I love the morning after. I love to watch them lying still, sated, but empty. Impossibly hungry. Not all my mornings have this pleasure. Only a few. And in the vast space of time I inhabit, not enough. I crave this conquest. It is my eternal torment. Insatiable. Sweet. The books you have read are wrong. I do not care for your embrace. I have no desire for your intercourse. There is no pleasure, no satisfaction, from my carnal life. It is my necessary function, just