88. God of the Game
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Know that maxim? I can say the same, what happens in a movie stays in a movie.
For whatever reason, I’m hearing myself shout at the top of my lungs, “Die Frank! Die, you asshole, you fucking cunt! I had had enough living under your shadow. You think yer better, you think yer bigger...you got guts...well, no more! Who’s the one with the balls now? Who’s the one with the balls, Frank? The big fat balls!”
Sharon, timid and frightened, squinting at the shaft of the object that had just diminished Jimmy’s position, squeaks in a mouse’s voice, “Who’s Frank?”
I don’t answer. I’m letting out my libido. “Strip,” I command with a flick of the revolver.
Sharon’s frozen. Her tongue shivers in the inner chill, “it...it...it...it is you...”
“Put this on.”
“...daddy...”
“Put it on, bitch,” I say.
The gun miraculously transforms into another pointed object at my imaginative command.
Sharon obeys. She’s naked, and a strapped-on dildo stands erect at her crotch.
Sharon’s weeping. Mascara is running. She is, obviously, a hilarious sight to behold. Mourning, dejected, stupid, nude, and a sex toy springy from her groin. An extremely odd picture. Teary-faced and ready to fuck, a forlorn, slouchy body posture hard and turgid for penetration; I take a few snaps with my automatic mental camera for a wank tomorrow.
The adolescent girl was instructed to pull Jimmy’s pants off. I got her riding his cadaverous ass, mimicking a Texan rodeo in a deli on a headless slab of prime beef. She’s shipwrecked in lamentation, a galloping cowgirl wailing, “Wh...wh...why...daddy...whyyyy?”
No replies. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Why, daddy, why? Easy. `Cos daddy never touched you in real life. Daddy wanted to, but daddy was afraid, terrified of the law. So daddy composed a story for which he surrendered to his passionate lust. However, his guilt had to punish him in the storyline. He had to die, sentenced by his unforgiving sins. And what better means to end a sordid and insidious existence than by the hand of the one he’d soiled and oppressed. Death executed by daughter, a fatal gift from his Lolita. Jimmy was the man he could have been. Brave, in your face, disrespectful and fearless in the uncompromising eye of the law. Act first, think later; that was Jimmy’s credo. That was Frank’s credo, too.
Frank. Damnit, Frank was the reason Sanguine Lover left. The reason Gee Ni departed. The reason I became a handjob addict, a CFNM fanatic. She said if I’m honest I’d acknowledge that I’m gay and in love with a dead man. I denied; vehemently. This nonetheless I’ll be truthful, Frank was my pal. And with all pals, there’s...what’s that word...? Bromance. That was it. Full stop.
There was also envy. Frank was everything I was not. He was badder, tougher; he was the person I wanted to be in my head. I was him in my fantasies, for he lived the life I feared but craved. Frank was my hero, my icon, my pinup in a shitty world which I hated. But in the last few months on death row, Frank crumbled. He was slaughtered by a need for honesty; to discard this macho dressing and put on pyjamas knitted from threads reeled round the spool of integrity, nightwear for the everlasting sleep which awaits him. He wanted to snuff out as who he truly was, not as a ‘rock star’ on stage. I struggled during that period, rattled by the change of his conduct. Difficult it was for me to accept this fragile temperament of his, especially after years hanging out with his hard deportment. Those lunar cycles, I despised him, I mocked him; I loved him. I was one up; the term of his incarceration saw the genesis of my Sanguine Lover, the ‘first book’ of my bible for a new road ahead. We dated, I scored, and my friend was still moping in his cell. For once I was not jealous of him. Who would? I had a girlfriend, a new life paving forward. He only had the noose in lieu of hope. Frank wished to set wrongs right. He sought forgiveness from a wife (yes, Frank was married, and she too was a friend of mine), but, safe to say, I was the last companion he saw alive.
She got it wrong, I am not homosexual. Frank was just a buddy; and how many men can boast they had a condemned criminal for best friend? But that didn’t stop Sanguine Lover from retreating. Said she couldn’t count on my instinct. She believed my congenital nature would triumph eventually, and I will only hurt her if we marry.
My temper rose. She’s insulting me; I’m not an innate lover of cocks. I have to show her. I demanded more sex. I raped her to prove how masculine and testosterone-charged I was. It backfired, it failed. It was only paltry and pathetic instead. We broke up. But Sanguine Lover had planted a seed; or perhaps it was truly Frank who did the deed. Couldn’t help but rationalize - maybe she’s right, I’m into men. She swapped lover for the tag of soul mate. I accepted. Geez, only gays would share that kind of labelled humiliation with someone of the opposite sex. All thoroughly befuddled and exasperating it was.
Sadly, I too let Gee Ni wear the pants. And as my last and final girlfriend exited the front door, and I made my exodus to the house of whores, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were true, that I liked guys more than gals. I am parched for masturbation but numbed to intercourse, and I relish the sight of nude men in company of fashionable flocks of the fairer sex.
AI generated art prompted by author
All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.