—This? Nothing. A photograph.
He looks at the photograph, and demands a story I don’t want to tell.
Isn’t this what all women want? A lover who’s passionately interested in the quotidian details of their excruciatingly boring, dysfunctional lives—as well as skilled with hands, and tongue, and cock?
No. Not me. Or do I? I start to talk. I tell him about… about all of them. And, inadvertently, me. Things I’ve never put into words for anyone before…
That’s the game you and I are playing. Do you not know that? I am looking for the key. And you’re trying not to give it to me. But you want to play, and so you keep on talking, and so eventually, you will.
I’m very careful not to say too much. I sure as hell am not going to take my somewhat sociopathic lover of the moment into the tragedy of my life.
Why not? Tragedy is erotic. The things that make you laugh don’t make you hard. Or wet, lover, as the case may be. Check yourself.
Fuck. Really? I’m doing this? Why?
Because you want to. Because you’re compelled. Does it matter? Just talk.
So. I do.
This is what Consequences looked like on June 5, 2015.
This is the cover proof:
Is it not beautiful?
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