I called her up at last orders with the hair of the dog between my teeth.
I told her 'I hate the way she tastes' - How Freudian of me to say so.
We met in some dark, sweaty place between the heavens and the gutters
where we could **** each other till we didn't hate each other
and drink till I wasn't ashamed of what I'd done,
all the while praying that my concience would keep me from coming.

So, with our half-hidden forms snaking over each other like spaghetti-junction an hour before the rush...
Her hands wrapped around my hands, wrapped around her legs wrapped around my throat...
Two bodies attracting and repelling, repelling and attracting,expanding and contracting till it all felt like the same movement...
I washed the stink of defeat off myself using the sweat that pooled in the small of her back...
There, in that dark sweaty place between the heavens and the gutter
we ****** each other till we didn't hate each other
and drank till I wasn't ashamed of what we'd done
all the while praying that my concience would keep me from coming.

I ran into her about a fortnight later while trying to drink away a headache caused by drinking away the ehadache before that.
I stood up with shirt unbuttoned and shouted
'I'm a man at the end of his rope - I need a good woman. But, since I don't see any of those around here...'
Dot. Dot. Dot.

If looks could ****, then surely they could maim, mutilate, desicrate, laugh, scream, cry, give birth and make love as well
and the look she gave me seemed to all of these at once.

She said 'You've got a lot of nerve
to say you are my friend
and then to commit benefit fraud'.

I took a sip of my drink and before I'd swallowed it she was kissing me deep enough that I could **** the cigarette smoke right out of her lungs.
She bit my lip and drew blood.
I grabbed a handful of her hair, she grabbed my ****
and we both wrestled each other
into that familiar place between the heavens and the gutter
where I drank but I was still ashamed.

So I took twelve steps away from the cloud of scent left by her skin and said
'If I ever see the back of your head again, it'll be too soon.
So get the hell out of my life, my head, my skin, my t-shirt and especially my bedroom.'

But,
as sure as you can't solve an emotional problem with a physical solution,
her memory hung around,
festering and itching my insides like a nicotine craving.
I can still taste her breath on humid days.
Eighteen months have been and gone but I can't srub the smell off of my fingers.
Even when I can't see straight I can still see her naked body stretched out on the pavement,
tanning under streetlamps
or dancing between the headlights of cars

But even at my most alone I have never felt my heart break.
My liver screams.
My stomach turns inside out.
I wretch.
I sweat.
But I don't cry.

Still, it's days like this that sobriety doesn't seem like a bad idea.