She ruined men. If they were lucky. She didn’t want a protector, handyman, or a sugar daddy. She wanted to fuck. Always.

Her amorous ardour was raucous. She lived like a dance, her voice an intoxicating rhythm that filled whichever floor she graced. In her presence, you were never enough for you. Addiction was instant. Incurable.

Men abandoned lovers on her opening beat. But not before those lovers were dancing for her, too. Enraptured. Hopeless. Then lost. Lost, like those she’d chosen. And fucked. Who stumbled on, bawling for her likeness in the bleak eternal desert of her rain shadow.