Magdalene Monroe

"Y'know... I wish I could say that I'm a man who coveted things like values and morals over something as... superficial as incredible genetics... but I can't," the pastor slurs, wiping the last droplets of splooge off of his arm.

I'm standing in front of the hotel bathroom mirror, scrubbing the luxurious stench of top shelf bourbon and Cuban-imported cigar phlegm off of my tits when he comes and hugs me from behind. He peers distractingly into the mirror, his gaze stuck on my eyes: a pair of contacts which turned my natural almond browns and a blinding sildenafil blue. "Damn. What superiority," he half-whispers, shaking his head. "The domination you have over me." The sour mash emanating from his mouth will give me phantom smells for the next day or two.

He finally unwraps me and tosses the soiled face towel on the floor. His bones creaks towards the bathroom door and in the other room I can hear him unsheathing the curtains as the Los Angeles sunlight fills up the doorway.

"God, I needed that," he exhales. "Now I can concentrate on getting some work done in this heaven-forsaken city."

Even an anointed man of God is still a man. And men aren't complex creatures. The most honest part of them stands only a few inches in front of them. They're essentially a mass of intricate organisms that form together to support one bone. Their nature is that of a circus act: to jump through burning hoops and perform dazzling acrobats across the tightest of ropes just to get to those final seven or eight seconds of muscle contractions. Once the convulsions turn into shivers, their world changes. But even after six years of our clandestine hotel meetings, his eyes still held the same appetite for me.

I'd originally met the great pastor through a business acquaintance of his that had been a faithful client. I'm still not exactly sure what he does. For decades, he read scriptures behind podiums in different cities around the nation and on missionary trips to third world countries. At some point he decided that he deserved a promotion, and now there were posters with his face on them next to crucifixes and events that amassed large crowds. Bliss was promised in the afterlife for a certain price point while your heart was still beating on this pirouetting rock. Morals and standards had been relegated to a side gig as men of flesh and blood decided to write untaxed checks out in the name of his church as a way to pay for their ungodlike behavior. But his greed became my grace as he slides hefty envelopes on bathroom counters as I'm finishing up my bird bath in the sink.

"You know you could always rebrand if you wanted to," he says with his trademarked mischievous grin, grabbing my left hand and messaging my ring finger. One of the benefits of being Christian in America, is that you can use the evil forces to manipulate your way out of any situation. So even if the most pious decided he wanted to trade in the pendulous-titted second wife for a brand spanking new trophy, all could be forgiven in the eyes of the parishioners with a little devilish convincing.

But this isn't a rebrand.

Of course he knew I wouldn't entertain him if he didn't have any money, just like I knew he wouldn't be spending it if I weren't attractive. Sometimes, that's just the closest thing to love that you can momentarily scratch out. I guess since my skin was starting to get a little texture, the proper idea would be to settle down before I finished fermenting. But I wasn't some broken bitch looking for a way out of my hometown like all of the other pretty ponies with one trick. All the girls contouring themselves into Kardashian clones, returning from trips to Dubai with soulless gazes, staggering around with Barney's bags busting with Balenciaga barcodes, trying to land something as close to a Bilderberg billionaire as possible and give birth to an ATM before deciding to settle for whoever could take care of them the best and was the least embarrassing to be around.

Honestly, I have no intention of trying to keep up that type of veneer, nor do I see myself as a mother. The only thing I vacuumed were main veins and I'd be too embarrassed to serve my cooking to famished Ethiopian kids. Not that men who choose women like me even care about that type of domesticity. They just want to hoist me around their friends like the Lombardi.

But I wasn't looking for a daddy in every dick I drowned. I actually have a great relationship with my own father (and will continue to as long as he continues believing that I'm working in public relations). I wasn't raised in some broken home and there wasn't any childhood trauma that beget my current occupation. I grew up in a two parent household where I saw nauseatingly healthy love and affection.

My parents weren't beautiful, and neither were my three sisters, who used their burning jealousy of me to combust them through Ivy League doctorate programs. My mother was harder on me than my sisters, but not to the point of abuse. She nurtured me, but she didn't mold me. My father had no problem telling me how easy life could be for a girl like me, but he was tempered with his words because he wanted me to learn values outside of my bone structure. We were a family of smarties and I didn't need to rely on being somebody's arm candy.

The boys in grade school made me aware of my attractiveness, but it wasn't something I'd taken advantage of. Growing up, I was the classic Catholic girl who thought God would throw lightning bolts at me if I even thought too long about the male form, but during my senior year, I was forced to let my maker down... twice.

The first dick I saw belonged to my boyfriend. Tall, brooding, jock archetype. We'd been dating for an Olympiad but I'd decided to finally stop hitting him with the catcher's mitt as he attempted to slide to third base, solely because the other girls were developing the type of curves that inspired tumescence and I assumed he was developing a wandering eye. As I gripped the sides of his baggy Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs down, a small, soggy, pink nub flickered out. His, presumably, constant excitement never allowed it to present itself past a semi-semi-stiffy.

The second belonged to... What was that son-of-a-bitch's name? Jesús? The type of kid that had always been invisible since elementary school. Your typical adolescent schlub: Acne-prone, out of shape, encyclopedic knowledge of anime, nondescript dork that I always caught starring at me. At a debaucherous school homecoming house party, hopped up off of one too many wine coolers, he decided to try out the ol' whip-it-out technique as I was exiting the bathroom and showcased the meatiest piece of penis I'd seen in real life or Biblical paintings.

I stood there stupefied, until the some of the boys on the team stumbled upon the scene and took the kid out back and damn near stumped his ears together. A couple of kids got suspended from school, the truncheon kid ended up on the sex offender's registry, and I spent the remainder of the school year in counseling, feigning negative emotions about my first sexual assault. Truth is, I'd rub on my clitoris like a DJ cutting a record thinking back on that salami. The issue I really need counseling on was understanding why God was so unfair with his riches. How somebody with such A-tier symmetry and proportions could have a Renascence era cocklet, while somebody who possessed a slew of otherwise repulsive attributes was carrying a nuke. I accepted those plot holes in life and quickly dropped every pretense I'd ever had about the man that I would end up with being some Prince Charming I was groomed to crave.

While those jumpstarted my curiosity, It wasn't until that summer that my obsession was enflamed.

Driver's licenses were issued and tasseled caps were tossed. Insurance was purchased in my name for a hand me down Buick that my aunt gave me as a graduation present. I had been hired on as a waitress at this cute little Greek bistro that had just opened up. It was here that I began to form bad habits. For the first time in my life, I was unsupervised around men outside of the overly oppressive Catholic structure I had experienced thus far. Grown men. Swarmy men. Men with heat in their eyes and alcohol on their breath.

The owners were an older couple, say, late-40's, early-50's. The wife, a flush-faced lush, occasionally helped me served when she wasn't pouring bottles of Ouzo and cackling whenever somebody from the diaspora came in for a meal reminiscent of the homeland. The husband stayed in the back mostly, popping out for a quick chat with certain customers before scurrying back to flip the lamb souvlaki. He was hirsute and stout with a round face. An old photograph showed how attractive he was before his metabolism failed to hold his pita obsession any longer. He would stutter and stammer and act stupid around me, but overall, had a nonexistent personality. It was all very cute and innocent until one slow Wednesday night.

The couple were entertaining a small group of friends as somebody celebrated another year of sentience. I passively flipped through an encyclopedia of Greek gods and goddesses, waiting for either another customer or, more so, to be sent home. In my peripherals, I could see the husband perverting his gaze on me as the oblivious party became drunker and louder. Usually when I looked over towards him, he would dart his eyes, but this time, he let it sink in. There was no mystery in what he wanted, and the temptation had finally slaughtered his temperance. I let my eyes swim in his for a second and then flashed him a seductive smile, which threw a shock to his expression. He did a quick look around to make sure it wasn't directed at somebody behind him. It was on this night that I realized the power my genetics really held.

The rose-colored wife decided that she had one too many and asked me to help her husband close up as she stumbled out of the restaurant with her equally drunken friends and they swerved off into the city lights. His pupils danced around, following me around as I cleared the closing duties checklist. Glasses of liquor of varying levels were still sitting on the table. As I began dropping them on my serving tray, I heard his voice behind me.

"Here. Have," he suggested, which sounded more like a demand with his heavy accent. I spun to see him holding out a smaller shot glass. The burning in his eyes were intense. Where it intrigued me before, it almost scared me now.

"But... I'm only eighteen," I said stupidly, losing all the confidence I'd gained minutes ago. "You could lose your license."

"I say nothing. You say nothing," he shrugged, looking me up and down. "You're definitely big girl."

I sat the serving tray down on the table and pinched the glass out of grip. The advantages of being young are satisfying the curiosities of running these types of red lights without thinking too much about the consequences. Before I even tossed the shot glass back, retched and coughed up the burn, I was already drunk off of his testosterone. He grabbed my face and pulled it into his. I mostly remembered the strong smell of pita dough on his hands and hoped it wouldn't cause a breakout in the morning. As our lips ungripped, he inched back and I don't think I'd ever seen a man as happy in his life. You could give the most defeated vagrant aristocratic-level arrogance if he feels like he's about to get some pussy thats out of his league. He reached out and grabbed my hand, nodded his head towards the back and hauled me towards the office.

We played the balancing act on the peeling pleather office chair as I sat on top of him. He flicked his tongue aggressively in and out of my mouth. Although he was only the second person I kissed, it surprised me (and would continue to later in life) how an older man with a supposed amount of experience had no idea how to kiss. I let him control the tempo even though I was anticipating a more gracious dance. I could feel that there was no romance in this session. Just pure excitement. The unidentified liquor started to clock in as my shoulders got looser and my hands became more interested in his flesh. I could feel the thick hairs on his chest crumpling around inside his shirt. The stubble on his chin scratched against mines as he continued playing hopscotch with my tonsils.

As appalling as the situation might seem to some girls with my range, I was definitely getting off on the fact that this was a man. But even the most mature of men revert back to an infant when placed in this situation, and like every other newborn, he goes straight for the titty. He pulled the loose collar and bra down right under my C-cup. He wasn't even interested in any sensual presentation of the moment, just went straight for the nipple, sucking hard to the point it pinched and I spent the next minute squinting, grabbing the stubble on his jaw and trying to pull his lips into mines for relief, only to realize he wasn't interested in that any longer.

So my next move was to give him something he would be even more interested in. I stood up off of the chair and dropped straight to my knees. The grin on his face proved my calculations were correct. He fumbled around with the belt buckle and zipper with his burnt fingertips, and revealed his unique piece of game: a short, but girthy, attentive bone, inundated with blood. It was about three shades darker than his skin tone with an elongated piece of flesh that he probably considered another inch to his overall size. I'd never seen foreskin before and marveled as he pulled it down to reveal a bright pink head. Completing the package was a pair of large eggs weighing down on a sack of delicate skin surrounded by a forest of hair sweeping his big thighs.

As soon as the sticky sour emanating his urethra hit my tastebuds, I could hear him moan in an octave I assumed he didn't possess. This is when the switch really turned on for me. The notion that I was controlling the most sensitive source of a man who would I'd never known to express those softer emotions otherwise. My power. Their pleasure. The most natural transaction on Earth. The liquor was really starting to do it's job, which in turn made me really start doing mines. I was having fun with it. Pulling his foreskin up into my tongue and swirling around the head as his groin moved around in a similar rhythm. Slurping up the saliva I left in his trunk and spitting it back out. He jumped as I pulled the skin back too hard and too quickly, and now I know to never do that again.

We both moan in ecstasy as a disfigured statue of Aphrodite egged us on from the corner of the room. I paid attention to his facial expressions. The motions. He was loving it and it didn't take long before he really expressed it.

"I'm cum," he yelped out in his broken English, pulling his dick out of my mouth and stroking arrhythmically for a few seconds until he spat out a few thick, colorless ropes on the side of my cheek and in my hair. The ecstasy exits his body as he's exhaling so hard that the strains of hair that aren't being weighed down by his cum begins to blow in the breathalyzer-redlining wind.

As men go, they think a lot clearer when all the blood in their body isn't in their dick. I was his employee. His wife was his business partner. There are laws against this type of shit. Even with years of hoping and planning and saving, a man could risk everything in his life for the quickest of blowjobs. But 'horny' will always be an undefeated opposition.

"For you," he said, holding out an Andrew Jackson as I was running a warm rag through my hair. "Take." He nodded towards the green bill in his hand. A myriad of emotions ran through my head, but the easiest one to process stuck my hand out and grabbed our seventh president out of his. The money was just a euphemism for an index finger pressed against the lips of Helios: keep this in the dark and don't say a word. I didn't process the fact that by taking the money, I was officially a prostitute. It was a revelation I hadn't made the entire summer, as our after work meetings became as frequent as his wife became more lost in the bottle. At the end, he'd alway hand me a ten or twenty, depending on how good the restaurant did that day. In my eyes, it was just another tip that I added with the others. What I did know was that an intense obsession had been promoted inside of me.

To say I fell in love with dick is the same as a sous chef telling you how they fell in love with food. My infatuation with the mysterious meat hiding behind every guys YKK's became a depraved obsession and I submitted and gave my sense of enjoyment autonomy over me.

I spent my next few semesters of Catholic college in Philadelphia clandestinely trying every dick I thought I could get away with without forming a reputation. So while most of the hungry eyes in my class starved, I answered the majority of prayers outside of campus.

The engorged Italian construction worker whose brick hard stiffy was nearly engulfed in an afro of Tuscan Leather scented pubes. The svelte Swedish barber with a long and skinny dangling from a baldy. The Brazilian grocery story manger who gulped cans of pineapple juice and made sure I was never a starving college student. The Russian literary professor who made sure I never had to read a fucking Dostoyevsky tome to make the dean's list. Meek American men and foreigners who sounded angry even when exchanging pleasantries. The duo of gruff baby-armed Jamaicans who simultaneously rank as my best and worst experience in terms of pleasure. The French gardener who fucked me until his dick pruned. Sacrificially-scarred Syrians and smegma-scented Salvadorians. The Bolivian baby-faced busboy who bent me over and fucked me in the ass behind a shitty hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant that gave me diarrhea. The tall, skinny black boxer who damn near caused contusions by slapping his heavy dick on my face. The Texan naive artist who left pink handprints on my ass from slapping it too hard. A Chinese bodybuilder made up for his lack of girth by writing his name on my g-spot in Mandarin.

Even when I thought I had them down to a science, another man would come along and break every conviction I thought I learned.

Dicks turned into days, days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into semesters, and semesters turned into a literature degree that wasn't tangible in anything I'd considered profitable. Now grants and my parents weren't paying the rent and I'd spent those years being controlled by my infatuation instead of developing real interests. So like every young idiot that knows that two plus two must absolutely equal four, I thought, why not use my infatuation to make some real interest? I already knew that most men were really only interested in streamlining the process, and as due dates were rapidly approaching, I started realizing that not a single one of those men were as attractive as Benjamin Franklin. So I converted to the only religion thats not only older than all of the Abrahamic gods, but will also outlive them. But as with everything, once your hobby becomes you job, the passion declines.

Now I'm just a worn out bitch with a burnt out pleasure center, being controlled by dicks that I used to love, for money that I've grown to hate.

One year snowballed into another, and I was snowballing suburban subhumans. Another year flies by and I'm being fisted by Finnish filth. When most men pay you for sex, they're expecting to satisfy the most taboo of their thirst, which in turn turns you into a gutter for their desire. The debauchery scaled up. The glamour and excitement had been eliminated. I learned what the world was really about.

But still, this wasn't a rebrand. If anything, a consolidation. I decided to make the best out of things after a lifetime of making bad choices and started playing favorites, disqualifying the white, virginal, incels who needed to watch porn on their phones to keep it up, and black, headboard-breaking Olympians who required too much intensity for a work day. Negotiators got the chopping block. Referrals were mandatory. My list consisted of a roulette of brut-scented septuagenarians.