I like to have a girl stand over me, naked as the day she came into the world. The anticipation builds as I stare up and see her fingers, tips painted red, reach down and part two lips of pink, sometimes with hints of brown. Eyes closed, I wait for the sound, like eggs on a frying pan or a snake testing the air. Then it hits me, that warm spray, splashing all over my face. The dank scent fills my nostrils. Oh God, piss on me.
And that is why I prefer Othello to MacBeth, although I've never read King Lear.