Dear God - Thankyou for making things right today. I'm not sure what it was you did, but it all seemed to work out okay. You must have heard my prayers.
I really want to find a way to say thank you but I don't know how. I'm don't know what you want, but I think you probably get lonely, sat up there on your cloud. So I'm going to give you something to enjoy. I know you're omnipresent, so you've probably seen it all before, but I'll try my best. You designed this all anyway, so there shouldn't be any surprises for you.
Here's my boob. Peeking out, and then the other one, under my purple halter-neck. I'm topless now. Yes, you designed these. Big and ripe and round. I lean forward, and make them jiggle, pressing my arms in to press them together. I hope you're proud of yourself. I would be, if I'd designed something this beautiful.
And jeans. I know you didn't design jeans, but you probably helped. I think I look good in just these. The dark blue denim seems to emphasize my shape: the thinness of my legs and the smoothness of my belly, and the whiteness of my skin and the pinkness of my nipples.
I keep myself in shape to honour your creation - I hope you're proud of me.
Are you there God? I'm not expecting a burning bush to appear, or flashing lightening or a parting of the clouds on anything. But it would be good if you let me know if you're watching, just so I know.
I'm walking up and down, to the mirror and back. 'Strutting', I think you they'd call it -- walking confidently, with my head high, my breasts proud and strong. Thankyou God for giving me this body.
Okay, the jeans are coming off.
I'm in my knickers. Across the back they say Cheeky Monkey, and there's a picture of a monkey face on the front. If I'd realised I'd be doing this for you I'd have worn something a bit more grown-up; maybe borrowed some of Lizzie's knickers, or even worn something a bit plainer. They just seem a bit childish.
God. I wish you would fuck me. I'm sure it would feel so good. You designed this, so you'd know exactly how to work it all, how to arouse and excite me. You'd just have so much understanding, so much sensitivity, and so much control. I'd just be able to relax with you. I wouldn't have to worry if it was wrong, or stop you if you're going to far. It wouldn't be dirty. I know when I touch myself it's a sin, and I don't enjoy it. Lizzie says that things are more fun when we know they're sinful, but I don't agree. I just end up feeling bad and guilty.
So, God, if you're not here -- you're probably off answering other people's prayers, or healing the sick, or visiting the poor, and stuff like that -- or maybe you're hanging around in prettier girl's bedrooms, watching them undress. Maybe you get more of a thrill when they don't know you're there.
So, God, if you're not here -- I'm kneeling on my bed. I'm wearing my cheeky monkeys and my silver crucifix. I'm leaning back, my nipples hard and pointing to heaven. That should get your attention. My hands are on my hips, my body gyrating slowly. I know you're there.
Okay God. I'm going to do something bad now. I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm really frustrated at the moment. If you send a signal I promise I'll stop myself, but if you don't, I'll keep going. I'm touching the monkey face, stroking up and down through the thin cotton. Now I'm slipping my right hand inside my knickers. Everything feels softer, bigger, like my fingers magnify. My left hand caresses my breast. My right is stroking, tickling, pulling and pressing: into the the valley of the shadow.
I want to shout out but I know someone will hear me. I bite my lip and breathe out through my nose, like Lizzie showed me. I take a shallow breath, and it sounds so loud.
I can't go too far in in case I break it. God, I'm being so gentle, and only going as far as the first knuckle. Okay, the second knuckle. I can cope with that, fingertips in, nubbing gently against my hymen. The ball of my thumb switches back and forth on my clit. I look up and see myself in the mirror: I'm kneeling in the bed, my mouth is open, my knees are apart, my eyes are half-closed, my breasts are flushed, and my cheeky monkeys are round my thighs. Is this really what I look like? God I don't want to be like this. I shouldn't be like this, should I?
I want you to send Jesus down again so I can have sex with him. He can have me, the Word made Flesh. My Aunt, (she's really religious), doesn't even like me having boyfriends. But she wouldn't be able to complain if I skipped church because I was in bed making love to Jesus. It would be awesome. We could walk in together, clothes dishevelled, hair mussed, faces still flushed with sex, they'd look at us, with their silent disapproving stares, and then we'd listen to a sermon on the love of God, or the passion of the Christ, or the Second Coming, or something like that.
I'm taking off my cheeky monkeys now. They're damp at the front. I wipe myself down with them.
Maybe not even Jesus. I'd be happy with an angel to fly down and take my cherry. I've seen naked cherubs in paintings, so I'm guessing an angel would have the equipment to do it. It would be so spiritual, just so... right. I imagine pulling open his white robes, finding it there, thick and hard and strong. I would spread my legs, and he would spread his wings, and he could take me. Take me, break me, make it like Lizzie says it should be, so hard that it hurts. Maybe if there's a new angel, a spare one, you could send him down. I can let him in through the window tonight. Surely that would be allowed. And even angels must get lonely sometimes.
I'm taking off my crucifix.
I am as naked as Eve.