You like a good fat rat in your mouth

Two days ago my cat caught a rat. It was large enough that she struggled to keep it in her mouth as she ran up the stairs. Grey and furry and totally disgusting by my meagre human standards. She would release it and let it run around my bedroom and then chase it and catch it again, like a wind up toy made only to amuse her. It was difficult to watch this constant torture of even such a wretched creature. I felt a combination of filth and pitty, and without real plossible intervention I abandoned the scene to shop for groceries and pretend it wasn't happening. Leaving her to fullfill her basic instinctual cat desires in solitude and  absence of human critique. Even as my mind logically understood these needs of hers, not for sustanance but for death and torture, I still none-the-less found them hard to accept. 

I feel the same about your need to eat strange new women whole and then promptly spit them out again withought any emotional engagement. Playing, releasing and then grabbing again. You just returned from your recent romp in Cambodia. You ran off to drink large quanties of alcohol and smoke cambodian weed while having wild and rampant sex with women you will never see again. Its like watching you chase a dirty rat and put it still alive in your mouth as it wiggles and try to understand why this is what you desire to do, wrap my sad wounded mind around why this is a delectable treat for you. Applying all the science I have in my academic bucket I try to understand that this is nothing more than a savage need from your ancient reptile brain, but I still can't accept it. Not really, I am only pretending, playing it cool. 

My cat is now snuggled up in bed with me. I am trying not to think less of her for wanting the rat. I am trying not to imagine that she is any less sweet, clean, or herself for having the rat fur stuffed in her face only a day ago. I let her sleep next to me, choosing to ignore this dirty deed of yesturday. 

Unlike my cat you will no longer be allowed in my bed. Or so I like to convince myself. But here we are again in constant company. You sit next to me at a dinner party with mutual friends, we order a side of polenta and broccoli to share. Taking turns dipping crispy polenta spears into the aioli dip I find myself trying a little too hard not to imagine you with a rat in your mouth. Was she delicious?