Menthol.

It's like trying to smoke a bar of Ivory soap, isn't it?

But I'm addicted to these fucking things.

Maybe it's a self-punishment thing. My wife, excuse me, my ex-wife, once told me my tongue tasted like a fucking ashtray.

“How the hell would you know?” I said. “You haven't let me stick my tongue in your mouth for years.”

“That's because it tastes like a fucking ashtray,” she said.

Circulus in probando.

So I tried Kools. Thinking I'd get my tobacco fix, and she'd get the minty freshness. And she'd let me stick my tongue in her mouth like she used to. Maybe even other places.

It didn't work, of course, and she left me anyway.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. The fact that she caught me just as I was pulling my cum dripping cock out of a seventeen-year-old choir boy's mouth may have had something to do with it too, but it's not like she ever let me put my cock in her mouth either, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't taste like an ashtray.

Or maybe it does. How would I know? That kid never complained, though.

But anyway, menthol.

Reefers, pep pills, H's, goofballs, I honestly don't give a shit if you do all of those on an hourly basis, but I will grab you by your ears and shake your head till your teeth fall out and your neck snaps, and scream from the top of my lungs if I ever catch you with a pack of Kools.

For the love of God, put them down! Don't do this to yourself!

For the love of God.

That's a laugh.

The old woody wagon I'm in stinks.
And it's not just the mold and the trash and the cigarette butts scattered on the floor of it.

It's the stench of depravity, hypocrisy, and ruin that those things are really just a by-product of. I myself have a hard time not puking my guts out every time I get in.

But the solution is of course to light up another Kools right away. And if I'm in a good mood, then that one smoke will last until I arrive and park behind the sacristy.

And then always another before I get out, of course. Or two. Or three. Or more, however many it takes to kill the desire to start the car up again and drive full speed to the end of the road and off the pier.

This time it takes three. That's not half bad, really.

I open the car door, and for a moment it's like the suffocating air inside is fighting the fresh air of the outside for survival, an invisible battle between evil and good on the borderline between my car and the rest of the world.
If I had kept the door open long enough, maybe good would stand a chance.

But I don't. I step out and shut the door behind me, leaving evil to once again rule its leather and vinyl kingdom.

After having sent me, its apostle, out into the world.

The ridiculous and unnecessary large oak doors are unlocked, of course, and the floor makes that strangely comforting sound of click-creak, click-creak as I pass the pews. There's already someone there, sitting on the very first bench up ahead, a woman with shiny red hair and a thick black hairband from one ear to the other.

'Fuck!' I think. 'Can't these leeches give me just one goddamned minute alone?'

But then she turns towards me and smiles, and I realize she's not one of the naphthalene-smelling leeches with rotting teeth and boobs they probably step on when they get out of bed in the morning, that I usually get.

She's beautiful, maybe in her mid-twenties, with what must be the sharpest red-colored lips I've ever seen, and her smile widens as I get closer.

“Good evening, Father,” she says.

“Good evening, my child.”

I respond with the same nonsensical phrase I always use, the one that to me always sounded like it's a prelude to an incest-themed role play, and then of course my mind goes there, and I wonder what she would do right now if I just suddenly grabbed her hair, pulled my cock out and shoved it down her throat.

“I wouldn't mind,” she says with an even wider smile.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I hope you don't mind,” she says. “I know it's early, but I needed some time alone before the service.”

“Of course,” I say. “We all need time alone sometimes.”

My ears don't seem to be working right. Or are they? Because there's no way I mistook her words. "I wouldn't," and, "I hope you don't," aren't even close, but then what would she not mind? Me shoving my cock down her throat? Then how the hell did she know what I was thinking? I didn't say it out loud. Thoughts don't work like that, they're just images and impulses and ideas. They're abstract, they're not fully formed sentences that may accidentally cross your vocal cords if you're not careful.

I heard her wrong. That's the only explanation. Either that, or she read my mind. And she didn't read my fucking mind.

“I did,” she says, and I actually take a step back in horror. It fucking happened again.

“But now I'm glad you are here,” she says, and I realize she's just continuing our conversation.
But for some reason, it feels like she's just pretending to be.

“Good,” I say. “That's... That's good.”

I begin to walk backward up the aisle, away from her, trying to empty my mind of any thoughts, just in case, at least trying not to think about stuff that someone like me shouldn't think about, but her smile and her lips fucks it up for me, and I picture her with my cum on her face, dripping off her nose and running down her chin and making those red lips glisten, and my cock twitches in my pants and then she actually licks her lips.

Not in my mind but in the real world, she's standing there looking at me and licking her lips as if she's tasting the very cum my mind has coated them with, and I turn around on my heels and practically run up the steps and behind the altar.

My hands tremble, but my friend Jack Daniel's will take care of that. He always does.

The bottle already sitting on my office desk is empty, but there's another one in the drawer. I pour myself a glass and guzzle all of it down and then I pour myself another one and guzzle it down.

I take my time with the third glass, though, and soon I feel fine. Fine, as in not much worse than any other normal bad day. And convinced it was all in my head after all.

Jack has his way of doing that, convincing me that the misery that is my life isn't real, that it's all just in my head and no one can tell.

Jack brings a smile to my face, and, with it, I have them all fooled, even the almighty himself.

But this time I drink one more glass, just to be safe.

Soon the building starts buzzing with the sounds of people. The congregation, the kids in the choir, the cantor.

They all arrive, do their thing, and then leave when the service is done. I'm sure they talk to each other, discuss what hymns to sing, what prayers to say, maybe they even mingle and chat and have a good time somewhere afterward. Maybe they're all friends. I don't know.

I don't care. None of them ever bother me. They leave me alone. I walk out as the bells ring and I do my thing, give communion and a two-minute sermon. Then I return to this place and wait for the buzzing to die.

And sometimes for the knock on the door.

If it doesn't come, then that's fine. Then it's Jack Daniel's and Kools until I pass out.

But if it does, the bourbon and the smoke will have to wait for ten, or maybe even fifteen, minutes.

These days it's not the same kid who screamed like a little girl when Claire started throwing shit around in here, aiming everything at me but accidentally hitting the back of the boy's head with the desk lamp.

I haven't seen him since.

No, it's the blonde kid now. A couple of years older than his predecessor, shy as a squirrel every time, always keeping his eyes closed while biting his fingernails as I pull his cock out of his pants and take it in my mouth. But when I've sucked and slurped on it for a while, and I pull my pants down and turn around and bend over the desk for him, it's like something inside of him wakes up, and he shoves his cock up my ass with enthusiasm and selfish avidity, fucking me hard.

And just before he comes, he slows down, lies down on my back and reaches around and grabs my cock, and jerks me off, fast, while he just barely moves in and out of me until he's made me come, and then he picks up the pace, fucking me hard again while still gripping my cock until he comes with a grunt.

I have taught him well.

The bells ring, and I realize I shouldn't have let my mind get into these thoughts. My cock is hard as a tree trunk now, and the cassock accentuates it more than it hides it.

But I've been here before. There's just enough time to jerk off in the sink before the bells stop and I'm supposed to be out there for the Eucharist.

So that's what I do.

And it's a good thing I did.

The redhead is still there, right in the front, her eyes fixed on me.
And that smile.
It's alluring. And intimidating at the same time. I want her, and she knows it. She scares me, and she knows it.

I grab the edges of the pulpit with both hands. I try to concentrate on the single sheet of paper on it. Try to read the words out loud.

It's the same sermon I gave last week.

I forgot to bring one with me, but thankfully I had left this one here last time, and I'm sure no one will notice.

Partly because no one really listens anyway. That's why I reuse old ones all the time, old ones from way back when I actually gave a fuck. I just grab one from the bottom of the pile on my desk, and when I'm done I put it back on top and it will be several months before I get to it again.

But most of all no one will notice because this time I just can't read it right. I'm stuttering, fumbling, mixing up words, and jumping back and forth between paragraphs. I would probably do a better job just trying to recite it from memory.

So I try that. I look up from the paper but avoid looking at the redhead, letting my eyes jump between the rest of my audience, the way we're taught to do to make them feel like we're actually talking to each one, staring at one of them, counting to three and then jumping over to the next, as I tell them about faith without works, or is it works without faith?
Fuck.

They're not that many. It's not even twenty seconds till my eyes reach the last one of them, and of course, it's old Mrs. Olsen.

One.

She's not bad looking, for a sixty-plus-year-old widow, but she'd probably look better without all that crazy makeup, blue above the eyes, orange on her cheekbones, and lipstick that seem to stick better to her teeth than her lips.

Just like I bend over for that blonde what's-his-name, old Mrs. Olsen bends over for me now and then.

I'm pretty sure my asshole is tighter than hers, though. I wouldn't know about her pussy, but by the look of it, I could probably fit my head in there and still be able to pick my nose.

Two.

If I sit down again after communion instead of immediately running back into my office, then that's my signal to her. And she smiles, walks up to me after the service, and asks me to walk her to her car.

I do, and she gets into the backseat, I get in after her and she's already hiking her skirt up and pulling her panties down. I crawl on top of her, stick my cock inside of her, and try to come before she does.

It's harder than it sounds.

Three.

I turn to start over with the first one, but then I see the redhead and she's not looking at me anymore. She's staring at Mrs. Olsen.

I feel cold drops of sweat run down my temples as she turns back to me, still with that adorable and ill-omened smile. I hear my own heart beating in my ears, drowning out my own words as she puckers her lips and raises her index finger in the air in front of her, wiggling it back and forth as if saying, 'Tsk-tsk.'

I rush through the Gloria Patri, probably getting that wrong too, I don't even know, and then I run away. Back into my office, I slam the door shut behind me, grab the bottle of bourbon and struggle for a few seconds to get the cork off of it before I realize I left it without the cork on, and then I put the bottle to my mouth and drink it all.

The room starts to spin. Just a little, these days it takes a lot more to make the world spin like it used to, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Now, all I have to do is find a third bottle so I can stay here all night, and I'm sure there's one somewhere in here, I have several hiding places.
Not that I really need to hide them anymore, like I said, no one ever comes in here. But old habits die hard, I guess.

The bells ring. Three times, then another three times, and then three times more.
That's it. They'll all be gone soon. The redhead too.

There's nothing in the closet. I'm not too worried, that's always the first place I look, so that's the place that's most often empty.

She didn't read my mind. I know that now, of course. I imagined it all. Not what she did, the smile and the lip licking, she did that, and she said what she said, but it had nothing to do with whatever was on my mind at the time.
Of course. Just coincidences.
And she was just showing her disapproval of my sermon when she did that thing with her finger.

That makes sense.

There's nothing in the cabinet under the sink either. That's a bit more worrisome. But there's still the bookshelf, and maybe behind the painting. The one of some guy in a white colonial wig, a red hat, and a condescending stare. It's been standing on the floor, leaning against the wall, for years. I would have put it up, but I just never felt like giving that snob the acknowledgment.

And she won't be back, that's for sure. She's never been here before, and new folks only come back again if they enjoyed the sermon. If it lifted their spirit. Strengthened their faith.
Or some stupid shit like that.

So I'm safe.

The bookshelf is empty. I get down on my knees in front of Cardinal White Wig Wiseass, and reach behind him, and there it is. Grace and blessings in an untouched bottle. My cup runneth over.

I'm halfway through the bottle, halfway through the cigarette pack, halfway through the evening, and halfway through my collection of “Virgins and Sluts”, when someone knocks on the door.

It's been several hours, why the hell would he show up now?

I open my mouth to shout at him to just fuck off. 'Go away, not interested you fucking fag!'

But then I think 'Why not?'

I'll soon be jerking off in the sink, staring at myself in the mirror above it soon anyway. Might as well get someone else to do the job.

I open the door, and it's not him.

It's her.

The redhead.

My first thought is to just push her away and slam the door shut. Then to punch her in the face and run past her and outside and away.

But I don't. I take a step back, and she takes a step toward me. Then she turns and locks the door.

Another step back, and another, until I bump into the desk behind me.

“Why are you still here?” I say.

“I'm kind of curious too,” she says.

“What? About what?”

“About what I would do if you shoved your cock down my throat.”

I can't breathe. I can't think. The room is spinning a lot more now, but it has nothing to do with the bourbon. The floor seems to be falling away and rising again, the walls are pulsating as if they were alive, the colors of everything around me keep changing.

I blink several times to make it all stop as she gets down on her knees in front of me and reaches for my pants and unbuttons them. I keep blinking while staring down at her, but I don't stop her, and when my cock falls out it immediately starts to twitch and rise.

She just opens her mouth wide and looks up at me, and I only hesitate for a second, my fear of her only making my lust for her stronger, before I grab her hair with my left hand and my cock with my right, and then I put the tip of it in between her lips.

She sticks her tongue out underneath it, but she doesn't move. She just keeps looking up at me.

So I pull her head to me, shoving it in hard and as deep as it goes, and it goes all the way, until her chin presses against my balls.

And then she starts sucking it, licking it, practically devouring it.
I have to steady myself on the desk behind me, the sensation making my head buzz and creating tiny dots of light that flicker in front of me, making it hard to see.

I shake my head and blink again, I want to see her do it, and when I can finally focus again, I see her licking the tip of my cock, and then moving her tongue around the head and then around the shaft, all the way down, as she slowly lets my cock back in her mouth and then wraps her tongue around the base of it, not once, not twice, but three times around it, like a snake coiling around a branch, and I feel her sucking the head of my cock deeper and deeper down her throat.

And it's impossible. No one can do something like that, there's no possible way anyone can make their tongue do that, but she does it, and I let her, and even though the feeling of panic and hysteria is gripping my spine like cold hands by now, I'm almost ready to come.

She pulls away from me and stands up again, and without a word she undresses.
When she's naked, she pushes me down on the desk so I'm on my back, my cock pointing straight up at the ceiling, and then she jumps up on top of me, quick, effortlessly, and without a sound, like a cat leaping.

She straddles me and lowers herself down on my cock, and the heat of her insides feels almost unbearable as if her blood is nearing its boiling point.

She fucks me, slow and steady at first but gradually picking up speed, her eyes closed, her hands on my shoulders, and as she moves faster and faster, her breathing becomes heavier, and her face blushes with redness that seem to expand and grow, down her neck, to her shoulders and her chest, down to her pussy where it seems to explode outwards until it covers her entire body and turns even darker and deeper, from pink to red to crimson, and then I glimpse something move behind her.

Something elongated and glistening rises behind her, as red as her skin now has become, twisting and turning, like a snake dancing.

Moving in sync with her every motion.

Like a tail.

It disappears behind her back, but then I can feel it. Winding its way between my thighs, writhing its way under my balls, and then I feel it enter me, pushing its way into me. And as she rides my cock fast, she fucks my ass faster, and then we both come, and we both scream.

She in ecstasy and satisfaction.

I in terror and pain.

And I know it's all over.

-

-

Menthol.

The room reeks of it, the stench of old smoke and bad breath, stuck in the curtains and the furniture and even in the goddamn walls.

How can anyone smoke that shit?

You'd think that it wouldn't be as bad as regular cigarettes. That the hint of peppermint, however vague, would be a mitigation. But it's not. It's quite the opposite, the mintiness just highlights the malodor, making you more aware of it. Like a single rose stuck in a pile of shit. It just makes the shit seem... shittier.

“Heart attack, huh?” I say.

“That's what the doc says. There's nothing here, Sonny.”

The commissioner is a good boss and a good friend. But he's also an idiot.

“So you're telling me this priest held mass, then went in here, locked the door, pulled his pants down, lay down on his desk, grabbed his balls, and had a heart attack?”

He shrugs.

“He probably decided to try to jerk off for the first time ever, and couldn't handle the excitement.”

It's as good an explanation as any, I guess. But it feels wrong. It feels too much like that nurse a few days ago. Or that lawyer last week.

There was nothing there either, supposedly.

But a nurse locking the door to one of the hospital rooms, taking her clothes off and lying down on the floor and sucking on her boobs, leaving her lipstick marks all over them, and then having a deadly stroke?

And a lawyer locking himself in his office, getting naked, sitting down in his chair, blindfolding himself, and then suffering from cardiac arrest?

The locked doors convinced everyone that's how it must have happened.

But they didn't convince me.

“Something doesn't feel right, Chief,” I say.

He shrugs again.

“It doesn't matter. Go home to the wife, Sonny. Get laid. You look like you need it.”

So I do.

Or at least I let him think I do.

I haven't been at home for days. And I'm not going now. I'll end up beating the crap out of her again, and I don't really want to beat the crap out of her. It's just impossible not to when she starts with that nagging and bitching.

But the getting laid thing isn't a bad idea.

I get in the car and drive down towards the pier, and then turn left. The women walking the streets here don't nag and bitch much, as long as they get paid.

As soon as I pull over to the sidewalk, one of them approaches me.

I just point to the door on the passenger side, and she opens it and leans in, smiling.

“Hey sonny,” she says.

I barely notice how she got lucky with her choice of nickname, as she's a lot prettier than the usual hookers I pick up. Bright red lipstick, shiny red hair with a black hair band from ear to ear.

This will be a few hard-earned bucks well spent.

She gets in, shuts the door behind her, and locks it, and then she leans over me and makes sure to lock the door on my side before she slowly pulls the zipper in my pants down.