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18 Ocak 2023, 09:23
Menthol.It's like trying to smoke a bar of Ivory soap, isn't it?But I'm addicted to these fucking things.Maybe it's a self-punishment thing. My wife, excuse me, my ex-wife, once told me my tongue tasted like a fucking ashtray.?How the hell would you know?? I said. ?You haven't let me stick my tongue in your mouth for years.??That's because it tastes like a fucking ashtray,? she said.Circulus in probando.So I tried Kools. Thinking I'd get my tobacco fix, and she'd get the minty freshness. And she'd let me stick my tongue in her mouth like she used to. Maybe even other places.It didn't work, of course, and she left me anyway.Yeah, I know what you're thinking. The fact that she caught me just as I was pulling my cum dripping cock out of a seventeen-year-old choir boy's mouth may have had something to do with it too, but it's not like she ever let me put my cock in her mouth either, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't taste like an ashtray.Or maybe it does. How would I know? That kid never complained, though.But anyway, menthol.Reefers, pep pills, H's, goofballs, I honestly don't give a shit if you do all of those on an hourly basis, but I will grab you by your ears and shake your head till your teeth fall out and your neck snaps, and scream from the top of my lungs if I ever catch you with a pack of Kools.For the love of God, put them down! Don't do this to yourself!For the love of God.That's a laugh.The old woody wagon I'm in stinks.And it's not just the mold and the trash and the cigarette butts scattered on the floor of it.It's the stench of depravity, hypocrisy, and ruin that those things are really just a by-product of. I myself have a hard time not puking my guts out every time I get in.But the solution is of course to light up another Kools right away. And if I'm in a good mood, then that one smoke will last until I arrive and park behind the sacristy.And then always another before I get out, of course. Or two. Or three. Or more, however many it takes to kill the desire to start the car up again and drive full speed to the end of the road and off the pier.This time it takes three. That's not half bad, really.I open the car door, and for a moment it's like the suffocating air inside is fighting the fresh air of the outside for survival, an invisible battle between evil and good on the borderline between my car and the rest of the world.If I had kept the door open long enough, maybe good would stand a chance.But I don't. I step out and shut the door behind me, leaving evil to once again rule its leather and vinyl kingdom.After having sent me, its apostle, out into the world.The ridiculous and unnecessary bursa escort (https://hatchresources.com/) large oak doors are unlocked, of course, and the floor makes that strangely comforting sound of click-creak, click-creak as I pass the pews. There's already someone there, sitting on the very first bench up ahead, a woman with shiny red hair and a thick black hairband from one ear to the other.'Fuck!' I think. 'Can't these leeches give me just one goddamned minute alone?'But then she turns towards me and smiles, and I realize she's not one of the naphthalene-smelling leeches with rotting teeth and boobs they probably step on when they get out of bed in the morning, that I usually get.She's beautiful, maybe in her mid-twenties, with what must be the sharpest red-colored lips I've ever seen, and her smile widens as I get closer.?Good evening, Father,? she says.?Good evening, my child.?I respond with the same nonsensical phrase I always use, the one that to me always sounded like it's a prelude to an incest-themed role play, and then of course my mind goes there, and I wonder what she would do right now if I just suddenly grabbed her hair, pulled my cock out and shoved it down her throat.?I wouldn't mind,? she says with an even wider smile.?Excuse me???I said, I hope you don't mind,? she says. ?I know it's early, but I needed some time alone before the service.??Of course,? I say. ?We all need time alone sometimes.?My ears don't seem to be working right. Or are they? Because there's no way I mistook her words. "I wouldn't," and, "I hope you don't," aren't even close, but then what would she not mind? Me shoving my cock down her throat? Then how the hell did she know what I was thinking? I didn't say it out loud. Thoughts don't work like that, they're just images and impulses and ideas. They're abstract, they're not fully formed sentences that may accidentally cross your vocal cords if you're not careful.I heard her wrong. That's the only explanation. Either that, or she read my mind. And she didn't read my fucking mind.?I did,? she says, and I actually take a step back in horror. It fucking happened again.?But now I'm glad you are here,? she says, and I realize she's just continuing our conversation.But for some reason, it feels like she's just pretending to be.?Good,? I say. ?That's... That's good.?I begin to walk backward up the aisle, away from her, trying to empty my mind of any thoughts, just in case, at least trying not to think about stuff that someone like me shouldn't think about, but her smile and her lips fucks it up for me, and I picture her with my cum on her face, dripping off her nose and running down her bursa escort bayan (https://hatchresources.com/) chin and making those red lips glisten, and my cock twitches in my pants and then she actually licks her lips.Not in my mind but in the real world, she's standing there looking at me and licking her lips as if she's tasting the very cum my mind has coated them with, and I turn around on my heels and practically run up the steps and behind the altar.My hands tremble, but my friend Jack Daniel's will take care of that. He always does.The bottle already sitting on my office desk is empty, but there's another one in the drawer. I pour myself a glass and guzzle all of it down and then I pour myself another one and guzzle it down.I take my time with the third glass, though, and soon I feel fine. Fine, as in not much worse than any other normal bad day. And convinced it was all in my head after all.Jack has his way of doing that, convincing me that the misery that is my life isn't real, that it's all just in my head and no one can tell.Jack brings a smile to my face, and, with it, I have them all fooled, even the almighty himself.But this time I drink one more glass, just to be safe.Soon the building starts buzzing with the sounds of people. The congregation, the kids in the choir, the cantor.They all arrive, do their thing, and then leave when the service is done. I'm sure they talk to each other, discuss what hymns to sing, what prayers to say, maybe they even mingle and chat and have a good time somewhere afterward. Maybe they're all friends. I don't know.I don't care. None of them ever bother me. They leave me alone. I walk out as the bells ring and I do my thing, give communion and a two-minute sermon. Then I return to this place and wait for the buzzing to die.And sometimes for the knock on the door.If it doesn't come, then that's fine. Then it's Jack Daniel's and Kools until I pass out.But if it does, the bourbon and the smoke will have to wait for ten, or maybe even fifteen, minutes.These days it's not the same kid who screamed like a little girl when Claire started throwing shit around in here, aiming everything at me but accidentally hitting the back of the boy's head with the desk lamp.I haven't seen him since.No, it's the blonde kid now. A couple of years older than his predecessor, shy as a squirrel every time, always keeping his eyes closed while biting his fingernails as I pull his cock out of his pants and take it in my mouth. But when I've sucked and slurped on it for a while, and I pull my pants down and turn around and bend over the desk for him, it's like something inside of him wakes up, and he escort bursa (https://hatchresources.com/) shoves his cock up my ass with enthusiasm and selfish avidity, fucking me hard.And just before he comes, he slows down, lies down on my back and reaches around and grabs my cock, and jerks me off, fast, while he just barely moves in and out of me until he's made me come, and then he picks up the pace, fucking me hard again while still gripping my cock until he comes with a grunt.I have taught him well.The bells ring, and I realize I shouldn't have let my mind get into these thoughts. My cock is hard as a tree trunk now, and the cassock accentuates it more than it hides it.But I've been here before. There's just enough time to jerk off in the sink before the bells stop and I'm supposed to be out there for the Eucharist.So that's what I do.And it's a good thing I did.The redhead is still there, right in the front, her eyes fixed on me.And that smile.It's alluring. And intimidating at the same time. I want her, and she knows it. She scares me, and she knows it.I grab the edges of the pulpit with both hands. I try to concentrate on the single sheet of paper on it. Try to read the words out loud.It's the same sermon I gave last week.I forgot to bring one with me, but thankfully I had left this one here last time, and I'm sure no one will notice.Partly because no one really listens anyway. That's why I reuse old ones all the time, old ones from way back when I actually gave a fuck. I just grab one from the bottom of the pile on my desk, and when I'm done I put it back on top and it will be several months before I get to it again.But most of all no one will notice because this time I just can't read it right. I'm stuttering, fumbling, mixing up words, and jumping back and forth between paragraphs. I would probably do a better job just trying to recite it from memory.So I try that. I look up from the paper but avoid looking at the redhead, letting my eyes jump between the rest of my audience, the way we're taught to do to make them feel like we're actually talking to each one, staring at one of them, counting to three and then jumping over to the next, as I tell them about faith without works, or is it works without faith?Fuck.They're not that many. It's not even twenty seconds till my eyes reach the last one of them, and of course, it's old Mrs. Olsen.One.She's not bad looking, for a sixty-plus-year-old widow, but she'd probably look better without all that crazy makeup, blue above the eyes, orange on her cheekbones, and lipstick that seem to stick better to her teeth than her lips.Just like I bend over for that blonde what's-his-name, old Mrs. Olsen bends over for me now and then.I'm pretty sure my asshole is tighter than hers, though. I wouldn't know about her pussy, but by the look of it, I could probably fit my head in there and still be able to pick my nose.