He had his cold delights, like many men.
Holding his enormous head, and strutting before the fireplace like a conscience-stricken peacock. Always in fine wares, and I daren’t say a word against him, or he’d… he’d…. Well, he’d make me look into my own heart so far, I didn’t want to live any more. He could turn an evil phrase! How he knew me, without being a whore himself, I don’t know. Vile lashings of that spiked tongue! Ah! My heart was scissored by his whips! How did he ever manage it, knowing me like he’d been through every degradation with me, spitting at my pimp… and… other things. He would say, ‘Love is the reason.’ But no love ever spoke like his.
The next moment it was all “devotion without content, oh my miserable dear, it is the finest thing under the sun! For you I pour these roses over with my blood. Your masses of hair bury me, and, like a vampire of desire, I arise…!”
Such things. The erotic and the gnostic compellingly combined. I could… stand on his words and see the world. That’s what it was. That’s what it was like. No one’s ever done that to me, before or since.
“Hand me that wine. There’s a love. Put your pants on.”
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