“Pinch it again,” BrianDelgado29 says.
“Gonna milk you like a moocow,” says another.
I groan, because directly beneath the moocow comment, ClitmasterHarold3000 deemed it pertinent to demand, “Send tits or gtfo.”
“I’m a man. I don’t have breasts, alleged Clitmaster. Read the fucking room. Honest to God, I’d be willing to bet you’ve never even seen a clit, much less mastered the art of bringing one pleasure. And don’t call breasts ‘tits.’ It’s vulgar, it’s disrespectful, and I’m pretty sure it’s misogynistic. Full disclosure, the misogyny is only a maybe. I wouldn’t know, because I’m not a woman, so it’s not my call to make. What I can do, Harold, is call my dear friend, Deirdre, and ask her. She’s a queen, a Satanist, and a radical feminist icon. She’s the one who told me I was being misogynistic for using the b-word when I would loudly proclaim, ‘The party has motherfucking arrived, b-words,’ when entering a room filled with gaggles of girlies and gays and all the beautiful theys. It was a difficult change to make, because it’s been ingrained in my vocabulary from such a young age, but I’ve stopped using it. Surely you can do the same. For Christ’s sake, I’m not asking you to reinvent the fucking wheel. We are an ever-learning, ever-evolving people, fully capable of seeing the error in our way and becoming better human beings. Fucking evolve, Hare-bear!” Closingmy eyes, I inhale love, and I exhale light. “Alright. Never mind that. We’ve centered ourselves, and we’re aiming forward.”
Gazing into the crystal ball, I search hard for whatever picture the spirits choose to paint for me. The longer I look, the more it feels like one of those optical illusion books where shapes are meant to form once you’ve opened your mind’s eye. I try opening mine all the time, but I don’t know how the hell to do it. My online psychic mentor pal, Brendon, tells me it’s as simple as pretending to blink the skin in the center of your forehead, but that makes absolutely zero fucking sense. Honestly, I’m not sure he’s even a real psychic. I don’t know what credentials he has. Half the time he just sits on his sofa, furiously masturbating in front of his laptop’s camera, scolding me for my poor performance in the art of clairvoyance.
The longer I look, the more it makes my head hurt, but just as I’m ready to give up, it happens. Transcendence. Goosebumps rise across my body, making me feel tingly all over. It’s my favorite part of the psychic journey, knowing spirits are sharing the same space as me. At first, I thought Barbara was just a figment of my imagination. An imaginary friend, created to console a little boy who was sad and scared and missed his mommy. I didn’t have my mother, but I always had Barbara. It wasn’t until she started telling me stories about the future, earlier this year, that I realized she’s not just a quiet voice in my heart. She’s my spirit guide. A doorway into the great beyond. I was reading an old story about the other side, written by Sylvia Crowne, in which she explained the concept of a spirit guide. The more I read, the more I knew it was true. When I finally flat-out asked Barbara if she was a spirit guide, she laughed like it was the silliest thing she’d ever heard, telling me that of course, she’s my guide. She always has been.
Aussie probably thought I was stupid when I told him how, with Barbara’s guidance, I could see the future, but all he did was nod andask me to get the winning Powerball numbers from her. Instead, she gave him the powerball numbers for the very next day, just to prove a point without rewarding him for his lack of faith. He was baffled and absolutely furious.
In the crystal ball, circles and squares made of of bright white lights dance in the distance, showing me the image of what I can only assume is a man getting raw-dogged in a public restroom, bent over a filthy toilet, taking cock like he’s taking communion. There’s a knife in the top’s hand—or maybe it’s just a dildo? I don’t know. The image is fuzzy, but he rears back his arm, jabbing the toy—or potential murder weapon—up the bottom’s backside. On the wall behind them, there’s a poster of a beautiful brunette.
“Is that television’s Yasmine Bleeth?” I ask Barbara, trying to make it all make sense. On the poster, she’s wearing her red Baywatch swimsuit and caressing what I can only assume is her vaginal mound. I didn’t realize Yasmine Bleeth did solo porn. Good for her, and good for the sex work community. We in the industry need all the sex-positive representation we can get.
“What did you say about Yasmine?” Harold, AKA ClitmasterHarold3000 says in the chat window.
I guess Harold is the target the spirit wishes to speak with today. Barbara likes to give me little hints during readings to guide me toward my destination. “I’m seeing her in a red swimsuit. I think she’s masturbating.”
Harold sends a shock-mouthed emoji and about thirty exclamation marks. A few moments later, he adds, “Are you stalking me?”
I roll my eyes. “Get over yourself. I don’t break into homes of elderly heterosexuals just to snoop. I’m a psychic. The spirits are always with me.”
“Psychic. Lol. Debatable,” another user, StopFrackingStartSnackingOnDaddy types. I scowl really hard, needing him to know how, above all else in this world, at this precise moment, I hope he goes straight to Hell.
“Rude,” I say, because he is.
“Who says I’m straight?” ClitmasterHarold3000 says. “How would you even know that unless you broke into my home and looked through my things? Did you find my pocket pussy? Is that what this is about?”
I stare into the camera and roll my eyes. “Your username is ClitmasterHarold3000, and your profile header says, ‘No twinks, no femmes, no fags.’ Fucking disgraceful, by the way. What else am I meant to think?”
“That doesn't make me straight. I just have my preferences.”
“It stops being a preference when you resort to hate speech. One, two, fuck you. Now, shut up and let me do the reading.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve been a real jerk ever since you signed up for my OnlyFans. I hope whatever the spirits choose to say, it’s enough to ruin your day.”
“It won’t,” StopFrackingStartSnackingOnDaddy types. “You don’t know shit.”
“I know you’re an asshole.”
Pushing him out of the mind’s eye I still can’t get to open, I focus my attention on Harold’s reading. The images coming to me are vague flashes and distorted pictures shown through the crystal ball that I painted an almost translucent shade of magenta by mixing twenty-two bottles of clear fingernail polish and five bottles of this really pretty shade of dark pink. I filled the fishbowl with glass rocks meant to go into an aquarium. It was a trick I saw on YouTube. I asked Bubba if I could buy them online, but he said he would just get them at thestore the next time he went into town. He asked if I wanted to go with him, but I’m just a tiny little sprig of a twink, and I can’t be expected to navigate the wilds of Harbor Freight, or wherever the hell someone buys aquarium glass. I’m sure the place is riddled with straight men, and straight men are scary in group settings, so I sent Daddy alone.
Daddy?
Absolutely not! Not today. Not yesterday. Not any fucking day. Bubba is not my Daddy. Though, overall, I could do worse. I’ve been with trollops and tramps aplenty, and none of them have ever made me as crazy as Bubba. Does he provide me a lap of luxury to rest upon? Depending on your definition of the word luxury, yes. Yes, he does, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit on it. It doesn’t mean I want to grind my ass against his mammoth cock the way he probably wants me to. I’ve seen his dick a few times, and I’m fairly confident it’s at least ten inches. His cock unnecessarily large, and undeniably in charge. It would split me open, leaving nothing more than carnage and a gaping hole in his wake. Then Johnny would weld my eyes shut because he's a jealous bastard when it comes to the man we’re battling over.
The situation is all-around unideal, but there’s also the fact that Bubba is quite literally white trash, and the living conditions he subjects me to are unacceptable. The shanty he and his group of macho, bastardly friends created is something you’d expect to see at a landfill, decaying away, day by day. They welded a trailer house on top of a small cabin, and branded it a high rise. We’re hardly the Hiltons.
He’s good to me, though. He’s kind when I don’t deserve it. He’s sweet when I’m being bratty. Every morning, right before he leaves for work, he cups my cheek, kisses me on the forehead, and tells me he’ll miss me all day long. One time, after I had the stupid idea to call my dad and stepmother, asking why they hated me so much, he was the one who consoled me. Dad called me a faggot, and mystepmother laughed. Bubba walked in to find me begging them to love me, explaining how I’m really loveable when you get to know me, but Dad said they knew me enough to know I’m no son of theirs. When Bubba took the phone, he saw Dad’s name on the screen, indicating the call had ended.
The look he gave wasn’t one of pity. It was hurt. Hurt for me. His boy. He picked me up and held me tight for what felt like ages, whispering assurances that I’m good enough. That I’m not a bad boy. That I’m not unlovable, because he loves me more than life itself. It was a tender moment, and then Johnny barged in and ruined it with his stupid beard and that unnervingly attractive bald head, stealing a spotlight that should’ve been locked on me.
Fuck Johnny.
Fuck Johnny in every possible way, because he’s at work with Bubba right now, probably flashing fuck-me eyes as he laughs about his sunblock prank. There’s no telling what goes on at that goddamn shop, but fear of the unknown is driving me crazy. It’s making me feel all kinds of feelings. Scared feelings. Angry feelings. Stabby feelings.
I clench my jaw as a mental image of Bubba feeding his cock to Johnny fills the crystal ball, saturating every square centimeter of my psychic sight. Well, I think that’s what the image is. If I tilt my head to the left, it kind of looks like a puppy, so maybe we’re just getting a dog. I’ll name it something fabulous like Fuq’johnny.
