The following started writing itself in my head today as I sat at the counter, issuing people their cookery books and I couldn't think of anything else to do with it other than stick it up here. Make of it what you will. Tell me if you figure outt he point of it, cause I sure as hell can't:
They had lasted 6 months. Not a long amount of time as obsessions go, but long enough. It started professionally, as these things often do. Quiet whispers in the night, the devil sat on your left shoulder muttering, pushing the envelope during those quiet, lonely nights sat in front of the cold, clinical glow of the monitor, forbidden fruit ripe for the picking if one could just reach through the glass to pluck it. It all leads to an advert, a phone number, sweaty fingers trembling as they punch out the digits, voice trembling as it dances skittishly around what you're both thinking. Arrangements are made, times are set, and suddenly he was renewed. In this human bondage he was made free.
He'd spoken to other people claiming kinship, reached out through phone lines and fiberoptic cables to other men staking claim to this strange, unspoken fraternity of the ball gag, but he couldn't understand them. They revelled in their weakness. They were the meek that didn't want to inherit the earth, just grovel at the the feet of the world. With him it was always about finally realising his own power once it was taken away from him. He was the beast straining at his bit, leather and vinyl wings furled up tight inside his cage of steel and flesh.
She was another seasoned pro going through the motions, kinks eroded away in time like everything else until hot wax on the nipples and vibe speed turned up to max is as vanilla as three minutes of missionary in a darkened room. He was her cocaine. His spitfire blood and bile set her heart pounding and her mind racing, everything old was new again and to watch him strain against his restraints and curse was to lose herself in him.
But eventually the signs started to appear. He felt like he should have spotted them sooner, but they seemed so innocent and unconnected at the time, little things, like saying Pat Robertson might have been a bastard, but he did have some good ideas, or when she wouldn't call him a little faggot because 'it just felt wrong'. It all came to a head when he turned up on her doorstep, pink thong on under his trousers as was routine. She sat inside, head buried in her hands, tears painting lines of smudged mascara down her cheeks. She looked up at him and choked out "We can't do this any more."
"Why?"
"Because... it's... wrong."
Goddammit. Sooner or later they all caught the Jesus. They tried to educate them about safe sex practises at school, there were all the public service announcements, the safety courses, but somehow, someway, they all seemed to come down with it in the end and then there was nothing left but to call the De-Deifiers.
He trudged home dejectedly. After a couple of days of mourning the fire and passion that they'd shared, he picked up the phone book and turned to 'D'...
They had lasted 6 months. Not a long amount of time as obsessions go, but long enough. It started professionally, as these things often do. Quiet whispers in the night, the devil sat on your left shoulder muttering, pushing the envelope during those quiet, lonely nights sat in front of the cold, clinical glow of the monitor, forbidden fruit ripe for the picking if one could just reach through the glass to pluck it. It all leads to an advert, a phone number, sweaty fingers trembling as they punch out the digits, voice trembling as it dances skittishly around what you're both thinking. Arrangements are made, times are set, and suddenly he was renewed. In this human bondage he was made free.
He'd spoken to other people claiming kinship, reached out through phone lines and fiberoptic cables to other men staking claim to this strange, unspoken fraternity of the ball gag, but he couldn't understand them. They revelled in their weakness. They were the meek that didn't want to inherit the earth, just grovel at the the feet of the world. With him it was always about finally realising his own power once it was taken away from him. He was the beast straining at his bit, leather and vinyl wings furled up tight inside his cage of steel and flesh.
She was another seasoned pro going through the motions, kinks eroded away in time like everything else until hot wax on the nipples and vibe speed turned up to max is as vanilla as three minutes of missionary in a darkened room. He was her cocaine. His spitfire blood and bile set her heart pounding and her mind racing, everything old was new again and to watch him strain against his restraints and curse was to lose herself in him.
But eventually the signs started to appear. He felt like he should have spotted them sooner, but they seemed so innocent and unconnected at the time, little things, like saying Pat Robertson might have been a bastard, but he did have some good ideas, or when she wouldn't call him a little faggot because 'it just felt wrong'. It all came to a head when he turned up on her doorstep, pink thong on under his trousers as was routine. She sat inside, head buried in her hands, tears painting lines of smudged mascara down her cheeks. She looked up at him and choked out "We can't do this any more."
"Why?"
"Because... it's... wrong."
Goddammit. Sooner or later they all caught the Jesus. They tried to educate them about safe sex practises at school, there were all the public service announcements, the safety courses, but somehow, someway, they all seemed to come down with it in the end and then there was nothing left but to call the De-Deifiers.
He trudged home dejectedly. After a couple of days of mourning the fire and passion that they'd shared, he picked up the phone book and turned to 'D'...
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
forkandles:
That 'someone else' in the bunny ears pic wasn't me. Honest. 
antenna:
