She paints me as some morbid drinker, but it’s just not true. I’m misunderstood. A painter who’s lost his way. Tonight she sticks needles into the fleshy bit between my balls and arse. She says she read something in a magazine about how it prolongs erections. I think she does it because she likes to inflict pain and embarrassment on me, and nothing more. Lying on my belly, she heats the needles in the flame of my lighter before jabbing them in. Closing my eyes, I picture her sister abusing herself with a dido while having essential oils massaged into her hair by some sumptuous Swedish girl who’s in the nude. She has pigtails, and around her feet there’s a dozen baby foxes circling for milk. Mind racing as my lover pricks away at me while giggling to herself, I imagine walking through the war-torn streets of Syria. All that rubble and dried blood; all those bodies tortured then thrown into rivers and bottomless pits. So much brutality it’s impossible not to breathe a sigh of relief that the nearest death comes to me is in her tricky, childlike hands. I’ve seen those rivers full of up to fifty dead souls; the water crimson where once it had been luscious green. I’ve also seen her stick her fingers in to the knuckle to a soundtrack of metal poles striking bone. It was a prison riot somewhere in Brazil, and every night for a month she made us watch this poor fuck getting battered by a mob of inmates who discovered what he was in for. Child killers are frowned upon everywhere, and as they’d slam his skull against the stone floor of his cell before hacking at his neck with a shiv, she’d push my head against her sex and demand I make her come. The one time I failed, she kicked me out of bed and forced me to sleep in the bathroom. In retaliation, I pissed on her toothbrush and grabbed a bottle of wine from the kitchen. Drinking the bottle dry, my punishment the morning after was the needle treatment. I told her I loved her, that I would buy her flowers instead, but she was having none of it.