I refuse to drown in you, he thinks as he looks once more in her tidal eyes. I refuse to drown in you again. Yet she is already unleashing her waves upon his shores. They lap at him with all the conniving eagerness of a dog's aimless devotion. He takes his last breath. His whole being yearns to lose itself in her hint of cleavage -- no, not the whole being, just the part that pulls strongest when the moon is out and the wolves howl -- and he spins under the assault of her simple availability. He is pulled under. I refuse he cries weakly, mouth emptying into the empty night, lungs bubbling vainly and knowing that as he raves he will break his vows again and blame the harlot, the ***** the temptress who mothered his manhood to tumescence; so that she could for a moment own his essence. And as he plans ahead to decry and deny the shame that this will bring he feels for the ring in his pocket, safe for when the act will be over.