You Are a Lie Ch. 04

Waiting waiting waiting is a chore in itself. I can only listen to the same rage merchant pods and get a hit of the greatest addiction of all, which is anger, and just sit here and wonder when Julius is coming back. I didn't rehearse anything, didn't worry about timing or proper words. I am going to tell him. There is "value in Valium" as I say and I crush up two, and *snort* it goes in and soon I am calm. I will hurt him forever and I don't care. The door opens and he steps inside, pleasantries, a quick hug and a peck, blessed domesticity. It feels right for a moment. The thought doesn't linger but it crosses my mind. Maybe I should quit it all. Be a mom. Be a wife, enjoy everyday in peace, in calm. What could be so bad about that? Holding true to what I preach?

But that too would be a lie. Time to speak. "Jules, would you be open to me seeing other men? Matteo specifically."

He laughs, he thinks it's a joke. "Helluva a way to start a convo. Nah. Never. Why?"

"I'm asking seriously, I mean it."

He has an excellent poker face. No tells, hard to read, but his mind never stops stops stops he can barely breathe. He cracks his neck. "We're four months out from our weddin' and yer seriously askin' this?"

"Yes. If that's too much we can try other things. If you want to watch or listen, maybe even join, that's fine too."

He's not even phased, that's one of the reasons I like him, but not love him. He's strong, his will is a wall that can't be brought down, it made him the man he is.

"I dunno how much of what you're sayin' is true, and what ain't. I'm guessin' this is your way of callin' it off?"

"I mean. Not really. I don't want to." And it was fair, what man wouldn't want it? He gets one, I get one, all is balanced, all is right. We can even get one each year, a birthday gift to ourselves and each other. That is healthy. That is right. That is honest.

He sucks some air through his teeth and his face is turning red. "Oh wait, is this a girlfriend test thing? You want to see if I take the pass? See if I bite?"

Too smart for his own good. Well, now I'm bored, why ask? He won't budge. Seriously I don't get that. I don't understand him at all sometimes. Most of the time. All of the time. Oh well. I'll ask again.

"Ok, so have you ever wanted to see me with another man? It's a common fantasy. It's not like, shameful."

"You serious?"

"Well. Yeah. Yeah I'm serious."

"And if I don't want none of it?"

"I don't know. I didn't think that far ahead." I of course did. And knew the answer already.

He licks his lips, I wonder if he's going to hate fuck me, maybe he thinks this is a put on, or he still thinks it's a test, probably does but he can see through it, see through me me me with so much ease.

"Well. Nah. We're through."

"Really? Well. I get it. I thought you would understand."

"Understand? What? Tell me what I'm supposed' to fuckin' understand."

"This is a good deal. I mean I was fucking Matteo. Full blown side piece."

"I suspected. I just wanted to believe I was wrong. It was just doubt. Y'know? Hoped you could be my baby again. Like when we met."

No waterworks but the tears are there and starting to form. I hate seeing him ready to cry. He's too noble for that. Too strong. But, I mean who expects this anyways? Anyone who lies to themselves I suppose. Which he did. Even if he never says it.

"Well. I'm sorry. Guess your folks were right. Anyways, this sucks, but it's for the best."

"You really been fuckin' him? Really? Whole damn time?"

"No. Not the whole time. Just the past year."

"Well. We done. Give me the ring back, get your stuff. We're not talking anymore."

"Okey dokey." I hand the ring back to him, and go to my office. I hear a door slam above and like that it's over. Glad I didn't pick out a dress, or invitations or whatever. His family will be happy, his Mama is going to say "I was right about that lil bitch all-long." Guess she was. Guess I was wrong about him though. I thought he would understand. I'll miss him. Miss most of us. Not even the mansion, but you know, the stuff where we didn't have to speak. Could just be around each other and I didn't feel like I wanted to rip my hair out of my scalp or break every window in the room or slit my wrists and his wrists and call it even.

No no no he calmed me, made it better, made it quieter. Above all, I'll miss us. But eventually I won't. And it won't be a lie in time, it will still have been a truth I told myself and he believed and that's good enough.

***

A week after, Locke asked me to come to his house, never a good sign, it meant Daddy was angry, very very angry. The only other time he asked me to come over was when some loser tried to sue us for half a million, which, by the way, we countered and won. It's called free speech losers.

The house is plain, old. But well kept. It reminds me of the homes I wished I could have grown up around. Anastasia opens the door. She's been married to Locke for twenty years. Long straight brown hair with thin blonde streaks, sleepy brown eyes, a little Venus tummy and some tits that were easily fixed with a push up bra. Skin like mocha, maybe years ago she was gorgeous, now she just looks sad. Pretty. But sad. Her voice however sounds like a beautiful Southern song she sings on every word.

"Well my stars. Come on in Paisley. Great to see ya a-gain. Hope life been treatin' ya well."

So cordial and polite it makes me sick. What am I supposed to say to her? It makes me irrationally upset. Locke's at the table, he's sketching something, a marionette posed in front of him, wearing his glasses, he doesn't look at me, and I feel like I am being scolded by my father. I look at Locke and I wish I could fuck him, he's probably amazing, no, he is amazing, I can just tell. He's sketching and I wonder what, I try to peek but can't see, instead I imagine if with that filthy charcoal on his hands he fingered me. Only me. How incredible it would look. Maybe Anastasia could watch. He finally looks up.

"Sit down. I heard from Julius about what happened."

"Yeah. I forgot to-"

"You didn't tell me a thing. Not a single fucking thing."

"It's my engagement. I can do what I want-"

"No. No you fucking can't. This is what I'm talking about. Do you think you're going to spin this positively for your audience? What can you tell them why you called it off? Five, six engagement ring posts? How many-"

I roll my eyes. Daddy still doesn't get it. "I'll just say it wasn't meant to be, and that while we were blessed to find each other we are happy to pursue different lives." So easy, shot from the hip and none could tell the difference, none could see otherwise, and all my listeners would lap it up like pigs in a trough eating shit. Whatever they want to believe, whatever lie exists, is their gospel.

"And if Julius tells the truth? His word against yours."

"He's no one compared to me."

"He's a man. A wealthy man. Even your listeners would show deference and you know that."

"Come the fuck on. Who knows them better than I do? You think they liked a man like him? You see the shit they called me in the comments for being with him? The fuck do you know?"

I see him clench his fist and I can only imagine how it would feel tightening around my tiny throat. "Enough. I can't stand this shit anymore. You don't think I talked to him? He didn't deserve this."

"Why do you care? Like, he's no one to you."

"Yeah. You're right. No one except an actual person."

"What, so I'm not human because I didn't wanna get married? Because I want the life I want? That I fucking earned?"

"I didn't say that. I don't think you know what you want. And if you do, you haven't told me."

"You helped you know. Does Julius know that? Huh? Made secrets for me? Covered for me." Take a deep deep deep breath and pause and wait and there's nothing to say except he's clearly wrong and I am right. "That's what I fucking thought."

Locked stared. So I left. Anastasia tried to stop me but it didn't matter. Whatever.

***

The next few months were what I expected, Julius stoically exited my life, no fights, no big blowout, I got a call from his sisters, both yelling, I let them get it out. They had choice names to call me. Some I had never heard before. I hung up. Blocked. Moving on.

With the wedding being called off, my current topic for the pod was about how there are no high quality men anymore. After all, I now had first hand experience. Yes. I had to tell them that secretly, Julius was a loser. And I merely tolerated him. It's been doing super well. I have lots of alpha guests on the show, telling and selling every sucker who listened and watched about how with easy programs, seminars, and supplements they can solve the problems that have no solution, problems nestled deep inside them like parasites. We make more, they make less, sacrifices to their true gods. Good. They should worship me, as I worship my lord above.

I grabbed a small apartment near the studio. A minimalist life. Asides from my wardrobe, journals, and laptop, I didn't need anything else. I told Matteo of course about what happened with Julius, which for some stupid fucking reason he felt bad about. He said we should meet again soon and I agreed. I didn't know if I could be with him full time. But part of me thought about it. I made a note that I wanted to do anal with him, and absolutely wreck my fucking hole.

Serena started dating a guy, Michel. He's like thirty. So maybe three years older? I don't know. I don't care. He's a crypto bro, sat in his parent's basement like a loser and basically fucking figured out that whole game. Cashed out, and now with a personal trainer, and like a metric ton of dating coaches he's able to land someone like her.

It weirded me out. Like what the hell? Why date this fucking loser? She said she really liked him, and wanted to try long term shit out. I mean pretty sure she could see what just happened with me, and it would and will happen to her.

Whatever. I talked with Matteo more, we'd talk about actual things not like whatever hideously fucking boring shit people spew from their mouths as common and as natural as breathing. But cool questions, about how we grew up, stories, experiences, things that shape us, some good and some bad. Can he see me? Determine what's a lie and what's a truth or even know there's no difference? It's hard to say. He sees with his heart, his cock, not so much his brain. Blindness. All too common, if I can say it on the pod I can live it as well, we are blind to the truths in front of us.

I tell him about everything I can think of, my father's suicide, the car crash, my first serious boyfriend, that night in the forest, regrets, and everyone else except Tara. She's for me. She'll always be just for me. Even though I know I can't own her, I wish for a minute I could just speak to her again and own that moment.

Speak speak speak I love the sound of my own voice I listen to every episode we record all the way through, at the gym, I listen to myself and it's good because I can step outside my head. Just for a little while, to hear me talk about everyone and everything else. You can learn a lot about yourself by listening to yourself.

Matteo traveled, so did I, looks like the next time we really could meet up was November. Ugh. Awful. I met Michel finally, he's alright. Not bad looking. Fine for Serena because that pear shaped head and big eyes just make me sick, lucky she's got those lips. And that stupid cute nose. But he's fine I guess. At least he takes care of himself, dresses well, putting in the effort. Even told a joke that made me chuckle. Humor? Sorely missing from most men. By most I mean nearly all.

Still, something irks me about him. Not his voice or posture but something deep deep deep inside he thinks is hidden but isn't. Insecurity. Yes that's what it is, just a little nest that his heart sits on, of worry and self loathing. Sad he'll never let it go most likely, but that's his choice and he can lie about it all he likes but he probably won't change.

Which, who can?

***

I am supposed to be a guest speaker at a faith convention in Tampa, but I am not on the main stage. I should have gotten top billing, I was told I would, and to my shock and Locke's they lied. I'm not arrogant, I simply know what I'm worth. But instead they pass on me. Me. For some ancient fuckhead who is one second away from the grave, with a hick accent and a hard drive that no one would want to search through. Whatever. Fuck em. I'm not going.

So now I have a vacation that wasn't planned but is always needed. It is funny, amusing, no hysterical that we take vacations so we can end them and get back and need a vacation for a vacation. Imagine you're so tired from your cherished vacation that a nuke is about to turn you into a shadowy stain on a sidewalk and the last thing you think about is how tired you are.

Tired tired tired. I am always and never tired, but also, I feel everyone is. I had planned on wearing for my stage speech a reserved, yet ever slightly tantalizing, off the shoulder slouchy blouse, perfectly tailored wide legged slacks, cinched towards my waist, a nice subtle pin stripe so I look taller because I am miserably short. This is all I brought and I don't want to spend anything right now because it's not even enjoyable to do so. It's just boring.

I turn off my phone and put it in my purse and enjoy a walk downtown in which I have nowhere to be, and don't plan to be anywhere. I could be anyone. There are pockets and pools that are deep and full of people and I don't know any of them and they don't know me. Here I cease to be.

Ybor is not what it was when Tara and I would come here and 7th was a place where it was old and a bunch of also old people who grew up there hung out and no one knew anything or anyone and it was good. It was better that way. And now it is Disney but with cigars and now it is boring. A sentiment that fools all share is that things weren't better in the past and they are wrong. They were because I was there, and fifty years from now others will say the same. The only constant is that things always get worse.

Walk walk walk, only two cat calls, disappointed. I blame the outfit, others say I have terminal bitch face. Good. I don't disagree.

A lounge, I don't even know the name, it looks quiet and I don't know anyone and everyone there is older, and I shouldn't be known there anyways. Which as much as it is a shame, it's also freeing. And causes me extreme despair because I should be known. Praised. But for a moment I can just be no one. I feel like my skin is vibrating, time for methaqualone, it doesn't take long, just like a dream, some euphoria that I can feel in my heart and my head and soon it's like I feel asleep as I am awake.

I love clubs. I love the noise and the filth and the debauchery and the million little stories happening you'll never know and no one will know the story you're living. You are part of a book that dissolves when the lights go out. But in places like this quiet and just stuck I feel discomfort and that is better than nothing. There is a bar and I love sitting at bars because it is an open invitation to anyone with a pair of balls to try to talk to me and I love turning others down.

I already know what I am going to order and it is a dry martini and I want a blue cheese olive because I enjoy the funk, the bitter gross mess of clashing flavors makes my lip pucker and when it goes down it feels amazing. When it comes up it burns the same as everything else.

Two stools away, there's a man, clear spectacles and frames, slightly lopsided brown hair, a few streaks of white ever so subtle, god I love older men. Turtleneck, husky, in the best way, such a boyish face only hidden by a short beard. I know this cliche, ohhh a notebook of a starving artist or worse a poet who has to be seen writing. But there is no one else here, not this close so I get my drink and I wave.

He continues writing so he is rude and I hate rude people. "Hello. I waved at you."

He turns his head and doesn't scoff or anything just looks through me and goes back to writing. Not even words, not interesting ones, just stupid graphs and some maps. But I see no ring which means easy fling. "What are you drawing or like whatever."

"A map."

"For what?"

"Migrations."

"Ohhh like... cool. So for what, like fish or something?"

"Whales. Littoral studies."

It's getting worse by the minute. Every second is agony and aging me. I can feel wrinkles grow in real time just being around a suffocating prick like this. But god his hands look so strong. He would hold me down and fuck me until I couldn't walk, I feel it. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he's asexual. Maybe he's gay. "What's your name?"

"Mason."

He extends his hand, ohhh such a gentleman guess I'm in the boys club now? He takes my hand and squeezes so tightly I can feel my rings dig into my fingers and what is he trying to prove? Dominance? Put it where it counts in my cunt and not this performative bullshit. But he goes back to his maps. And he's sipping on sparkling water. Or club soda or whatever. A lemon in it. Matches his personality as dull as can be in all black and boring but I need to get something here, maybe I'll humiliate him. "Do you know who I am?"

"No."

"Do you listen to podcasts? Or like watch them?"

"I don't listen to podcasts. I don't watch them either. Seems odd."

"What?"

"Watching something you're supposed to listen to."

"Well, different audiences. Ever heard of Paisley's Palace?"

"No."

"Well, I'm Paisely."

"A pleasure. So, do you live here?"

"Sometimes. I travel a lot."

"Oh really? Me too. I love traveling." Which isn't a lie, for once. I really do love traveling.

"I don't."

"You just aren't traveling with the right people." I can play his game. I can match him. The strong stoic type it's again a performance where his mask is as boring as mine. He ignores me. Back to the maps to plot and make notes. Rude. "Why don't you do that on a computer?"

"I do. I do it by hand first, then by computer. Once to fuck up, and-"

I watch him erase some lines and scratch another out before he speaks. "Once to make it right."

Make it right. Make what right? What was ever right? You can't think like that. I couldn't. I am sure of being right and mistakes aren't something I make. I prove it everyday for an audience. "Well, sounds like a waste of time."

He ignores me again. I'm getting tired. This isn't fun. He's pissing me off. "Or not. I don't know."

He keeps toiling away, a short sip of that bubbly nothing and back back back to drawing a line, pausing, looking around and ignoring me and doing it all again, and he speaks right at me.

"Do you like what you do?"

"Huh?"

"Your job. The podcast."

"Yeah. It's uhh kind of my life! Literally broke records with listeners recently. So I mean, yeah, needless to say."

He's interested, I can tell, oh sure he's not showing it, but he's wondering how far this could go I bet he is. A stool away, just a seat, I'll move, older men like a woman with confidence. I'm not coming to him, he is coming to me, right now he just doesn't get it. I pick up my martini and simply step over and sit closer. This seat is cool, closer to a vent. Closer to him, his turtleneck attempts to hide his love handles and strong stomach, literally Daddy coded. His shoulders, god I could feel my tiny hands on them. Raise my pitch. "So you want to know what it's about!?"

"Sure." He scribbles a bunch of numbers written on the map as I yawn inadvertently.

"So I talk about a bunch of different stuff. But focus mostly on culture, society, and contemporary events, wellness, and like... you know."

"Doesn't sound interesting. No offense. Like these." He taps the papers at least he knows what he is. "These aren't interesting to you."

"Ohhh let me guess you're one of those guys who doesn't pay attention to the world around them?"

"No. I pay a great deal of attention. It's why I'm here."

"What? I don't get it."

"I people watch. I work, I take a break, I look around and I think."

When someone isn't who you think they are in many ways it's disappointing. This is proof. I can almost believe him but I am not that gullible.

"So that's not what I'm talking about." Another Martini, and now I'm more invested. He is still ignoring me when he shouldn't. I am leaning forward and he should be staring but he's not. Insufferable. "I mean like you don't follow current events, I mean our world and culture and shit?"

"No. I don't. I focus on what I care about." He taps his papers again, boring. I might as well be dead or deaf because at this point I feel exactly that. I roll my eyes.

"Ugh. Sounds awful. What do you even talk about with anyone?"

"What we're talking about right now."

"Maps?"

"No. People."

I just took a sip of my new martini and it's too boozy and for the price it shouldn't be. I'm distressed by his words and I don't know why. He is like Daddy. Kind of. Sort of. Colder and warmer at the same time. They are two shades of beige that are fascinating to me because I see what is not plain and I see them and now I want them both. I want them to throat fuck me. I want to be spit roasted and fish hooked and slapped until my cheeks are just bruises and they use me like a toy and leave me on a damp mattress full of cum and sweat, and laugh as they leave. I am lost in thought and he has paused which means he knows this game. Of course he does. Better get his attention. "Well, I mean you can't separate people and culture, you know? They are one and the same."

"Yes I can. I do it all the time. Like right now."

"You don't even know me, I mean barely know me so there's nothing to uhhh you know. Separate."

He pushes his glasses up and is back to his maps again, he can't not answer that and I know why because I am right. But. There's no applause. No chat. Mercedes and her stupid face grinning with the last brain cells she has. No thumbs up, no tears or rage of some dumb blue haired freak in front of me, just the quiet and a couple glasses sliding against wet tables, and dull conversations that are making me sleepy. No one to put an X on my tally. Longer sip. "Ok? That's it? You're not gonna like say anything?"

"No."

"Why? I mean I'm letting you."

"Letting? Odd choice of words. But, ok."

"Well I mean yeah I'm you know... giving you the floor or you know. Right?"

He goes back to his maps and I am getting angry. I am thinking of a name. I am finding all his flaws and lining them all up and I am going to use all of them against him and he'll know exactly who I am, and what I know.

He pushes his glasses up, they are always sliding. Idiot, get new glasses. "What do you like to do? For fun."

Changing the topic. A classic cowards move. He's not getting away that easily. "You didn't answer my question."

"What question was that?"

What did I ask? I think think think and I keep thinking because the answer is there I know I asked something. He was supposed to answer it. I know it was about people! And separating the world from them. That was the question. "About culture and people. You know, like keeping them separate and stuff. They're one and the same."

"Sure."

The balls on this fucker. "Sure? That's it?"

"Yeah. So, what do you like to do?"

Wait, maybe he's trying to figure out a way to fuck me, oh I see now, I see what he's doing, smarter than I thought. He's just like Locke. But not. Something is noticeably missing in him.

"Well, I like traveling and..." Did I say that already? Did we talk about that? There's more to me. It doesn't matter. "And I like working out. I'm big into Pilates right now."

Those aren't true. I like those things but I love traveling when I'm fucked up and I like drugs and I love fucking and I love doing everything I'm not supposed to and wasn't supposed to do and was taught not to do because I wasn't pretty enough or good enough but I am now. I should say that. But, I can't. And I don't know why.

He nods, just a way of dismissing me like I'm some brat, and I'm worth more than he'll ever be and he's a fucking loser and I'm spending time trying to even offer him anything. Stupid. I don't need cock that badly or whatever, a conversation? I make money to talk. I don't work for free. He pushes his glasses up, get glasses that fit dumbass.

"That's good. I like bow hunting."

That was unexpected. Oh but this part of it, isn't it? Now he's dangerous, sexy, I see through this. He does want to fuck me, he just wants me to want him first. Maybe he's better than Daddy. At least he's free. "Hunting? But like don't you do shit with whales or whatever? I'd think you're like a tree hugging loser or some limp wristed global warming fucktard. You know studies show-"

"Hunting is natural. It's a part of nature. It's part of conservation really. When I kill, I use what I can. Everything else I give away."

My father used to hunt and would sometimes bring back bad meat and we'd have to eat it for a week and he'd insist it was a luxury and I was always sick when he did. Which was good. I could stay home and be in my room and be whatever I wanted to be and there I had video games and distractions, and I didn't even sleep, just played through the night. "Well. Ok. That's cool."

And he's back to his maps and notes and looking around, another small sip of his drink and I realize he doesn't care at all about fucking me. He's just him. His phone buzzes and his background is a woman, I don't recognize her but she's striking, he's in the photo with his hand around her waist. She's so small, super straight dark hair, matching eyes, a small nose that I envy and flawless warm golden toned skin. Everyday is new proof why I should get a fucking boob job, I can only fathom whatever Korean beauty product made from slug cum she smothers on her face to get that flawless look. Fuck her and fuck him.

The next thirty minutes are spent in silence and it's getting closer to closing time and so I order a beer because why not? And I chug it to the point where I want to throw up. I keep expecting him to say something, do something pay for my drinks, anything. He doesn't. He stands, takes his journal, pays in cash and finally looks at me.

"It's late. You shouldn't drive."

"I didn't. Soooo-"

"Well, call an Uber. Nice meeting you."

"I'm like super close you can walk me because uh, you know there's a crime rate here and... yeah."

Walking back, he is silent the whole time, when I get back to the hotel, I don't even bother inviting him in. He wouldn't go anyways. I could say and do whatever I wanted and he had no need for someone like me. The thought there are many like him that feel the same is terrifying to me, but I would keep that inside and never whisper or write or do anything except keep it mine so only I know. I can bare that truth, and not even try to make it a lie. Because no one will ever know except...

Me.

He shakes my hand, once again tight enough to remember, and nods and that's it. Gone. Into the night he goes, and I go in alone. It's early for me. Barely eleven o clock. I didn't get anything I wanted. Just a stupid conversation. What good did he have to say? I won't even remember any of it tomorrow. I have no clothes to go down to the bar downstairs to do anything interesting with. If I strike out twice I will lose my mind. I need something, anything, anyone. I brush my teeth and freshen up, dull my makeup, and head back out, I feel tipsy at least. I am 75% convinced the methaqualone was not authentic.

Down the stairs and past a guy who's getting ready to fuck some woman, making out drunkenly in the hallway not even noticing me walking by. What's their story? I'd love to watch. Love to know. Wouldn't we all?

The bar is quiet, they stay open later for VIPs. Old boys everywhere, the good ole kind. Drawls and stupid cowboy hats and the last time they shoveled shit was never and the last time they lifted a finger was never, but they love to cosplay.

And there he is. Pastor Elliot Chastain. Mega church millionaire, prosperity gospel superstar, donor supreme, even donated to my show, and apparently fucked me out of top billing for the convention. He's sitting there with his wife, I don't even remember her name, she's like any other sixty year old socialite bitch here, face stuck in some permanent smile like a mangled doll with a leathery neck and a face smoother than smooth and a smile that never went away. I have planned my death if I ever get like that.

The good Pastor notices me and tries to look for some exit, where would the fat fuck go? He's running his stubby fingers telling his patchy beard and his jowls, whatever her name's head turns to watch me and it creeps me out. So many wrinkles he's old enough to be my grandfather. I pull out a chair. "Pastor! So good to see you here. I am sooooo sorry I couldn't make it today. Travel was crazy and well, you know."

He smiles ear to ear, big dumb chapped lips and yellow buck teeth. It never ceases to amaze me that for being a multi-millionaire he can't even be bothered to spend a dime to not look like a homeless fuck shoved into an expensive and terrible fitting suit. Maybe he's more relatable that way. Gross.

"Well well, Paisley, nice to see you here. Tis alright about not making it, we all have things intervening." He looks at his wife and like the dog of a woman she is, she knows her place, and his command is for her to remain silent.

I cross my legs and he orders for me, daring, some cocktail I never heard of. I set my bag down and lick my glossy plump lips. Why waste time? I wanted top billing and I will get it. If this is what he wanted all along he should have asked. "So, how did the speeches go?"

"Oh just fine. Just fine. We all held a big ole prayer at the end, wished you could have helped lead it. But, I can tell you, you were missed."

He puts his hand on my wrist and rubs part of it with his clumsy thumb. Vile. Enticing. "That sounds wonderful. Shame I missed it. Like I was thinking next year that I could take center stage, like you promised."

"Well. Why don't we have some drinks? Plan ahead."

And drink we do. I wave my hand for his leathery ghoul of a wife to leave and she obeys. Good little dog. What's nice is, when it's this late, no one is up except people like us, people with goals. So we're all in agreement if we see each other it's "loose lips sink ships". I used to be terrified of being caught or seen and no matter what Locke said I did it. The thing he doesn't and never will get is that I am invincible. There is nothing I could say or do in which I would stop being beloved. Cherished. Worshiped. Because I always have someone else to blame. Nothing has been and never will be my fault. It is a good life. And a good lie.

I have to admit after five cocktails the good pastor's pretty funny once he drops the whole good ole boy shtick. I like to tease and remind him of who we really are. "So I saw that little viral clip, of that little elderly woman being called to the front. Retired? I'd guess. Saying how she saved and saved to give to the church. Like eight hundred dollars. And you said she was two hundred short of being saved. The look on her face was delicious."

He grinned ear to ear. Men like him were far from phased by hypocrisy or scandal, they welcomed it, cherished it, clips like that only elevated them. He sets his drink down.

"Well, I mean it wasn't a lie. She was short. Can't offer a... seed of investment if you ain't got the money to start. She had waddya call it? Hidden sins. It's an affront to the congregation."

"Ohhhh I agree. Very much so. There's no room for someone like her in heaven."

"See? You get it. You're one of the few that do."

Some more conversation about the heinous things he's done and the pain he has wrought in this world and I love it. This is foreplay to me. The waiter brings by a plate of BBQ ribs, having no doubt personally reopened the kitchen for the good pastor. I watched Elliot dig into the stacked plate, trying to soak up the excess amount of spirits in his gullet while making a careless mess of his bolo tie dress shirt, buttons barely restraining the excess of his stomach.

A rib rolled off the plate as he set it down, and like a good feudal lord, didn't bother to pick it up. "So. Rumor has it darlin' that you're available? Called it off with that other fella?"

I nod. "Yes, sadly we were headed in different directions."

"A shame. Y'all made a good couple. But, also better for you. A single woman is much more appealing."

"Oh, I know it. Trust me." He was, of course, wrong. It showed how little connection he had to the world anymore. Men want to fuck married women, I want to fuck married women.

"Well. I'd like to discuss business upstairs. I can bring us a bottle. What's yer poison?"

"Vodka. Cheaper the better."

"Can do a lot better than cheaper."

"I match the drink to the mood." I watch him waddle over to the bartender and whatever he buys of course is top shelf, because he's a dimwit and is incapable of listening. Men. I hate the fact that it's hard to look sexy when you are supposed to speak at a family values centered conference. Again, easy to bemoan my lack of assets in this instance, I make a note to add BBL to my personal wish list.

I lead the way, I don't care if anyone sees me, I doubt he feels the same. I already have an excuse planned, we're going to pray together, as I had missed the sermon earlier. I make sooooo many excuses but I seldom have a need to use them, hardly anyone demands an answer. A shame, life would be funner if it wasn't so easy.

My room keycard goes in and he's still looking over his shoulder, afraid to be seen. Funny for a grotesque such as himself to be so bashful. Such a pleasant beep as the door opens and I step through, he follows. I lean back against the door and take the bottle from his hand. Pop the cap and drink drink drink deep of the spirit that burns so good. I drink enough so that my stomach hurts and my head is swimming and my cheeks I feel like my face is on fire, it's itchy, my skin feels too warm. I'm watching Elliot pop I don't fucking know how many Viagra, Cialis, and gas station dick pills snatch the bottle from my hand and wash it all down with a quarter of the bottle.

I'm relieved to get out of these clothes, uh so itchy. Simple black bra and black panties. I still make sure to take them off slowly, he whistles as I cast them aside and take a step towards him. He smells like dirt and sulfur but I don't care, for the moment I'm enjoying this. I wrap my hands around his neck and run them down his sweaty collar, pulling his blazer down. I can see the tent pitched already as I kneel. "You want me to worship you? You'd like that wouldn't you pastor?"

He nods, a surprising confidence, taking off his tie but not casting it aside, unbuttoning his shirt peeling it away, his flabby hairy man titties resting on top of his swollen gut. Disgusting. His chubby stubby fingers with yellowed nails run through my hair. "Oh you'll worship me. Ya gotta prove you want that stage. But ain't a sin that doesn't go unpunished."

I take off his belt, unzip, tug, of course he keeps his socks on, foul, and pull down his underwear, cock jutting out, fully hard. He wraps the tie around my neck, tying a knot and making it tighter and tighter. "Now, time for you to make up for not showing." He wraps the tie around his fist and smashes his cock past my lips, his hand holding my head down to his folds, no room to bob my head, no room to move, just smothering my face with his mass.

"That's right, damn you look good sucking cock. You know, you remind me of my daughter."

Ohhh when he says that, god that's so fucking hot. I can feel myself get so fucking wet, my thighs squeeze squeeze squeeze and I feel my heart just throb and bounce. I gag and spit and drool, some white fluid is running down my chin and my eyes are watering so I blink away the tears and only now realize how tight the tie is and look up to see him tilting his head back in pleasure.

"You can hold your breath a long, long time, girl. But, ya cain't hold it forever."

I'm trying to push away from the bulk of his thighs and each time I get even an inch he pulls me back, god it feels so good, to be used like this, to be a toy, it is my penance, which I accept with grace. I find my prayer answered as I breathe again and collapse backwards, wiping across my chin and propping myself back up on my hands. "No. But I can hold it a long time."

"That you can. Now, real question is, can you hold it even longer?" He grabs my bra and panties from the ground, grabs me by my hair and throws me on the bed face down. He shoves my panties in my mouth, and I can taste myself, I love the way I taste, Tara loved the way I taste. The bra strap wraps around the tie and it's too much, there's the sound of a foil wrapper being torn and after he's all the way in me. His hairy gut is over my tiny back and he's got my hair in his fist and he's pulling it hard, my scalp is on fire and his cool gold cross necklace I can feel between my shoulder blades, the diamonds on it scratch my skin, I love it. His thrusts are so deep his digging into my cunt and every fucking thrust hits my cervix and it's awful I want to puke.

He pulls tighter and his makeshift noose tightens and I arch my back and thrash. "More you resist, the more I wanna cum. Don't do it too much now. Or, are ya really fraid'? You don't seem like it. Seems like you enjoyin' this girl."

I can only mumble through my own panties, drying my mouth out, soaked in spit, my mouth dry and itchy as I feel the belt, the tie, tighten further. His rhythm is vicious, one of his hands is slapping my tits, he slows, deeper thrusts, from hilt to tip. He flips me over, I can't see through the tears, he just yanks me up, he's on his back and he lifts me onto his cock, he's smiling, I can't see it, but I can feel it, I can't swallow, my hands rest on his stomach as he gloats. "God you look even better on top, little thing you are. Ohh, you moanin'?"

I couldn't help it, despite my hands now digging between the tie and belt, pushing underneath, breaking two nails, I finally got a deeper breath, no more choking, I pull the soaked panties out and toss them aside. "Fuck yes."

"You're a tight cunt. Real tight."

I nod and another moan comes out, I whip my head back, fingers still stopping the tie and belt still wrapped around his fist. He's bouncing me off his girth like I'm a fucktoy for him, a lightweight doll to be ruined for his pleasure. I can feel myself slipping, an awareness above the alcohol and the choking, starting in my tummy, he's fucking me harder, faster, impaling me, there's a stabbing light that makes my vision tingle, dark shades like a kaleidoscope covering my vision as I scream as I cum.

Not long after he roars, not even trying to conceal anything and it's so fucking hot. His last thrusts are deep, he lets go of his makeshift noose and tosses me off of him like a worthless slut. I look over, still weak, he's a wheezing mess and for a second I think he's going to have a heart attack. Ole ticker can't last forever, he has to meet an end sometime. We all do. I look down as he's wiping his brow and see the condom around his cock is shredded. I rip the bra and tie away from my neck, feeling how reddened it is, how bruised it will be. I cough, "You fucking asshole! You came in me! What the fuck?"

He shrugs. "Felt too good. Besides, you ain't the motherly type. I'm not too worried."

I just want to fuck with him, it's funner this way. "I'm not on the pill you fuck." Now he's paler than he was before, you could see all those little creepy blue spider web veins and one big one bulging at the top of his hairline, or what's left of it.

"Well, you can just take a morning after pill. No big."

I shake my head. "Uhhhh do you think this is a joke? No way. I may not believe everything I say, but I absolutely believe in the miracle of creation."

Now he's really nervous. He must be thinking too, "This jezebel lured me into her web of sin" some stupid shit he won't weather but I would. He's getting dressed calmly even though his cock is still hard, the wonders of medicine. He has his tie on and I walk over and grab it and whisper in his ear.

"If I'm pregnant... I'm keeping it." It felt so much nastier, like an object.

His eyes widen. "Now, come on this ain't, now we can-"

"I'm fucking with you."

He breathes a sigh of relief and he was close to meeting his maker. I should have pressed further, so he could have been welcomed into the arms of our savior in a way that was fitting. I see him finally take a breath and I lead him by the wrist to the shower.

***

I am back home. Locke comes to meet me and I open the door when he arrives and he tilts his head when he sees me. He's concerned, I don't know why. "Why is your face and neck bruised?"

I forgot how rough Elliott was, the reputation he held and was always good on. "Oh, well, like you know. I fell or whatever." I start laughing and it's a snorting one, because is is funny to imagine someone saying that seriously. Like my mom used to.

Daddy crosses his arms, uh oh, he's not happy. "Elliott?"

"Well you weren't good enough to get me the center stage, so I made sure it was reserved for next year."

He nods, checks his phone, oh that's never good. "Well. What do you want me to say? Good job? Proud of you?"

"A little gratitude. I did your job for you." Oooh that stung. I can tell.

"Well, you don't my help, do you?"

"I didn't say that. Come on. That's-"

He's walking away, he's so sensitive, it's so sweet, as it is disgusting.

"Wait! Hey!" But it's too late and he's gone away.

I lock the door and head to the patio, it's closed in and has one of the only views of the city I like. I sit down on the floor, Criss-cross applesauce and I know where my vaporizer is, nothing but DMT. I put it to my lips and hear the little hiss and I just let it settle, let my lungs bathe in it. I open my eyes the blue sky is a spectacle of neon lights swirling above, put through a series of stained glass and I can feel my skin tingle and my eyes go numb like I can't even feel myself blink and the world is below me and my palms are holding it in place and if I moved them off the whole world would float away and hurtle towards the sun and we would be free and devoid of sin and weight once more.

A nice fantasy, and nothing more.