Taste of true religion

Catholic school girl, that always thrills them. With the red hair and the skirt and the socks and the see through blouse I'm the picture of ruined purity. The fact that the skirt was part of my real uniform is what does them in. The first time I wore it to get fucked I almost got sick. It felt like it was an insult to when Beth Landry would put her hand up it while we skipped class behind the supply house. Sorry, Beth, I have to make a fool of myself now if I want to have the fun I want. She doesn't care. She pretends she's straight and goes to church. Good luck, babe.

I'm saying I know religion. We went once a week with nuns watching over us. Watching the priest, I bet, in case he tried to get handsy. They were horrible to us, drove us crazy with stress, but they were good. Decent. Had our best in mind, but they didn't know how to do it. All that stress made it hard to really believe in anything. Mom and dad still do. They got divorced but pretend their new spouses are their first, since both moved to different towns, different churches. I try to go with them now and again.

Isn't he?

I know this one's name. Oh, he's never claimed to be God, not the full, real thing, but he's said almost everything but. You know what he wants. He's more subtle about it than most of the men like him. We meet in the dark places. Late at night. Like witches having a black sabbath in the German hinterlands. Though, there's no such thing as true darkness in this city. A clever person can figure out what and where the cameras won't see. He's clever. He wouldn't have gotten this far with a dumbass's head for devotion.

Quentin.

I wouldn't have ended up taking pig pork if not for him. It takes a lot to win my loyalty but somehow, inexplicably, that's exactly what I feel toward this blessed man. He's two years older than me. There are a couple of his pals from school who hang around him under the name 'acolyte,' but for most are middle aged. It's the same crisis that sees a divorced man buy a Camaro he looks silly driving. These people think they've found something more profound. It's not.

Fuck, I don't know, don't make that noise at me! My ears ring. Streetlights flash. But we're belowground. It's like a joke about clubs in the city. "The hottest new place is a repurposed butcher's shop underground. Losers gather there every Friday night, the devil's holy day, to beg a thin man with awful eyes for salvation and to fuck each other." He likes me best. They all do. I'm the belle of the ball. Who can blame them? I don't feel a thing. All I want is a social club. If the community center rec league let you wear pretty clothes and destroy each other once a week instead of playing basketball maybe I would join.

One pretty girl isn't enough for Quentin. He deserves more. On a conservative night he reserves a couple for his own use, and almost every time I'm one of them. It's an honor. Yeah, that's what moves me. I only want to be wanted by someone everyone else wants. I don't care that 'God' calls him special.

He has me in gold. I always liked silver better. That's why he has me in gold. Who am I to question?