A whiskey bottle's destiny is to empty itself, either over a fairly drawn out amount of time, giving the posessor several nights of having a pleasant drink, or in a rushed, alcoholic endeavor, to allow one or more persons to fully establish themselves as crocked.

A bottle that comes closer to its final destiny, were it to feel pride, should be glad to know that it is serving its purpose, as it delivers it's contents to people who would be apt to become inebriated. Therefore, with a touch, and a rough one at that, I could tip the bottle from its resting place, delivering its contents into a glass, or series of glasses, and, through the concoction of mixed beverages, floor my floormates. The bottle would be able to be emptied knowing that it's purpose had been served. As it made its way to being displayed with all the other emptied bottles in someone's room, or, as in my case, to its further use in a recycling bin, it would know the pleasure of having done all that it could to influence the world, for better or worse.

Jack, I know how he likes it. In the clean beige of an afternoon liquor store, we meet again. We are discreet in our coupling, no excessive touch. The cashier sees nothing.

But home, he's so different. He lets me undress him and stands before me all hard Adonis arcs and planes. Gently first, just my fingertips up his sides. I trace circles in the sweat, press the heel of my thumb down the edge of his proclaiming label and it peels for me so easily. Not like the other girls.

He's past the point of no return when I slide a finger underneath the black seal, separating the perforations, and he becomes vulnerable. My touch lingers on the subtle ridges of his cap.. then I twist, he is mine. My entire hand strong around him, pressing not bruising, I lift him to my lips. He is released, and loves it. We do it again and again. We do it all night.

Finally, he's spent, dribbling his last remains onto my carpet. I'll wake up groggy with a funny taste in my mouth.

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