I am delighted of myself, head titled forty-five degrees northwest of the trash bin, left arm locked frozen on my paper-cluttered desktop – some empty, some riddled with half-done love poems, all torn and crumpled, eyes fixed far beyond the glass windows of the dusk-lit cubicle. My legs spread at an angle. My secrets toyed by the frenzy of my less sane mid finger. I keep at it. Push, push, pull. Lips smack and parted with the exhiliration of surprise and joy.
There are nuns in this office. There are nuns in the back of that building. There are nuns everywhere, running the world from the safety of their sanctimonious habits, filling pages after pages of confessions with Hail Marys and Holy Mother of Gods as sentences, carried out by third graders.
I am reciting my Mother Mary, “pray for us sinners..” while the fresh memory of hips thrust and tongues locked and skin brushes fuel energy to my hands from my brain, synapse after synapse of infidelity and hedonism.
There are no rooms for truths anymore; it’s been announced as official crime yesterday. Eyes cannot meet anymore; the law forbids it. This is our cross-infested city. No police. No wars. Satan has set new rules.
~ Stories from the Pleasure Room