“Man is caught - on the one hand believing himself to have absolute freedom over his thoughts and decisions, and yet - on the other hand - needing to appear to be thinking the same thoughts as everybody else. The paradox being that there is an essential need in Man to conform in order to obtain freedom.”
If indeed I bruised a girl between her legs at fourteen - poetically or otherwise - it was simply an expression of my liberty. There are two sides to every story: you either choose God, or you choose against God. God forgives your sins no matter what they are. God already sees the absurdity of life and wipes the slate clean. That is why I pity those who do not believe in God - they have no control over life’s absurdities. They are forever lost inside the paradox of what’s right and what’s wrong. There is no right and wrong. There is only life, and in life there is God.
I have gone seven months without sexual contact of any kind. I find it increasingly difficult to feel empowered - even my hands have lost their touch. I began to notice the frailty of my decisions on my last encounter, the girl was struck dumb, I forget her age. What is age anyhow? I forget what they call them - tights or stockings - they seem to be interchangeable these days. I made her say yes. She nodded her head tenderly. She felt different.
I wanted to step outside of my usual style of writing and tell you a little more about myself. As many of you know, I am a follower of the teachings of Jesus. I wear His thorns on my chest out of a pity for those who choose not to be guided. I carry Your burden, as I carry His burden. I am plagued by Your anguish as I am plagued by His anguish. But more than anything, I give and I believe in love. I believe in the Flesh. I have an ability to touch people. I am consumed with Pride. I rescue people from sadness, from their own perceived nothingness. I say: follow me, let me be your guide. I show them light.
Would you rather happiness? Would you submit your Spirit if I promised you fulfilment?
I have known intimately, three girls. The first was fourteen. She hung on my every word. She believed all I said. But in a lazy sort of way, she made the ultimate mistake. She did not believe that Jesus is the route to Love. She did not believe that all acts of loving lead to Jesus. I can barely speak of this girl, her name fills me with many kinds of anxiety. She was the first I knew of intimately, we made love in her parent’s bed, with her parent’s dog breathing over my arse, it’s languid eyes watching us with some kind of dogged amusement. I would slap that dog on its snout with any opportunity that arose. I used my boot whenever it came near. I made it my subject. It soon knew when to leave us both in privacy. Fourteen years old. The worst kind of whore. A pretty girl with a chafing between her legs.
I rescued my second girl, a self confessed atheist, on her eighteenth birthday. She was filled with stubbornness and hatred. And, as with my pretty fourteen year old, she was filled with a certain juvenile sadness. It didn’t take long to break open her barriers and climb between her thighs. She thought I was delusional. But she was more open to fun than I was. I taught her that we both believed in the same thing - that I did not believe in a God in the same sense that she did not believe in a God. I had a love for Jesus, just as she could love anyone who gave her the attention. I taught her the teachings of Christ. I taught her the power and feeling of love - or, should I say - I gave her the attention she craved. Either way I taught her that her way of questioning things was the right way. I taught her all about the true meaning of life, its purpose. Sex was easy. If I mentioned Nietzsche I knew I could push my fingers that little bit further. She was no prude, but she was the most unintelligent of the three - she had no concept of irony.
My third girl, oh what can I say? She was a girl prone to intoxication - the first time we made love it was far too easy. I started by teaching her the evil in her ways. It is always easier to bed a girl who has a taste for alcohol. But bed is perhaps not the right word - we made love in a parking lot - her dress smeared with semen and oil. I began to pity her understanding of the world, her naïveté. Her passion for the drink. If only she’d given herself to Jesus, she would no longer have felt a need for thirst. She had no idea where my fingers had been. She was only sixteen.