God of the Game

Search warrant in hand, cops find Jimmy’s place packed with mannequins and sex dolls. He’d been honing his craft. Headless dummies stand or sit in front of gorgeous artworks. There’re his watercolour paintings in picture frames propped against walls. Canvases, splayed wide along the high-ceilinged warehouse, depict the road to Golgotha. Random designs scattered on cement ground.

Jimmy’s art is evolving. Experimenting, he’s got cans of paint exposed, fabric dyes, food colouring. The abode’s a vomit cocktail mix of glue sniffers’ paradise. He’s pumping up those live-sized dolls in rainbow, a blood carnival of vibrant shades. The police discover dummies in doggy positions, firearms stuffed up homemade polymer rectums, and necks opening up to clovers of nothingness. No faces. But in turn, intricate, precisely detailed portraits projected onto a sheet of white linen.

Some dolls have it backwards. Sucking some revolver, the ass has disappeared. According to Jimmy, that’s what you do for wide-lens panoramic effect. The exploding butt-cheeks provide width. This is especially useful when your topic is landscapes.

Guys, they just wanna get into your panties. Most guys, that is; they’re more interested with what’s inside. This too is true of daddy, but he prefers first to squeeze into my underwear. That potbelly sliced by the elastic band of cotton knickers, leaving marks across his waist. How I wished the inner garments had carved him in two. Roast beef or Thanksgiving turkey. That bulging crotch constricted under silky intimate wear, reminds me of a suffocating snake.

If you ask me, he got what he deserved. Always perverting truth to suit lust. I know there is guilt and the fear of being caught somewhere, but he turns the table and says I’m the evil instead. He must save me, he must consecrate me.

How fucked up is that?

What more, church minister of a god of grace engaged in such deplorable acts? Doesn’t matter what a man is, doesn’t matter his respectable social standing, once obsessed in some kinky behaviour of the flesh, he will quote and twist Holy Scripture to his justification.

Jimmy says I have my rights. But he ain’t talking about the court of law.

Well, Jimmy’s different. He’s something else. Unique; a special case. Unlike most guys who are after just one thing, Jimmy just wants to fuck my mind.

He lets me blow him as a favour. Sorry, I can’t help myself. Swimmer’s shoulders make my ovaries itch. Six-pack commands my vagina to cry. Moves my Skene’s glands to tears.

What to do, Jimmy makes me horny.

But that boy’s not interested in sex. He fucks to indulge me. Makes love like it’s the end of the world, like the last thing he’ll ever do; Jimmy turns me on with all his bleeding heart.

But I know he’s not satisfied. Can’t be bothered, actually. A total lack of interest.

Does he even enjoy coupling me?

What a liar. Maybe I’ll shoot him too.

He’d want me to.

I know.

I admit, he makes me insecure. Perhaps I’m not good enough for him. My lips don’t wrap round his dog the way it’s supposed to. A girlfriend once told me chicks that blow the flute are superb cock suckers. It’s the same technique. Something to do with the shape of the lips, and perhaps what the tongue does underneath. I never played an instrument. Not good with my mouth, or my hands.

But the other boys never complained. Daddy never complained. From his grunts, I knew he’d touched seventh heaven.

I’m good. I’m damn good...

So...

So I’m bloody confused, that’s so.