The lyric is stuck in my head, and perhaps in yours too. It is desire and demand, promise and passion. It is, more than anything, salacious in its expression.

Give me
Your dirty love
Like you might surrender
To some dragon in your dreams

I will consume all that you offer, all that you have. Already our shared language — of lust and lasciviousness, of cravings unmet, of pleasures to be indulged — has spoken of distressed libido, seeking out its twin. We are, both of us, consuming dragons.

Give me
Your dirty love
Like a pink donation
To the dragon in your dreams

Is a dragon the right image? A pair of phoenix, it seems, might be a better one: forever combustible, and forever reassembling itself for re-consumption.

I don’t need your sweet devotion
I don’t want your cheap emotion
Whip me up some dragon lotion
For your dirty love

The lyric is disturbing, in its lack of subtlety: for I am all subtlety. You are all coyness. And not: open, direct, forthright in your desire. Sexual, sensual beings. Twin stars, in mutual orbit, feeding each other, inflaming passions as yet still frustrated.

Give me
Your dirty love…

We retreat from the wine bar to your apartment quickly: not because we aren’t thirsty, but because we are hungry. The wine I’ve brought is a convenient pretext, but we both know what we want, and why. Imagination is a powerful aphrodisiac, eclipsed only by the promise of fulfillment. We were wise to wait: delay, we both knew, would intensify the delicious hunger, and focus our carnal craving

I don’t need no consolation
I don’t want your reservation
I only got one destination
And that’s your dirty love

Our time tonight is limited; we will fumble, inevitably, in our haste to quench a thirst that has built itself over long weeks of denial. But, too, we will open a door, crack it wide, and glimpse future delights as yet (even now) unimagined. The real pleasure is in a thirst unquenchable, that knows only temporary satisfaction, but multiple destinations.