White wine. Straight from the bottle. Huey Lewis. Hip to Be Square. She digs that, and so do I. Cigarettes. Dead cigarettes. Her body as a sunflower seed. Her belly as a playground for my childish needs. Swimming sperms in tissue paper. Bitemarks on stretchmarks and the sweaty scent of sex that clings to bedsheets stained with blood and piss. Stray pubic hairs. Pubic hairs in my mouth that tickle the back of my throat. Stray glances at body parts that enlarge when confronted with the dirty truth of what it is to be human. Being human disgusts me, and yet there’s nothing like the stink of humanity to give me the horn. Tendons. Muscles. Lines of white powder that lead up the garden path along with teddy bears that go tickly under there. Peeling back my skin, I let her see what I’ve got, and the bigger it gets the more her eyes grow and shine like silver coins. Sometimes, I can hear voices coming from within her when we fuck. After she falls asleep, I lie there with my head in her lap listening for clues on what to do next but there’s nothing. So, writing it is. The poor and boring life of being a writer. Words this and words that with little in between save for picking away at old memories while observing how better off my contemporaries are. It’s a real doozy, I can assure you. To be confused and adrift, oh what a rush. To slither like a snake on the outside while those on the inside marvel at their own sense of superiority. It drains the life right out of me. And yet the feel of her nipple in my mouth never fails to bring me back from the brink. Just an animal, I know, I know, but she is what she is. And I am what I am. Popeye said that, right?