Chapter 4
“Spirits guide me,” I whisper to my spirit guide, Barbara, holding my newly orange hand to my heart.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” she says to me, but it’s not a real voice. It can’t be heard by others. Barbara lives only in my heart, and each word she whispers pumps through me like blood, pooling in the sides of my face, making me feel warm and fuzzy.
“Yes, well, if ifs and buts were candies and nuts, we’d all have an overflowing bank account, but here we are. For God’s sake, Babs, I’ve asked you not to do this. You know I get nervous before I put on a show, and your judgmental tone doesn’t help.”
There’s a strange stinging sensation in the section of my heart where Barbara resides.
I’ve only felt it a handful of times, and both of those were before I realized I had psychic senses, so I just assumed it was heartburn.
Once was the day my mother died. I felt it again when Dad kicked me out.
Most recently, I experienced the sting when me and my best friends all performed an acappella concert at a special housing unit for queer men in a place called Pretty Boy Prison.
They all laughed at us because we aren’t really good singers, but Barbara didn’t.
The whole time they were laughing, but all I felt was nurturing love.
Barbara sighs.
“Just remember the rule. Once the psychic sessions end and the fun begins, you leave the room.”
“I’m not in the room. I’m in your heart, baby.”
“I’m not your baby. I’m the man you’ve latched yourself upon.” I pat my shoulder like she has her hand on it. “I know you don’t have eyes, but keep them closed anyway. You don’t need to see this.” I pat her non-existent hand again. “I love you, Babs.”
There’s an explosion of warmth in my heart, and though she doesn’t say it back, she really doesn’t have to. I feel it here in my heart.
My laptop dings in the background, notifying me another user just logged in to watch my live stream.
Behind me, incense burns, creating a smoky, mysterious atmosphere.
Above, windchimes twinkle a gentle song, due in part to the oscillating tower fan I have aimed in the chime’s direction, because it adds a mystical ambiance that really sets the mood.
Ahead of me, a table with a crystal ball, a special-made tarot deck with my best friend Aussie acting out all the cards, and an endless array of pink and purple crystals.
While the decorations on my work desk are captivating enough, I think it’s pretty obvious I steal the show.
I’m wearing a hot pink harness, bedazzled to hell and back with rhinestones, and a pink jockstrap.
On my head, there’s a stunning pink psychic scarf with a big, gaudy gemstone in the center.
Bubba bought it for me, he just doesn’t know yet.
The ensemble is giving Cocky Boys meets Dynasty meets Sylvia Crowne, and I love that for me.
It’s been two days since Johnny tampered with my sunscreen, dying my skin orange like that evil motherfucker in the White House.
I look absolutely tragic, and no matter how many layers of foundation I apply, the tangerine hue shines through.
For my last two live streams, I’ve had to film myself in black and white so I don’t come across as a far-right fanboy.
I don’t particularly care for the look of it, but I’d much rather look like a slutty episode of I Banged Lucy than a you-know-who supporter. Fucking gag.
Johnny’s been strangely quiet ever since we got home.
He just sits there, looking guilty as hell.
Good. He is guilty. Guilty of ruining my flawless skin by turning into a hideous shade of orange.
Part of me thinks the incident was flat-out malicious, but then I remember the way Johnny looked when he held me as I shot my load.
He may have hated me up to now, but it feels like something shifted in that boat.
I mean, he told me to come for him. He called me a good boy.
Then he came for me. Because of me. All over my now-orange face.
Those aren’t the actions of someone who hates your guts.
It felt like progress. Maybe even like inevitability, but that inevitable feeling feels smaller and smaller each time I look in the mirror and see myself, because I’m reminded of why Johnny Boyd is literally the worst. I look godawful.
I’ll get him back for this, and when I do, it will be fucking brutal.
But I kind of don’t want it to be brutal for him.
“Welcome,” I say to my viewers, pinching my right nipple to make it poke out.
The men who subscribe to my profile expect slutty psychic services of the highest caliber, and I always deliver.
“The night is young and alight with possibility. The spirits are speaking. Are you prepared to listen?” I glance down at the chat window and scowl, because they’re not paying attention to my words at all. For fuck’s sake.
“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!” Closing my 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 and ask 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.