the confessional and the curMature

perversion, dark humour and pornography

the alarm shrieks into his unconscious mind. and he jumps out of his bed. his enormous queen size bed that the company provided as one of the perks for his ability to withstand constant monotonous bullshit for the better part of his existence. he gets up to look into his mirror naked. hes a short man, barely 5 feet and some inches to show off about. his body covered in hair, a greying carapace of age. his expression one of forced acceptance. he looks at himself in the mirror, and sees himself, short, fat, grey, watery eyed, he hopes that one day when people read this, they appreciate how painfully the raconteur attempts to achieve noir. 

but today is different. even through his myopic watery eyes there seems to be a hint of electricity. a sharp clarity gleaming through the opacity of mundaneness that seemed to normally cataract his he doesnt wish he were another human being, this morning as he looks himself in the mirror, he doesnt feel the pangs of nihilism that normally drive him to the teetering point when he realizes that the only thing left for hm to do was to die.

but today is different. its the end of the first week of the first month of the year. and as he hurriedly dresses up, carefully picking up something out of his obviously insignificant wardrobe that might make him even less conspicuous. 

he shuffles out of his barely furnished apartment, peeks into his tiny, meticulously clean dressing room that was scattered with pornography. 

he read one as he had his breakfast. he read of how these immensely gorgeus bleached blonde women loved nothing more than to fuck. how they loved men with a sense of humoour and no money in their name. how size did matter to them. 

he hides a nostalgic smile as he remembers the first time he nervously picked out a magazine from a newspaper vendor on the other side of town. hed promised himself it was simply an interlude. a simple harmless cheap way of getting some pleasure.

15 years had passed. the magazines had exponentially increased only now they were backed up with the internet and the tv. hed attempted to satisfy himself once or twice with some women off the street. but had discovered that fiction was far far more satisfying that truth. he was a conoisseur, a gourmand. his appetite sharp and his ability to not be disturbed llegendary. he loved every one of the genres, the ones with the cheerleaders, the ones with older women, the ones with animals, and men and leather whips and pain. but he loved most of all the amateurs on secret cameras, the people who seemingly led ordinary lives, but given the right scenarios could be exceedingly obscene and inhibition free.

he told himself he was better than the other men he knew but could no longer talk too. women had for long stopped talking to him. something about his eyes they said. he was better then the men; them with their alcohol and their strippers. splurging inane amounts of money on girls who coudlnt hold a candle to his candies and tiffanies and ambers and foxxs.

he lived an otherwise abstemious existence having convinced himself that the trade off was more then fair.

but something very very unnerving had happened the last few times hed , as he put it in his mind, had some quality time. for 15 years whenever he was done, hed lie back for a moment, his mind gloriously blank, and clean and observe reality begin to sketch surrealist whorls on his mind. hed feel truly and joyously content. hed feel like a man. 

but now, it felt hollow. it felt incomplete. it was beyond frustrating, the feeling. but he persevered, believing that it was only the brunette whod put himoff. but it kept happening, with every magazine, ever video, every genre, every toy.

he couldnt sleep. how could he. no longer was he the virile, ever pleasing stud of his dreams. the adamintinee chains of escapism hed tied around himself beginning to weaken, hie shroud letting in light. 

he took days and weeks off work, spending all his time on his couch, spening quality time. his member ached, his eyes watered, but he still couldnt feel what he felt.

but today promised to be different. the idea occured to him while he watched a nun getting gagged and violated by a horse as she fellatioed a midget. he walked to the nearest church. the one in his incredibly boring, locality. with its stepford wives and abercrombie dads.

the surroundings felt alien, the silence stiffling. he looked at it, and walked around inside. a man in a cassock walks towards him. an enquiring look in his creased, world weary face.

he mumbles an apology a the intrusion, then states his business. he tells the priest hed like to donate half his monthly income to the church, every month for the remainder of his life.

the priest is taken aback, but doesnt wish to look a gift horse in the mouth, the church is poor, its flock a little too tightfisted for devout people of god. 

but the man states his single, seemingly perverse condition. and the status quo.

the priest looks away into the distance, and starts sweating tremulously. our protagonist, the seemingly harmless pervert has taken a new dimension, the position of power. the man who knows the priest liked to be tied up and gagged a very long time ago. It gves him a terrifying sense of power. something the magazines never did. And as he walks out, as he steps into the sunshine. he looks into a mirror, and sees sparks fly. 

the agreement is made and no more words are said.

For the entire week he lives in a limbo, the incredibly long wait for something you never knew you wanted, but that you realize you just cant live without.

the next sunday, as mass files out our man approaches the priest, nods at him and disappears, only to appear clad in the cassock hed brought with him. 

the switch is made. and he finds himself where hed fantasized the most. 

he begins to listen to faces unkown, to spy into the underbelly of humanity. to see real amateurs perform for him the way the sites promised they would but never delivered, to touch himself again. to mumble out his vile advice. to be the ultimate voyeur. He realizes that this was going to be his newest addiction, that this was as the magazines put it, the real deal. he sits there for what seems to be an eternity, and watches the flock pile in. blondes, brunettes, children, men, women. 

they tell him of indiscretions, of naughty things done, of unspeakable acts committed, he listens to the girl next door tell him of her violent propensities in the boudoir, to the mother who liked to fuck her poolboy, to the man who paid for his babysitters abortion. the just turned 18 year old cheerleader babysitter who was raped but didnt know it.

He listens to the stories hed only fantasized about actually happening. he sees nothing but their eyes, and this makes him harder than ever. for all the pornography hed watched, hed never seen the eyes commit the act, hed always seen them to be grey mirrors indulging in, but never a part of the deeds the bodies committed.

but these eyes were real. these eyes told him the truth. these eyes were one hundred percent. silicone free real. they revealed to him another plane of personal pleasure. he realized what hed been missing out on all these years as he immersed himself in the skin deep sensory overload of airbrushed bodies and screaming orgasms. 

he listens 

and listens

and when hes done spending some quality time in the confessional.

he emerges. 


he buys himself a cigarette from the same newspaper vendor who sold him his magazines.

the vendor winks at him, and takes out a rather large bundle of that months newest and latest offerings. discreetly wrapped in brown paper.

he exhales a cloud of smoke, and through the grey fog, the vendor could still make out his shining eyes. 

"porn?? thats for suckers innit?"

The End

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