Oh God, for you the feral beauty of punching a fascist in the face. For you the bruise as unfolding orgasm, the humiliation as scented whips. If when you watch you want to cum, that’s OK, God: touch yourself! With your hand, God. Vow to learn to land that touch with the merciless precision of a blue-tongued skink’s blue tongue, a tennis ace’s ace, … Continue reading ‘Bloom’ by Harry Giles