THIS POST IS RATED «ADULTS ONLY — 18+» by
Okay … Bist du allein? Stelle Deinen Browser auf private Suche ein und prüfe, ob die Tür hinter Dir geschlossen ist. Wir sind dabei, dir schmutzige Liebesbriefe von Gustave Flaubert, Charles Bukowski und James Joyce zu erzählen. Bist Du bereit? Auf geht’s…
Okay… Are you alone? Set your browser to private browsing and check that the door is closed behind you. We’re about to share with you dirty love letter from Gustave Flaubert, Charles Bukowski and James Joyce. Are you ready? Here we go…
So sprach einst Woody Allen über Sex: «Wenn es sich nicht schmutzig anfühlt, dann macht ihr es nicht richtig.». — Und so verhält es sich auch mit Liebesbriefen: Die Autoren sollten keine Ausflüchte machen. Wilde Herzen und leidenschaftliche Gedanken sollten ihre Worte lenken. Und all das könnte sich dann in knisternde, heiße Liebesbriefe erschütten. Wie dieser hier.
In der Tat, tauchten wir in unser Archiv ein, um ein paar Liebesbriefe von Autoren in der Vergangenheit zu finden, nur um dich in Stimmung und zum Erröten zu bringen…
As Woody Allen once said of sex: «Unless it feels dirty, you’re not doing it right» — and we feel the same should you go for love letters: Authors should have no excuses: Wild hearts, passionate thoughts and a way with words should lead their words. This should all translate into some crackling hot love letters. Like this one here.
In fact, we were dipping into our archives to find you a few blush worthy love letters from authors in the past, just to get you in the mood…
Video: Woody Allen’s love letter
The first one is from Gustav Flaubert in 1846:
From Gustave Flaubert to Louise Colet:
«I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. I want you to be amazed by me, and to confess to yourself that you had never even dreamed of such transports… When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them.»
From Charles Bukowski to Linda King, 1972:
«I liked your hand–walking act — that got me hotter than hell…. everything you do gets me hotter than hell…. throwing clay against the ceiling… you bitch, you red hot shrew, you lovely, lovely woman…. you have put new poems and new hope and new joy and new tricks into an old dog, I love you, your pussy hairs I felt with my fingers, the inside of your pussy, wet, hot I felt with my fingers — you, up against the refrigerator (you have such a wonderful refrigerator) your hair dangling down, wild — you there, the wild bird of you the wild thing of you, hot, lewd, miraculous…. twisting after your head, trying to grab your tongue with my mouth, with my tongue…. we were in Burbank and I was in love, ultramarine love, my good — god damned godess, my goad, my bitch, my my my my beating breathing hair–lined cunt of Paradise, I love you… (and your refrigerator) — and as we grabbed and wrestled, that sculpted head watching us with his little lyrical cynical love–smile , burning…
I want you,
I want you,
I want YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!»
From James Joyce to Nora Barnacle, 1909:
«My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and — I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty — like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.
You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore’s glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep — lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently — then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.
Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.»