Chapter 4 #2
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 the store 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 my stepmother 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.
When I look up at the screen to announce my potential new canine friend, Harold has sent at least ninety messages back to back, each one in all caps, demanding, “TITS! TITS! TITS!”
I have no more patience for this man or his misogyny.
“The spirits say you’re an asshole and that you’re gonna get ass-fucked with a machete.
Hope it hurts, Harold.” Done with him, I block the bastard, because I won’t condone his horrible behavior, and I don’t need his measly five-dollar monthly subscription.
Bubba gives me all the money I want. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a kept man, because I’m kept by Bubba, and I’ll rock that title like it’s a badge of honor.
StopFrackingStartSnackingOnDaddy is typing, and it takes him a full minute to finally get the words out, saying, “Can you do me next?”
God knows why it took him so long to type five words, but I didn’t mind, because the silence gave me the chance to stare at his profile picture, and it’s probably my favorite picture ever.
It’s a close-up shot of his ass, and his ass is high, tight, and full of life.
Probably full of cum, too, because an ass like that deserves all the loads.
I would bet my life it gets bred quite frequently.
The man has barely spoken two words to me since he subscribed a couple of months ago, yet somehow, I think I’ve fallen in love with his butt.
I want to spread his cheeks wide open and give him a nice, long kiss.
Bury my tongue inside it. Hell, I kind of wanna put my nose right against his pucker and inhale his scent, but that’s a depraved thought, and something only an absolute whore would contemplate.
Guess I’m a whore for that hole.
“Yes, I can absolutely do you next, sir.” I shuffle my tarot deck as I smile into the camera. “Are you ever going to tell me your name Daddy McSnack?”
He responds with a thumbs down emoji, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t disheartening.
Still, I soldier on, splitting the cards into two piles.
I don’t really understand the art of tarot reading, but my best buddy Austin says it’s not what’s in the cards that matter, it’s the words singing in your heart, but how the fuck would he know?
He’s not psychic, and he can’t sing to save his life.
We learned that in Pretty Boy Prison. All he knows how to do is stroke his cock on camera for tips.
He can’t be expected to know the ins and outs of the art of clairvoyance.
I flip the first card over. It’s a picture of Austin, lying back in bed, his cock hard and standing at attention.
His testicles have been painted to resemble a skull and crossbone.
“Ah, the death card,” I tell Daddy McSnack.
“Don’t be scared, though. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to die.
” God, I hope he doesn’t die. What a waste for queer men across the world that would be.
“We’ll know more when I draw your next card, so don’t freak out just yet. ”
“I’m not,” he replies.
“Well, you could show a bit more enthusiasm, but that’s okay.
” Turning my attention back to the deck, I sigh once the next card is face-up.
The High Priestess. “Shit. Well, that settles it. You’re dead as a doornail, Daddy McSnack.
I’m actually kind of bummed. I think you might be my favorite person here, even though you don’t talk a lot.
” On the card, Austin is wearing an unsecured white priestess robe, the front wide open, his cock hard and jutting out at an alarming angle, leaking all over the fucking rug as he cheeses for the camera.
He’s wearing an oversized hat that kind of looks like it came from a pope costume. I adore my best friend.
StopFrackingStartSnackingOnDaddy responds with a question mark.