I’m an impartial kind of guy. Granted, I prefer women — their soft lips pressing against me, the way blood-red nails rake across my sides — but I’ll take what I can get. Thinking about the way a man’s tongue flickers against my lips … it’s heaven. Call me a whore by nature. God blew us from his fingertips to be used, filled, defiled, passed around. And I relished every moment.

You know, I didn’t think I could die. Silly thought. Everyone finishes. Those close to me have been killed, even, and I was there to watch. I don’t know why I believed such a delusion. Maybe I never wanted to stop being everyone’s little bitch.

Then, one day, I crashed. Mere milliseconds. A million shards of glass. No more lush lips, no more smooth, white teeth — this I knew, and I knew that I wouldn’t have any maker to meet after the fall. There was a heady, dull burning as iced tea splashed everywhere. Seeds spit from my split lemon. My straw left a barely-there grasp.

And I stopped being everyone’s anything.