Oh, she’s good.
She lures you in.
All fleshy folds and voluptuous curves.
She kisses you gently and the hair is soft to the touch.
It confuses you in the near dark.
Her skin is black as pitch, not glowing under the subdued lights, but dense like a collapsing star, or a black hole if you will.
She smells slightly funky, coal tar and mushrooms, brandy and treacle, like the back room of your student flat, the room where you had your most exciting evening learning stuff you never thought possible.
And all of a sudden it’s too late.
She’s taken you home, your head spinning with alcohol, seduced you on the old stained oak floor of her boudoir, undressed you with chocolate smoothness (and a large glass of rum), rifled through your wallet and breathed on you with her sourly seductive rhubarb breath, and cleverly, very cleverly, she got you so drunk on her warm boozy goodness that she doesn’t have to worry about giving herself.
Instead she calls a cab and throws you in head first.
You wake, with a mouth coated in liquorice, to the vague memory of a high octane evening and a newly found obsession with facial hair.

Source: Cotteridge Wines