Everytime I go to bed, I can see the stain of green hair dye on the low ceiling, where you cracked your head whilst vigourously riding me – yelping, eyes clamped shut and a gaping smile on your face, sucking up all the oxygen in the room and leaving me gasping for spare atoms. Of course, you were thinking of someone else the entire fuck, I knew that even at the time, but beggars can’t be choosers. I didn’t choose to worship you. I’m an atheist. I didn’t plan on worshipping anything.
But as something tangible, you seemed a better bet than a concept designed to keep a feeble species in line. You kept me in line. And as feeble as I may also be, at least I could run my fingers down your stretchmarks; I could drag my nail over the little serrated dimples on your thighs; I could play with that mole on your hip and wonder at how it is surrounded by several smaller ones, a little solar system almost permanently hidden by the elastic of your underwear.
My deity was flesh; three day old mascara, a taste of cigarettes and last night’s bourbon and coke, with dark circles under your eyes from dancing your legs down to the knees, and the smell of the smoke machine in your greasy hair. After the end, I spent many evenings in that club, dancing with other girls whilst watching you over their shoulders – dancing alone, happily not giving a fuck.