the autumn of 1992 and I guess the movie was still on cinemas, but he had a personal copy. I'd heard about Basic Instinct. It was difficult to ignored all the fuzz around it. Supposedly it was an intense thriller with explicit sex. Supposedly it had been censored in some countries. 

News said it was an acclaimed Paul Verhoeven's movie, entirely filmed in 1991, with Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas as the leading roles. 

De Georges Biard, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9055138

I thought it was, essentially, as a sex movie. Eventually, I knew I was so wrong.

Catherine Tramell was a stone-cold writer and she was dating Johnny Boz, a retired rockstar. The movie begins when the police finds Boz dead. 

Nick Curran was a detective and he had to find out who had murdered the retired rockstar. He and one of his colleagues found that all the beloved ones and the recent lovers of Catherine Tramell had died in mysterious ways.

As the investigation moves on, Nick Curran gets attracted to Catherine Trammell.
She was a successful, smart, enigmatic and beautiful blonde. 
He suspected that she was involved in the death of Boz, but started to having sex with her.
He became a sex-addict and he lost the objectivity of the criminal case.  

When I found out Basic Instinct in the movies' collection of my dad, I convinced my smaller brother that Goofy's movie was boring and predictable, and made up a false story about the relationship between cartoons and intelligence so that he would be interested in cartoons and I could use the only VCR we had in the living room.

He believed me. I guess he trusted his older brother and that he never thought that I was a jerk-off. 

I turned on the TV in the kitchen and left him there watching silly cartoons. Then I ran to the living room and put Paul Verhoeven's movie in the VCR. 

I was very excited and shaky, feeling that my heart was about to explode. I sat in the floor of the living room, a few millimeters away from the television and the VCR, to remain hidden from my brother's eyesight in case he walked away from the kitchen and then I could turn off the television immediately.

It was the excitement of the movie and the excitement of the situation. 
It was an extreme situation. I didn't want to be discovered by my brother watching an adult film and I also couldn't miss the opportunity to see an adult film. 

The first scene was violent and impressive. 
It was a blurry image in movement, reflected in a mirror.
There were soft and  murmuring sounds, which made me think of a couple having sex. 
It was so cryptic and poetic, attractive and ambiguous. 

When, apparently, both of them were about to have an orgasm, the blonde woman on top of her lover took out an ice pick and stabbed him, nailing him fiercely everywhere. 

The retired rockstar had his hands tied to a bar on the bed, so he just yelled desperately, bled profusely and died. 

There was something about Sharon Stone that I couldn't get rid of for weeks. 

I got obsessed about his beauty and ferocity.

Each time I had the opportunity to watch the film, when my smaller brother and I were left alone at home, I just watched one or two scenes. 
It would have been awkward to watch the entire movie, from the beginning to the end, and it would also have increased the risk of being discovered by my brother. Didn't want to deceive my parents, nor wanted to be responsible of exerting a deleterious influence on an innocent mind. 

In fact, I just watched the entire movie a few years ago.
I would sell out my soul for a month to experience Sharon Stone's world.   

Suicide Blonde - INXS