On a balmy November moonlit night
I walked along the empty beach at Sousse
and found a solitary line-fisherman
who tenderly allowed me to enclose his cock
in my mouth - not knowing that
sixty years earlier, André Gide (author of
L'Immoraliste) had done the same -
and not knowing that, forty-five years later, this beach
would be an ugly tourist destination
with an unpleasant display
of sunbathing bodies which would be fired on
by an Islamic Terrorist.
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