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When you tense your belly, you can feel the muscle travelling past the inside of your hipbones. It grows stronger. The muscle continues, frames your vulva, reaches your perineum, fuses. Everyday you can squeeze it harder. You know this because your hand on your stomach can feel its vital bulk and moves along that thick cord of muscle to its warm, wet conclusion.

It is all those hours, alone with only him, in your room, on your squeaky bed. The moment of involuntary union crashes into both your lives when you experience ecstasy simultaneously. You are bonded; there is no choice, no discrimination. It begins.

Your life together is played out in one room. He does not know the rest of your house, your life, he comes in after dark and you eat on the bed, watch television, smoke joints. The room becomes a fugue of TV, smoke, food, sex.

Sometimes he brings chocolate biscuits and feeds you only two. He likes you lean and hungry and you oblige him. You run every morning. You drink coffee, lots of it. You smoke roll-yer-owns and take amphetamines on the weekends so you can go all night long. You go hard and fast, the way he likes it. You provide food the way he likes it – in bed with you and never at the kitchen table.

When you have company of people you love, he shuts down and won’t make eye contact with anyone except you. Later, he points out their unflattering profile and gently shows you how your friends have betrayed you in little ways. He is so gentle.

He is gentle when he pushes into your ass and, as you both climax, the church bells ring out on the next street. He sighs when he comes, with his eye so close to yours that you can no longer see each other, only light.

Then you smoke. He gives you a tailor-made just for a treat. It’s toxic, it gives you head spins. He rolls up another joint from the skunk in his Capstan tin, taps a rolled up cardboard filter into the end. So deft.

You make love again. You shed clothes and layers of resolve. Only this time there is a spearing that feels too deep. It nudges your cervix and your insides begin to spasm with contractions that feel like labour. You’re really hurting inside. You crouch over with one cheek laid on the stained sheets and he watches, bewildered, waiting for it to go away.

You know the moments when you could have conceived. The flat fear in his eyes means he knows them too. Your bodies are created for these moments. Your body was created to receive him, to suck him into you and greedily escorts in london imbibe his essence.

He smokes three joints every night and every night, hard as you try, your tolerance never grows. You’re pathetic – a one toke wonder.

You try to keep up with him but his body has a capacity for drugs that you cannot emulate. His week is a rhythm of dysfunction. Crystal meth arrives on Thursday afternoon and stays with him until Sunday. Things aren’t pretty when he crashes down. When he’s angry, his pupils dilate until his eyes are as black and hard as onyx. He says awful things, smashes your possessions, slams out of the house. The open doorway at the end of the hall glows with the vacuum of lost energy. It’s the only time you are scared of him.

You know his pain though, you know where it’s coming from. You know his history; you just want him to be okay.

He tries to stop the crystal but he gets so scared of life and his problems return one hundred fold. Your pillow bears the mark of his head in brown, like the Turin Shroud. It smells of vitamin B or straight caffeine. The drugs leach their way out of his body anyway they can.

He stresses when you go away. So your sister’s birthday in another city is a rushed affair, lots of driving. Twenty-four hour red-eye. He is livid. It takes days to calm him down. You know he’s scared without you here. He needs you as his base so he can satellite freely. It makes you feel like the strong one, valued for your stability.

If you weren’t there for him he would roam town, walking girls from one nightclub to another, checking in on friends, doing the rounds of parties, anything to keep moving so he did not have to sleep or think.

He loves his mother…he is haunted by his father’s sins.

His father is in exile, it’s been twenty years. The less he sleeps, the more he sees visions of his father. Sometimes he goes for days without sleeping. Just walking around, driving around, phoning around, making love to you.

Every morning you run. The silly, long-legged pup lopes beside you easily. You hack up the oysters that settled in your lungs the previous night. With every step you think of your magic carpet ride. The rolling, endless Sufi dance of your lovemaking. How, when you sit astride him, he smiles so you can see his missing tooth.

You love the witchery of your ritual adulation, of your lips closing around his shaft. You gather the Camembert skin of his sac and stretch the skin tight along his escorts in london penis until he moans. You try things with him you’ve never considered before. You decide you like the evil objectivity of pornography, its anonymity – because it’s a knowledge you share with him. It’s your story now.

You run and run. It becomes easier, the lighter you get. You feel strangely superior as you run past the gym, where early morning executives and teachers look out at the sea from their running machines. You sail past and feel your second wind kick in, past the muddy beach and around the courthouse corner, past the picture framers, the fire station. The barking of dogs marks your progress across town.

When you stumble into the house and gulp down water, he is still asleep. He complains about the lull in the building trade. He spends his days with his friends or at his home. You are his nighttime girl and you’re happy with that. Although sometimes you wish he would…commit…to something.

He starts on the crystal on Wednesdays. By Fridays, he’s having problems. He’s back at work but it’s sloppy, he makes mistakes.

He keeps having visions of his father, his mother, his younger sisters and brothers, the beatings. He took most of it, his mother tells you.

At your door, he leans into you with an embrace that threatens to topple you. He finds asylum in your body. He pours his polluted white blood into you.

New stories emerge. He’s not slept for three days now. You have to go to work, you’re already an hour late but he won’t let you go. He sits on your bed, lumbering, obese with his sadness and visions. He unloads these visions onto you. His father. Visions of hallways and doors and rooms. His father. Children – hungry, state housed urchins. His complicity. His father.

You begin to understand his need for good drugs.

You get sacked.

You find him two days later in his own bed, crying, clutching a photograph of his Mum. The smell of bleach overpowers his sweat. He’s thrown it over the walls to banish the faces from the past.

He tells you of playing goon for his dealer the previous night, heading up country to some dodgey redneck party. Getting ripped off big time. He owes big money. There is no point to any of it. His kids hate him, his family hates him. He wants to die. He just wants to get off now.

You take him to the hospital. He’s too heavy, he leans on you, he keeps telling you about his father, about the last time he saw escort service him. How he nearly killed him.

He is cool now, keeping it together in the reality-check of the casualty waiting room. He reads a National Geographic and shows you a picture of an alabaster Egyptian king and queen sitting side by side on identical thrones. That’s me and you, he tells you. You’re my Stone-age Queen. We’ll breed the master race.

The doctor sees you. You both sit in a quiet white room. You do the talking. He gets the bed and the anti-psychotics.

You ask the doctor about the medication. Our sex is our healing, you tell him. We need it.

The medication makes him slumber and stammer. For ten days he stays in the white room. You bring him hot loaves of bread wrapped in a tea towel and lie beside him, cradle his big, hot head.

Nothing you do can raise and harden his beautiful member. It lies, a comma on his thighs…pause. You cry and he shifts and rustles the white linen. Something shifts in the reptilian recess of your mind. Something ends at that moment.

There’s nothing in your eyes, a friend tells you. He’s sucked everything out of you, she says. He’s taking you down.

He rings, asks you to see a man for him. The doctor stops you in the corridor and accuses you of supplying him with drugs. His family all hope you’ll be the one to take care of things this time.

You lie alone at night. You try to sleep and eat and breathe.

You run. Native bees rise away from your feet as you thump over clover. He needs you. He needs you. He needs you.

Past the town hall, up Coronary Hill to the dry stone wall where you sit and sob, hyperventilate. Instead of his hot flesh, an empty scourge rears up inside and ejaculates into your corrupted body. The pup lies on the bitumen footpath and felicitously licks her own fanny, one brindle leg in the air.

You cannot move, cannot draw enough breath to continue the hill, cannot retreat. The capstone creaks under your bum. You can see yourself still here tonight, unmoving, gasping for air. You are cold when you should be hot. Blood falls away from your face to your heart, where it surges in too tight a space.

Trees, sky and ocean crack into glittery pixels and rush you. Floored.

You wake in somebody’s garden, like from a nightmare, trying to breathe. The dog licks the blood from your lip. You limp home like an exhausted soldier, returning to something you held within yourself a long time ago. You stare at yourself in the hallway mirror for so long that you begin to see yourself again. Frayed energy becomes spliced, braided, not tightly but the weaving has begun. Resolve. It’s not your journey; it’s his journey. You don’t have to do it anymore. Finish this.

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