Over the sound of the tinny drums and searching saxophone blurting from the radio, the amphibious cries emanating from her belly grew more intense the harder she worked herself into a frenzy. Along with the gasps escaping her throat, the room spun around me as if it had turned into a portal transporting me to some other place—perhaps to a memory of a first kiss, or a moment in time I had yet to glimpse. The only sensible thing to do was to drink some more wine, and that I did. The liquid was sweet and crisp and made me wince, and the more I knocked back, the stronger the deviant urges in me grew. Only it seemed to make the room spin even more—who would have thought—and the longer I watched her touch herself, the more I felt the bones being sucked out of my skin. Stumbling towards her, I could see sweat dripping down the plastered walls. It dripped like the sweat falling from her brow where it collected on her upper lip. The sweat was dripping off me too. It tasted salty and yet not as salty as hers. Kicking her feet as she searched for the perfect spot that teased the perfect release, I drunkenly crawled onto the bed, fixated on where her body was about to take me. On all fours, I moved between her legs but didn’t touch her. I didn’t want to. Not just yet. I only wanted to watch, as her touch was hypnotic, and every flick of her wrist seemed to summon with it a gesture I had no way of being able to fathom. It was an art form, one that demanded the respect of not being uninterrupted until I was invited to do so.