Between the useless seconds, I peer down her top and glimpse the ocean. Brushing against her, she turns to face me and breathes in my beer breath. She’s not repulsed, in fact, she rather enjoys it. Makes me a man, she says, but I’m not a man. I don’t know what I am, but it’s definitely not a man. When she pulls down my pants and handles me, she looks me in the eye until it points to the ceiling. It’s so raw and tender, and when she bites, I’m forced to grab her by the hair and yank her away to make it stop. And then there’s the way she treats my balls- she knows I have sensitive balls- and yet she smacks them about and squeezes them as if they were toys. She makes me curse her- makes me call her names no lady should be called, but she’s no lady. Far from it. When I spit into her mouth, she looks at me wanting to know why, but there’s no reason I can give. When I stain her with my seed, she both hates and adores it. When I walk the streets at night, she wants to know where I go, but I go nowhere. When I look into the distance after we’re finished degrading each other, she asks what I’m thinking about. My response is nothing in particular, but really, I’m thinking about the shed in my grandparents back garden from when I was a kid. There were always spiders in there, and during the summer months, my grandad would do his best to hunt and destroy them. Goading him on, whenever he caught one I would jump up and down then run as far from him as possible in sheer panic and elation as he clutched their crushed bodies within a few sheets of tissue paper. In the bin they would go, but even then, my heart would still be racing. Bouncing around and snatching handfuls of air, I would howl and scream in excitement. Those childhood fears, they made me come alive in ways my innocent mind couldn’t explain.