He bit the transvestite's nob-end with great
desire. Cigarettes, hair tonic and birth control;
he needed all the sexual side effects he could afford.
This was the raid of a lifetime, and everyone
was watching. He didn't want to risk the
consequences of gaining an erection.

But o how the blood pulsed through his most
naughty veins on that evening. He had challenged
his great innermost fantasy, and he had failed miserably.
Little did he know how skilled he was at this sort
of debauchery. Where was the cue? He wanted
to raise this question but his lips were still busy.

Meanwhile there were wine tasters, photographers,
architects and boat captains, who only thought they
enjoyed their jobs to their fullest. Of course they
had new days indefinably sifting between their
fingers like a cultured mist passed on to pluck their
pairs of eyebrows. This was dreaming; and this
was the drool on everyone's lapel.

Somehow one couldn't help to think of how
our children's cells would split into these sort
of things; or how all the decapitations would soon
be replaced by the wills of nerve endings and
port-side engines; or even how his wife's beauty
sleep had become a ten year exercise. Soon
enough the cue hadn't come, but soon enough
had he.