Dreams of being a werewolf. Daydreams where she lifts her legs high above her head and squirts out her desires so they shower my masturbating hands and bouncing balls. When I stir I know I’m being crude and I know her image deserves far better but there’s no use in denying these urges that keep picking away like Poe’s raven or the insects that used to nibble away at Van Gogh’s absinthe-soaked brain before the bullet finally got the better of him. Sometimes she’s bathed in sunlight and I rise behind her and wrap my arms around her waist before suckling her as if she were a milky mother. And then there are those moments where we’re leaving a bar and I take her on the wet grass of the local park where swans watch with sleepless eyes as we float downstream to a place they’ll never find. Those swans, are they black or are they white? Will they break a man’s arm or will they lift him far out of harms way? Will she slip and slide like a snake or will she ride me even when I’m so tender that it makes me beg for her to stop? Again, I dunno. Too much alcohol and I transform, not enough, and I itch and itch until my skin bleeds and the blood drip drip drips onto my feet. The streets dissolve. They evaporate the same as her morals when faced with my nude body and pointing cock. It points to the ceiling like an exclamation mark. It tells her that my intentions are not just artistic but truthful, because it’s not enough to just talk, you’ve got to walk the walk and the longer the plank the further you’ll fall and the further you’ll fall the better the kicks. Without the fire, without savagery, life is but a reel of film with the best bits left on the cutting room floor.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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