The succubus comes by night, taking what she needs

and leaving the rest for another day or another lay, the witch wearing a wig and wielding a whip, sucking me into submission with ignorance and favors, sixty-nine flavors, and magic spells to boot. She can spell the clothes off of a man, though she can’t even spell her own name, because she has none. She comes in darkness, uses me for her own selfish ends, and then leaves by the first light of dawn. What do nocturnal emissions say about sex? Does the discharge create the pictures that ultimately justify its existence or do the pictures create the discharge? Is it an electrical discharge or purely hydraulic? Was that really my next-door neighbor baring her soul to me despite a thousand previous unanswered entreaties, or was it the ghost of Christmas past coming in to haunt me uninvited?