In a room without a window, a circle of candles surrounds two lovers on a bed. Naked, nude, and glued together at the hips, she suffers from a chronic case of adultery, while he’s a bad writer with a taste for the bottle. Every night is like the worst night of my life- yeah, it’s me, how could you tell? This isn’t how I am, though- it’s not the man inside, I swear. But things fall apart at every opportunity no matter how hard you try. There’s no romance, only memories of chronic masturbation watching videos of Jasmine Rouge finger herself on a balcony overlooking the sea. California maybe? Or perhaps Florida? Whatever. With the camera positioned for optimal coverage, she’d always pretend it meant something with such a look of euphoria on her face, but it meant nothing at all. Still, that body as she flowered herself up before my very eyes- oh, what a rush for teenage minds. Listening to Gladys Knight & the Pips, the taste of roll-ups and JD from the night before sour the enjoyment of my orgasm. When she comes around later, the feel of her vaginal lips spreading beneath my fingers makes me bare my teeth. Going at it as if there was an answer waiting for us at the end of it, Hellraiser washes over our pumping bodies. It’s a strange film, but not as strange as her desire to be treated like the women in those porno’s we’d watch in an effort to climax for the third of fourth time back in first few weeks of summer. That’s a lie; I could only manage once or twice. Not my fault. Just I get so easily bored. Dead flowers on the windowsill. Painkillers on the bedside table the morning after. Eating Jaffa Cakes to cure cancer, and drinking milk to ward off the tooth fairy. There’s logic to my madness, but not much. There’s a reason for the way I’ve turned out, but it’s a difficult bitch to fathom.