Tea and toast and lazy limbs and lungs that breathe in dust without thinking. Then you on your belly kicking your legs while reading a book, and my hands. My itchy hands and itchy fingers. They creep and scuttle like a spider as I spread and see what you look like even though I already know. This hangover though. This hangover. It just won’t shift, so I go downstairs and stick those greasy fingers down my throat and just like that everything is peaceful and serene. Then comes mouthwash. After that, I stand on tiptoes and peel back my foreskin over the sink. Splashing water over my piece, I wash away the remains of what came before and feel ready to treat you with the respect you deserve. But then my stomach aches and after some moaning and groaning out comes a shit that resembles a brown snake, and the only thing I can do to get rid of the clingy sense of filth is to take a shower. I’d prefer a bath, but a bath would mean leaving you for too long so a shower it is. But when I shower my balls go all tiny, and when I’ve towelled myself dry and head back to our room, you turn and laugh as I stand there with my tiny cold balls and little winky looking all pathetic and childlike. It doesn’t make me angry, for it’s just how things are. Those statues from Roman times all had little winkies when they were just hanging around, and nobody laughed at them. It’s when the blood starts pumping, that’s when it counts. I say this to you and nod my head. Nodding back in approval, you smile before going back to your book. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands massage your legs and then comes some dirty words and a few kisses on your neck. I want to suck and leave hickys, but you give me the evols and threaten violence. I’ll do it when you sleep, instead. That’s my plan. You do it to me all the time. So I spread you again and sit there eyeing you up. It’s strange how flesh and scent can destroy a man’s mind. Even stranger how they can put it back together in a million new ways. Sticking in my thumb as far as it can go, the book drops from your hands and you look out the window before closing your eyes. Like a cat having its head stroked. That’s what you resemble.