Voluptuary…

I am promiscuous. I must admit that I am a slut and a user. Every evening, I share my bed with a fresh companion. Sometimes, I am gentle, stroking curves and creases with the utmost tenderness. Sometimes, to my shame, I am rough and unforgiving. Spines crack, marks are left: I am not always considerate. Quite often, having had my pleasure, the object of my desire is cast aside, forgotten until required once more, while I turn over and sleep without a moment's thought. On other occasions, I have used my Other past the point of exhaustion, extracting more and more passion until the morning light brings a moment's remorse - though the exchange is always mutual, and significance is created in the space between us.

I am also faithless and abitrary. Some of the very best, most cultured, most highbrow of these evenings have never been repeated, whereas the most shameful, guilty pleasures have been restaged, over and over again, without discrimination. For some, the experience exhausted me, drained me, so fully that despite the pleasure, I can never dare return to the source: they are left on the shelf. I expect unquestioning patience, fidelity and passivity, yet promise nothing more than the vague hope that one day my eye will be caught and my passion rekindled. Yet, for all my capriciousness, I am never dismissive - every evening, every abrupt moment, every sensual scene, every violent interlude - is stored in my subconscious, subtly changing me.

I admit my guilt. I am a reader.