GIRL 43
SLUTTY CHURCH DEACON GIRL
I've
known some people who have multiple personalities. The submarine
executive officer (second in command) who'd scream at me until my face
was coated in spit at ten in the morning, then order me to have a beer
with him at the officers' club at five in the afternoon. Over drinks,
he was the funniest guy on the planet, and a great friend. The next
morning, once again a bitter enemy. He put his personality on like his
pants. You never knew which XO you were dealing with until you saw the
smile or the frown.
Slutty Church Deacon Girl was much the same. By day, in her religious
mode, sex was dirty and disgusting and sinful, and God only invented it
so that women could bear children. By night, she would beg me to fuck
her while pinching her nipples so hard that they bruised. I enjoyed her
animal nature in bed, but the real life deacon who spouted fire and
brimstone was simply too much for me.
"She's missing an essential truth," the supreme being said to me the
night after Slutty Church Deacon Girl left. The room smelled of candle
smoke, pussy juice, sweat and cum. He sniffed it, an oddly sexual look
coming to his face.
"Oh yeah?" I asked as I made the bed, pussy-smelling sheets and all. It
would be a waste to wash them. I wanted that hot blonde in my nostrils
all night. "What's that?"
He shook his head. "How could sex be wrong and sinful? I invented it. I thought it all up, just as I did quantum physics and fluid mechanics. I'm the guy who designed the G-spots into the pussy, who dreamt up the clitoris. I'm the guy who made the map of nerve endings in the penis. I put it all together. I'm the one who so carefully determined how the female would make the male sex drive quiver. I'm the one who makes the female's pussy melt when she hears the deep voice of her lover. How could that be dirty? What blasphemy is this that calls my creation the same thing as mud?"
I glared at him. "Fuck you. You're also the same guy who made women like her, who feel that sex is sinful and wrong. Why the hell did you do that? You want to explain that one away?"
He nodded with compassion. "The answer to both questions - yours and mine - is really the same, isn't it?"
Oh no, I thought, here comes the threadbare speech about free will.
It was as if he read my mind. "Free will," he said. "Nothing in the universe, not even I, can overcome its power."
I was done in the bedroom, and I had work to do, but he followed me to my desk. I plopped down in my high-backed leather command chair while he settled into the club chair.
"What is it with your creation and free will, a force that disobeys? That would be like me designing a car with components that don't work, but they malfunction by design. Doesn't that defeat the purpose?"
He shook his head. "That is the purpose. The meaning of life is to see where your philosophy takes you, driven on the wind of your free will. By that means, you measure the power of your own beliefs, and by evaluating, you can change those beliefs."
"Great. Then, if we look at your humble servant, Book Boy, or Playboy Author Boy, or whatever my nickname is this month, we can see that where his philosophy took him was down the road of two divorces with a paternity suit in between, stuck here in this godforsaken rental condo named the Snake Ranch, where there is a nightly parade of single women with unsolvable problems and crazy hang-ups. One hell of a philosophy I must have."
He looked at me with this odd expression of compassion. It didn't seem like a male emotion at all, but as if he wore the face of a mother looking down on her newborn baby. It was all fierce love and protectiveness. I actually felt my face get hot from the warmth of it.
"Your philosophy gave you several best-selling books. You've reached out and touched the souls of the multitude. The things you say to these lonely women heals them. You are a man with whom I am well pleased."
I didn't blink. "Sure I am. I'm the anointed one. Now, could you let me get some work done?"
I fired off an email to my business partner, then turned to look at the club chair. The supreme being had been silent since I dismissed him, but there was something in the chair. I walked over and leaned over. There was a piece of cardboard on the seat cushion. It was a black bookmark written in French with white block letters reading "LES AVEZ-VOUS TOUS LUS?" and below that were seven covers of my novels, translated to French. I couldn't have told you what the words meant, but the meaning of the supreme being was evident, that I had reached across the sea with my writing.
I smiled as I held the bookmark, which I knew I'd never seen before. Damned supreme being. Even when he tried to be subtle, he was still the same being who'd invented the penis. Nothing subtle about that, is there?
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