It was a section of Manhattan that I’ve never seen. It faces west over the diamond scope of sea. White spires of sailing ships rock obscenely without relent. Shifting their weight. It is a methodic movement, seemingly casual but no human thereby engaged could escape without judgement. Disdain, likely enough. Perhaps confinement. Old white crow chewing passively atop its phallic peak.

The surface, of course, is thick, lurid, white. We long to see it emanating from the genitalia of our lady friends. Oh, that groan. Deeper than any tabletop word I’ve heard her utter. The sound of my lady’s pleasure is sordid and therefore perfect, having reached the gravel depths that transcend every bit of etiquette. Thick, the sea, its weight the slick twixt algae and humanity.