-- 1 --
He has a need to expend his seed: it is a never-ending endeavour, the smack of wood against leather. In the hot rush to consummate his love he must burn a more energy-rich depravity -- must look for a certain seriousness, a gravity. Right now he is past the ****** and the ‘hos’, “just girls,” he says, “just girls pretending to be women pretending to be ***** and he wants to see real girls naked and ashamed and cutting themselves for money. He gets off on the very idea of people deforming themselves for his pleasure.
-- 2 --
Here he is, being driven by his car. At each corner he sees girls huddled together, sharing warmth. Their lips are locked in thin lines of glamour and they swap his salty substances without even the slightest tremor of desire. At their waists they hold daggers, levelled at each other’s bellies. All the better to cut out the cancer of pregnancy.
-- 3 --
His vices have turned to hate. So equanimous before, so confidential with his needs: now he does not just implore his occasional dates with the soft sad pressure of his bulging eyes; now he asks direct. “Dance for me,” he says, in the privacy of his own filth. “No, sexier,” he exhorts, imagining the first ****** excitations caused by an unspeakably illegal piece of ******** He blames them for having bodies that do this to him. He blames them.
-- 4 --
He blames them.