The Darker Side

coke and booze and suck a nice big cock. Even saying it now makes my pussy a little bit wet. But every day, with your help, I manage not to give in. I turn away from those temptations and I thank you for helping me find the strength to do that, Lord.'

When she first started praying, years ago, she never used that kind of language. She used cleaner words, tried to be more pure. She found it unsatisfying. She'd talked to Father Yates about her problem in this area.

Father Yates was in his fifties, but he was pretty cool. He'd give anyone a chance--ex-hookers, recovering drug addicts--as long as he felt your intentions were genuine, he was there for you. Nothing seemed to faze him.

'Rosemary, the things you find yourself wanting to say to God--

the unclean things--tell me how you feel when they come to you.'

'Like urges, Father. When I need a drink or a fuck--sorry, Father--

real bad, it's like a bunch of black waves washing over me, one right after the other. If I hold them in, the urges just get stronger. But if I talk about them, if I put words to them, I get some relief.'

'Give me an example.'

She'd stared at him. 'You want me to say it like I think it?'

'That's right.'

'I don't know, Father. I'm talking about some pretty dirty stuff here.'

He'd chuckled. 'Rosemary, I've heard every profane word that exists. I've heard things in confession that would curl your toes--

confessions about bestiality, the fantasies of child molesters--I promise you, I can deal with whatever you want to say.'

Looking at him then, she believed what he was saying, but it was still hard. The things she felt, the words to describe those things, were secrets. There was a time when she lived those words, when she said them without a second thought. Times had changed. On the other hand . . .

She could sense that there might be a certain relief to be had by putting voice to the dark things that bubbled up inside her. But, what if . . .

It was the big concern, the greatest one of all, the one that keeps us from owning up to our sins.

'Father, if--if I do . . .' She bit her lip, which trembled. 'Do you promise to still like me afterward?'

She couldn't look at him. He grabbed her chin and forced her to raise her eyes. The kindness she saw there made her want to cry with relief.

'I promise, Rosemary. On my love of God.'

She'd cried a little, and he'd waited while she did. Then she'd wiped her eyes and had started talking, telling those secrets. The words were like a flood, dark and awful, but so needing to be spoken.

'Sometimes, Father, I just want to fuck, you know? Not make out or make love or any of that stuff. I want a cock in my mouth and in my pussy and I want them there after I've swallowed a bunch of booze and snorted as much coke as I can get my hands on. I want it and even while I fight wanting it, I get turned on, and that makes the wanting even stronger, you know?

'It's always been like that. People think girls like me are victims, and some are I suppose. But I've never been able to get enough. Never. The dirtier the better. Spit on me, piss in my face, make me a fucking whore, it'll all make me come that much harder and stronger. I want it for days, I want it for weeks, I want to be fucked till I stop breathing.'

The words had rushed out, uncensored, and then she'd been done. She'd snuck a glance at Father Yates, had been relieved to see no shock or judgment on his face. Perhaps even more precious, in its own way, even more important, was that she didn't see the slightest hunger there. No hint of voyeuristic thrill.

'Thank you, Rosemary. How do you feel, having said all that?'

'Better,' she'd replied without hesitation. 'The wanting goes away. Kind of like . . .' She searched for a metaphor. 'Like squeezing a big old whitehead zit. Hurts to do it, thank God when it pops, you know?'

He'd smiled and nodded. 'Yes, I do.' His face got serious. He put a hand on her shoulder. 'Rosemary, I think saying it is better than doing it, don't you?'

She'd blinked, surprised by this concept.

Was it better? In this society, sometimes it didn't seem so. Say the words suck a cock in public, and you might as well be sucking one on an escalator, you know?

Still . . . there was a big difference between talking about drinking and fucking and waking up from a blackout with a stranger's come in your ass.

'I guess so, Father. Yeah.'

'Then my advice, when you pray? Say what you need to say. Don't worry. God can handle it.'

It had seemed like strange advice, and to be honest, it had been hard to implement, but she got the hang of it. Some might find it blasphemous, but you know what? Fuck them and their high horses. Truth was, it worked. She talked to God without a censor, and she had almost five years on the straight and narrow as a result. She figured God knew what was up. God knew her love for Him grew every day she made it through without fucking a stranger or drinking a beer or snorting a gram.

She figured God had watched when she turned tricks at seventeen and started making porno films at eighteen. Figured he'd seen her allblack gang bang under the bright lights ( Big black cocks in a tight white hole! The cover of the video had proclaimed) and her foray into dogfucking for the bestiality black market. God had seen her toward the end too. Like when she was on her knees in a hotel room that could only be described as grotesque, as some fat fuck spit on her face and called her a 'meat puppet' and she smiled and agreed because she needed some money for blow and because it kind of turned her on too. God had been there the Day It All Changed, she was sure of that. She'd been lying in bed in another shitty room. She was sick with the flu, was sweating and cold, but the guy fucking her didn't care. He'd paid extra to do her without a condom, he had sores on his pecker, but she really didn't give a shit, she'd pretty much accepted that she was on her way out.

He was there above her, his tongue literally hanging out, panting like a dog, and then his face had changed. It had contorted into a look of pure hate. He'd raised a fist and started hitting her. He didn't stop until he'd broken her nose in three places, broken her jaw, knocked out a tooth or two, blacked her eyes shut, broken her left arm, and cracked a few ribs. Then he fucked her again and she passed out.

She woke up in the hospital, and Father Yates was there, sitting next to her bed. He hadn't said anything. He'd just moved closer, had taken one of her hands into his, and had looked down on her with those gentle, gentle eyes.

She'd started crying then. She cried, on and off, for days. Father Yates and others from the church stayed by her bedside until she was ready to be released. They didn't preach or judge or even say much of anything at all. They were just there for her.

She'd come to understand that God was present for the good and the bad, and it wasn't that He was cruel, but that He knew--goodness was a choice. Rightness was a choice. Free will was the road to salvation, and God wasn't going to make you do the right thing. God's job was to be there if you chose Him, there if you didn't. Father Yates and the church had helped her get onto her feet. Helped her clean up, find an apartment and a job. Were there for her in the beginning when she strayed, twice.

She remembers all of these things now, as she often does, and adds some final words to her prayer.

'Thank you God, for helping me, and for listening to my bad fucking mouth and my dirty thoughts, and for letting me say what I need to say so I can stay on the path. Amen.'

Dirty words and evil thoughts were her secret things, and you can't stay clean with secrets so God let her spew her bile and never blinked, however raunchy things got.

She stands up and goes to shower. No work today, but discipline was the key to her life now. Waking every day at the same time, not letting herself sleep in or be slothful. Sunday through Friday she ran a mile. Saturday she let herself off on the running, but she still got up, showered, had her coffee, and then went to the church to volunteer. All of which, she reflects, helps keep the real secret, the true dirtiness inside her, at bay. That one terrible thing when she'd--

A knock at the door startles her from this thought. She frowns. Who the hell is that?

She grabs a bathrobe and checks her face in the mirror, chastising herself immediately for this vanity, knowing that this is one habit she'll never break.

She opens the door without peeking through the peephole. It's Saturday morning, and this is Simi Valley, after