She touches herself to a soundtrack of screaming babies and the noises horses make when their bellies get cut open. You know, like those ones in the war that were attacked by dogs that ripped out their entrails thinking they were gonna get a treat of sausages covered in gravy. I made that last bit up. And yet lies are my truth, and what I say goes, so either you go with the flow or choose another poison. Come to think of it, perhaps it’s not a soundtrack at all, but instead the noises she naturally conjures when she’s at one with her body and her body is at peace with what it really is, which is a conduit for the words and visions of God. In an act as blissful as it is perverse, she sprays her groin with sweet perfume in anticipation of my arrival, and sure enough, a short time later I’m sniffing and licking and chewing because she’s purity and the devil and the bottle and sin and even though I don’t want to, I tell her I love her, over and over again. She elicits in me memories of old porno magazines and childhood nightmares that lift me up and crush me in the same breath. As she grabs hold of my hair, I close my eyes and picture looming trees that rise in her form and a circle of animals that dance around campfires catching sparks with their tiny animal paws. Those legs of hers. How they cross then uncross. How they lead me in and take what they want all because I’m a man. The sweat beneath my fingernails speaks of her mystery and the stories she has yet to reveal of which I spend the days doing my best to capture. The dried blood on my chin, it summons the sun and spring and summer and a sea of flowers which cry out for their mother. When she sprays her neck, I chomp and scratch and claw at her in a state of frenzy and all she does is giggle in the knowledge that I’m a sucker for what she brings.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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