the full length mirror winks, its invite unmistakable. Something else too good to resist. Vanity. Self touched up pictures. Instant feedback.
Frank goes for it, the duvet sighing. Fifty two and rising. The hair thinning, the breadth broadening. Crows feet and grey highlights. His chest mown to a number one, soft stubble brushing against a warm palm. Long fingers at his brown nipples. Twiddling.
Fiddling.
Still a waist. The tummy soft like unbaked bread. Tufts of course hair in a downward echelon. Wow! French bread. Une baton. A feminine penis, warm and firm. Smoked salmon and cream cheese. His balls like firm shallots in a string bag. Skin. Nibble. Skin.
Is this really him, pressed hard against his dead reflection? Big? Exaggerated?
God! Now Frank. And now.
He feels it in his raised heels and in his load bearing toes, the grip of tension, coming, going. Going, coming.
Frank breathes quicker. Frank in the mirror, Frank’s cock thicker.
Shallow panting breaths. God! And, God! And- bang, on the verge of bang.
Frank suddenly falling backwards.
                                Time standing still.
                                                    Time suddenly moving.
His bare back, bare arse, thwacking white cotton. Slap.
The whiplash of his hard head soft against the duck filled pillow. Eyes closing.
Yes. Yes.
               Oh! Oh!
                        No. No.

In super slow motion, an almost perfect arc of it.
Splash and spit.
Its in the crash zone, warm as blood, a pattern to make sense of.
Stickle, trickle. Treat.

One huge out-breath and squeeze.
                        And sigh. And squeeze.
                                            And sigh. And sigh.
                                                                And mmmm.

The last bead milky as a cabochon moon.
A tear of addictive power exuding from his poppy’s pride.

Frank lay in this drug’s aftermath, the way we lie in full baths. Quiet. His flesh floating. Mind floating. Warm. Washed. Being still alive and then more alive.
And any noises-off he made impotent.
The noises-on sounding like small waves, wet cloths slapping at a beached whale.
He could lie here for eternity. Whacked out. Grounded.
Truly he could.
            He could even dream of dying soon.

But, he hears a near and far door close.
Fuck!
Sudden breeze of guilt. The sound was suburban, ordinary, no more than circumstantial. Next door’s distant door? Where the fuck was he?
Alone.
And filing things less pleasing.
                                            Old bruises haunting.
                                                                    Old wounds taunting.
Rhodes Town, Rhodes.
In crisis, cruising the Venetian end of the harbour. Stephen sleeping in a nearby villa, his cock peeling from a surfeit of sun. Frank voracious, intent on something young for lunch. Calamari followed by Greek chicken, brown skinned in Daz white Y-fronts, speaking in broken English and smelling of olive oil. The first pressing.
Something sinful beckoning.
Live bait.
Yes mate. Here was furtive headway- bitten nails like stars in the night sky. Girl’s lips. Hipster shorts. A damned button fly.

Hands on. Hands off. Hands of God.

Then the unexpected. Horribly odd.
Sharp blows to his susceptible temple, artful, practised.
Frank waking in pain and donkey piss, several miles away.
His