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so far tonight?’ Hooded Top asked.
    ‘None,’ you said, leaving a pause before adding, ‘Yet,’ and looking at me.
    Hooded Top turned his face to me, ‘You don’t wanna touch her, luv. She’s got every disease known to mankind.’ And the group let out a gaggle of laughter.
    A limit is not an origin: a limit requires no origin.
    ‘Yeah,’ chipped in another, ‘she should carry a government health warning, that one!’
    ‘Shut it,’ you said, with a laugh in your voice, cracking open the can that someone had handed you. You took a long swig and handed it to me.
    ‘Well, I haven’t had one sniff of decent cock all night. It’s fucking dead out there,’ Hooded Top remarked. ‘Where’d you find this one?’ He looked me up and down.
    ‘Over by the tennis courts,’ you said.
    ‘Nice,’ Hooded Top said, looking at me.
    The unconscious is an orphan; it produces itself within the identity of nature and man.
    Then, picking up a nightlight and holding it to my face, he said, ‘Very nice.’ He put the light down and said, ‘I’m telling you, you don’t wanna be bothering with her, love, she’s got the tiniest cock you ever laid eyes on. You should see mine, though. I’ve got a right whopper, I have.’
    ‘Come on,’ you said, grabbing my hand, ‘I’ll show you around.’
    ‘No!’ shrieked Hooded Top. ‘We’ve not finished decorating yet! The place is a right fuckin’ state!’
    You smirked, and led me through a doorway blacker than the mouth of hell. ‘Have fun!’ someone yelled after us.
    We find the freedom to choose, in the firefull moment, between an endless series of possible selves.
    You led me into other rooms thick with a darkness that allowed no vision at all, so that as we ventured away from the others we could make out less and less of our surroundings. You flicked on your lighter and led me down a short hallway off which other rooms led, all with their doors hanging off, or kicked in. Language is embodied. In the bathroom your lighter flame illuminated the knuckled ceramic white of a toilet bowl. Everywhere rubble crunched underfoot. You led me into a larger room at the back of the building, where two men were fucking by a window. You doused the lighter. A series of grunts and sighs scurried across the room towards us. We moved nearer to them, till we could see their phosphorescent flesh and smell the amyl and rubber aura that surrounded them.
    The personal material of transgression does not exist prior to the prohibition. In other words, transgression is creative.
    You rubbed the front of my jeans and I rubbed the front of yours. The guy getting fucked gestured for us to move closer and you stood in front of him and unbuttoned your fly, feeding him your stiff cock. You gestured to me to move closer and I did, removing my own cock and offering that to his eager mouth. You kissed me, your hands roaming, and your eyes werestaring straight into mine and when you dropped me a wink our joy lit up the room and you so close, your cock pushed up against mine inside this stranger’s mouth, your arm around my shoulder. And the guy fucking leaned across and joined in with our kiss, and the three of us sucked and slurped on each other’s tongues and the guy getting spitroasted let out a stream of muffled moans that reverberated down our cocks and up into our tongues, describing a circuit that shook all four of us where we stood like bolts of electricity through a lunatic’s daydreams. This is the way the world begins, in the instance of an instant that can never be recalled except anaemically so that the desire for desire becomes a desire for immediacy even in the face of impossibility until the moment when the moment when the moment becomes both less than itself and more than itself at the same time and the body chooses to reach out and touch it as it passes that moment of time and it is a touch such a touch of tongue brain cock arse such a touch that the moment is able to relive itself and