Free to Sin Online Upload

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Free to Sin The problem with sin is that you have to seek redemption afterward. You know, that whole bullshit of a conscience or trying to keep that little plot in heaven still in your name. No one likes to ask forgiveness for something they've done, it's embarrassing It makes you feel like the dirty little boy you are. It's not the punishment you learn from, as Phil can attest to. Phil, who's tied down to the bed like a blind-folded Jesus mumbling beneath his ball gag. “What's that?” I ask, lifting the red-ball gag a little so he can talk. “I like that dirty little boy line.” I realize I was monologuing out-loud again. “Shut up!” I command as I drop the ball back into place. Tonight Phil is my bitch. And no, it's not our normal thing. You see, last night Phil and I went to a Sex Addicts Anonymous (or SA) meeting. Phil, or should I call him Steve, was a masochist/chronic masterbater for those two hours. I was his “sponsor” for that meeting, a recovered ex-prostitute and on-again-off-again Bible thumper by the name of Cherry. The meeting was as boring as all the others. You listen to sob story after sob story of how their addiction ruined their lives, how they're still applying lotion to ease the chaffed skin, how once every three months their herpes makes their penis ooze yellow. Blah, blah, I gave my wife syphilis and she left me, blah. Fucking boring! When we left though, oh that made the whole thing worth it! The way the janitor looked at us with raised eyebrows as we walked out of the room, the way the ladies at the front desk who could have left hours ago were still there, pretending not to look at us but letting it be obvious that they were watching. So us scum, us filth, wouldn't dirty up their little office. I should have asked Steve to bend me over the desk right then, just to see the reaction! Would have been better than anything. Better than getting him off through the hole in an empty popcorn bucket at the theater Better than cutting out my

pockets so he could diddle me while he drove me home. Oh well, there's always next month. “Mmmph!” “What's that, dirty boy?” I put the whip down, so I could lift the ball again. I always had to do all the work! “I said 'pineapple!'” Our 'safety word.' I shrug. “Tough shit!” I drop the ball back in. ****** Fast forward through the whip and the hydrogen peroxide and gauze, and it's morning. A beautiful morning filled with all the signs that God does exist. Birds chirping, blue skies, the wooden benches that still smelled like the lemon cleaning spray. it's too bad Phil is still passed out, my father's church always looks pretty in the morning. “Morning, Daddy!” I chirp as I walk into the church. “Morning, Princess,” he smiles, sounding cheerful for a moment before going back to watching a couple of workers as they hung up new drapes near the votive candles. “Where is Phil this morning? You normally drag him in for an early prayer.” “Oh, he's probably sleeping still,” I say around popping in a cough drop, “Had to work late last night and isn't answering his phone.” “I see. So what's on your mind?” “Daddy,” I say sternly, crossing my arms. “Again?” “Yes!” “No. I already paid for the drapes to be hung where they were. I'm not redecorating.” “But Daddy! it's not redecorating, it's moving them away from the candles, so they don’t catch fire!” “They're fine... that crazy lady with the raspy voice came to confession again.” He was never

good at changing the subject, but he did know this always caught my attention. “Oh?” I uncross my arms and lean forward. “Still a sex addict... among other things. This time she whipped her boyfriend during intercourse. Said that she even held his nose so he choked on the gag a few times!” I couldn't help but laugh, it reminded me of what I did to poor Phil. I mean Steve. “It's not funny Princess. There's a lot of sick people out there, and the city is no place for a young lady fresh out of college. You know your mother and I would worry less if you moved back home--” “Daddy, we've been over this. I like having my own place. I'll tell ya what though, I'll move back home if you agree to move the cur--” “No.” ***** Phil was sitting at the table when I got home, already dressed in his usual striped polo shirt and khaki slacks. “You know you broke our agreement, right?” He mumbled in-between bites of cereal. “Oh the safety word thingy? Yeah, I was having too much fun.” “I wasn’t! Have you seen my back?” I cant help but smirk. “Oooh, you poor baby! Want me to kiss your boo-boo?” “No,” Phil grins, “i don’t have paraphilic infantism for another five weeks!” Walking over, I pull his chair out and straddle him. “I see. So what are we doing tonight, my dirty little boy?” “Well,” he says, grabbing my hips. I snatch his hands off. “Ah, ah, ah.” I scold him “Fucking seriously? We've already done it how many times and still?” “Yes, fucking seriously! And no, 'we' haven’t done it. Cherry, Katie, Nancy, and Tamie have had sex, but I am waiting until marriage!” And yes, this is our normal thing.

“You're killing me! A man does have needs, ya know.” “Yes, and tomorrow night is Narcotics Anonymous, you know Katie will suck you off for some coke.” **** Ever been to an NA meeting? it's depressing. A bunch of burned out ex junkies who were more fun when they were on drugs. I already put in my effort to blend in, cried for ten minutes on the podium about how my mother did meth while I was still in the womb and was born addicted. How the mainstay of my vocabulary until a week ago was“I'll blow you for a fix!” Hell, I'll blow your dog too if it gets me high. Well, Katie would. I wouldn’t Anyway, some poor sap is on the stage enjoying his 15 minutes of monotone fame. He had a great career, he had a family, he had a cute little puppy... and he traded it all for heroin. Steve, is sitting next to me, patting me on the shoulder, trying to look supportive. He really gets into his roles. I can't help but remember when all this started. Being the daughter of a Catholic priest I naturally chose a Protestant guy to date... because in my mind something petty like that would piss of Daddy. The problem, though, was that both of us were innocent. Too innocent. Didn't even know what a Dirty Sanchez was until a few months ago. While Phil is a great guy, we were boring together. Small talk, walks in the park, sometimes daring to hold hands... we were as boring as an 18th century courtship! We talked often about spicing it up, but neither of us knew what to do. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we tried. We kissed in public... well in parts of public where no one was around, and only closed-mouthed of-course We even left our empty cups in the theater after the movie ended. Couple of daredevils, right? That's the problem with being a priest's daughter: being sheltered is forced on you whether you want it or not. We used to sit in the theater and watch other couples during movies, stealing glances of them necking or dry humping on the too-small seats. I used to try to imagine what it would feel like, having Phil's hands crawl over me, wondering how he could get his tongue that far down my throat without

choking me. Whenever I glanced over at him I could tell he was thinking the same thing, but neither of us dared to speak it. Well one day I decided enough was enough! I ventured to buy a Cosmo from the store, since it had an article on “heating up your dating life.” I was appalled! The things it suggested were so wrong, so disgusting! Phil agreed. We were too afraid of having to seek redemption for our actions... just like my father told me as a child: “Sin is like the flu,” he said when I first asked him what it was, “only its like the flu for your soul. It makes it sick. But when you go to confession, its like taking your medicine: it makes your soul better!” Its a bit lame, but what do you expect from a father who changed his career from being a nurse to the Church when you were three? But that's when it hit me: if you admit your sins before you do them, then you already are forgiven. You're free to do whatever you want, without it making your soul sick, without it needing redemption. Asking forgiveness first was a flu-shot for your soul. We started small, went to an AA meeting. Phil wrote 'Steve' on his name tag and asked for salvation from his beer drinking problem. I decided to go by Nancy, and cried for forgiveness for pounding wine coolers. The meeting was okay, but the problem was that no one really acknowledged that we sinned. Sure there was plenty of “we're here for you”s, but we still felt unsure walking out the door. If no one really recognizes that you've sinned, have you really confessed? Then it happened. A janitor who was cleaning the hall ways mumbled “fucking drunks” as we walked out. He knew. He recognized our sins. Nancy and Steve had their first drinks that night after the meeting. I threw up on Phil, who was still such a gentleman that he held my hair back even while the spiked lemonade was streaking down his favorite polo shirt. Two months later we attend a SA meeting. Phil decided to keep the alias of Steve, but being the cautious type I needed a new one: Cherry. Neither of us knew how anything worked so we admitted to watching porn non stop. After learning from the pros, we went back a month later and cried about how

sex took over our lives, how it made us lose our jobs and even get arrested several times. Cherry lost her virginity that night, she cried from Steve's efforts. I guess sex does change a man. Phil is still an innocent, naive boy at heart, but he changed that night. Our meetings started to steer away from trying new experiences towards getting me on my back. AA all but disappeared, and we double dipped into SA. Katie changed from getting arrested for pot to being a crack whore. While Cherry loves sex, and Katie loves being on her knees for Steve, I'm just not ready for our relationship to go there. I was raised to wait, and doing it as me would require redemption. Steve breaks my daydreams of sugarplums, coke, and BJs as he uses me as an armrest to push himself up. it's his turn on the stage, and the magical words that free us from our boundaries spill out of him. *** “Babe?” Phil asks, lying half naked on the bed. His bottom half. “Hmm?” it's the best I can do while gurgling with mouthwash. “Are we... Do you think we can become what we pretend to be?” I spit it out and refill the cap to rinse a second time. I hate this taste. “Become what?” “Addicts.” I spit for the third time this night. “How can we be? We've already been forgiven for our sins, and we've already recovered from what we've done.” He fingers the tiny white grains that are still on the nightstand. “Yeah, but there’s a problem.” “Whats that?” “We're out of coke--” “Yeah, so we're no no longer Steve and Katie. What's your point?” I interrupted He seemed to be talking way too slow tonight. “Well, I want to go again. As us.”

** We skipped most of our meetings those next couple of weeks, since most of our meetings end in sex and Phil had almost crossed the line between what has already been forgiven and what wasn’t To be more exact, we were only left with AA. To a point it was symbolic, returning to our roots in a way. Steve was silent the whole night. He avoided the small talk around the week old donuts and barely warm coffee in the back of the room before the meeting. Hell, he even found a way to avoid me while sitting next to me. The speakers came alive on the podium one by one. There is a certain order to support groups, its almost how I imagine the line in front of Saint Peter: everyone waiting to face their sins for a chance at salvation. The wonder wears off quick though and it becomes the sob story over and over. I think addicts try to recover at these meetings so they don’t have to deal with the monotony anymore. Then it was Steve's turn. Steve seemed to carry the energy of the whole room as he walked. Like he hit the slow motion button. The room went silent, the lights almost dimmed, and he spoke. “I have something to share, and I hope you all don't mind.” Beautiful, anticipating silence. “To us...to me... abuse is a way of life, but it's not as sick as you'd think. it's not about the whips and chains or the humiliation. It might involve self destruction, but it's not the point either. It can be regression, back to how it all began.” Think about it. “Life itself begins with abuse. Being pushed out of our homes. Being hit until we're forced to cry. Those tear filled first breaths of life aren't happy moments for us. For us, they are nothing but pain, no matter how joy-filled they are for our parents, those sadist fucks.” The room nods, slowly, taking in the bitter potion of his words. “But no, it's not about that. it's about fast forwarding. it's about experiencing the ends of life without feeling death. it's about the low points, the abuse we all feel towards the end. After all, any of

us, us martyrs who crucify ourselves as warnings, could be dead tomorrow. And that’s why I come to these meetings. it's why I join this montage of suffering souls as they pour their hearts out to the crowd.” These are the true actors, better than any in Hollywood... because their characters are true. “The binding element of this asbestos tiled confessional is that all our lives were somehow destroyed by addiction. And a 12 step program is the only barrier between relapse, between losing jobs, losing families, and even death. We people are the true adrenaline junkies, living on the edge daily, a gust of whiskey scented wind is the only thing it would take to push us down the cliff.” This is their birth, and these tortured souls are born daily. Pushed out of their homes of alcoholic comfort, beaten by DTs until they cry. To them it's nothing but pain, no matter how joy-filled 'being clean' makes their friends and family, those sadist fucks. “And I've fallen down that cliff. Daily. Weekly. I have this coin here for 5 months of sobriety, but to be honest I haven’t been sober a day.” By now the crowd is cheering with encouragement, forgiving him of his failures, since they've all been there before. “But... But it hasn’t been alcohol. I've never been an alcoholic, or druggie, or sexaholic, or any of the other things I've claimed. But I am an addict. Just like all of you. What I'm addicted to is hard to explain. it's you. I'm addicted to experimenting with what you've all done. My name is Phil-” Wait, rewind. I was so wrapped up in the rooms energy that I hardly noticed the last part of his speech. “-My name is Phil, and I'm addicted to not being me.” I was out the door with my purse before he finished the sentence. “And that's my girlfriend...” was the last thing I heard him say as I stormed out, his words fading faster than Nancy's existence *

A church confessional is pointlessly cliche at this point, but with or without Phil it's my routine. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.” Making my voice raspy always dried out my throat the next day. I can hear him mumbling 'not this crazy bitch' again under his breath. “What is it, my daughter?” “I have drank heavily and destroyed my boyfriend's possessions” “And why did you do that?” “Because he pissed me off!” He sighed. “And how did he do that?” “He told an AA meeting about me.” “Well, maybe it was for the best? He wants to help you heal from your disease.” “I-” Then it happened. The epileptic seizure-inducing red flash of the light. The angry-baby wail of a siren. The fire alarm! Those fucking candles! The fucking drapes! I burst out of the confessional trying to be gone before my dad stepped out too. Too late: we came face to face. Hit pause. Feel that upside-down feeling in your stomach of your life ending. Of knowing that nothing will be the same. Of being so scared the only thing you can say is“Shit!”

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