Silence scattered with lightning speed inside the parish, muting chattering lips and cutting short unrelenting rackets of laughter. Father Apollo picked himself up. The rallied mob cast their keen eyes on him in the same breath. Onward to the pulpit he tramped, frocked in a laundered white alb, his graying hair groomed nicely from back to front. He drew up his hands as he stood before everyone, exclaiming out in a piercing voice, "Our father in heaven, bestow favor to each one of us present here. We meet on your day to honor your name, to glorify you for this wonderful life you have given us, and to recognize you as our only God, for there is no one else greater than you, be it in heaven or on earth." In harmonious unison, we bobbed our heads up and down, eventually sealing the priest's prayer with a submissive, "Amen," that echoed repeatedly from wall to wall.
On the first tier of pews I sat, clad in an ornate purple habit that swept clean the dusty floor beneath every time that I stirred. I was the first one to put, "Amen," into words. Down I bowed my head before the devout priest, crossing myself and giving my rosary a soft peck. In a humble voice I rebuked the talkative woman seated beside me, who was letting a friend know that Father Apollo and Mother Superior were secret lovers.
That whole afternoon, I wept, bowed down on my knees. My dress wetted all over with tears. My eyes bloated like I had received the cruelest of beating. In an agonized voice that moved a watching nine-year-old girl into instantaneous tears, I called out for God's intervention against the many sins corrupting this world, shuddering from head to toe, and having great difficulties in breathing. The tearful girl, thinking I was giving up my ghost, ran outside to seek immediate aid.
I bought clothes of all fads day after day and stashed them in flush wrappings. I would stand meekly in the burning light with a sweet, guiltless smile worn on my face. My look mirrored that of harmless Jesus when he ministered to the needs of the afflicted—healing the sick and filling up empty bellies with invigorating food. The sun baked my skin, transfiguring it to a dark gold. I underwent this crucifixion with astonishing perseverance. Not the sharp nails of the sun piercing into my hands and feet, or the grueling desire to have a chilled drink, would ever triumph in crushing my purposes.
I was a liberator to the aged and youth, both captives of poverty. I used up every single cent I owned in assisting these hapless souls. As gifts of eternal outfits were lavished to my followers, I would place my hands upon their heads, divinely, and send them back to their homes with imperishable blessings from heaven. The entire neighborhood loved me. They looked upon me as their knight, evermore gleaming in the flawless armor of Christ. What they did not know was that I changed my name to Alex Peters every night and sneaked out to film porn in various hotels.
The moon was dragged halfway the sky by an unseen gravity. Hills towered steeply in the distance, black as the cosmos even with soft light twinkling everywhere. I ghosted out of my apartment, a low-pitched clink following my ankle-strapped stilettos. A navy miniskirt securely clung to my curved hips while a cap-sleeved blouse held on to my huge breasts. Down my head hung a platinum wig, its spread out hairs littered carelessly. My wary eyes fluttered left and right, checking every spot that roused my suspicion. Frightened with the persistent clacking of my heels, I took them off one after the other and tiptoed away into the thick forest enwreathing our quiet Little Sisters of Swanson.
I made haste past the lofty trees like I was being pursued. My bucket bag swung down my shoulders, slapping my waist and rocking away towards the shrubs. It was the dearest thing I could never bear to leave behind. Diverse sex toys were stowed inside so that it bulged to near rupture. In the midst of affrighting darkness, I advanced with well-calculated movements, knowing that tripping down would make certain fatal consequences.
My lungs stinging, I stumbled on a deserted road and waited for what seemed like generations before a dawdling cab finally surfaced from the east. It streamed the tar with blinding lights, filling me with sudden hope. I squirmed delightfully in the same way those ragged men and women did every time they saw me walking towards them, burdened with packages they would keenly wrench and embrace. My plea to God was that the taxi would not happen to be packed with passengers. This, it turned out so! I cheerfully leapt into the backseat, slamming the door shut and kissing my rosary. God loved me for a saint I was during daytime, didn't he?
Every night meant videotaping porn in a different hotel. Tonight, I was bound for Sea Lake Hut, sited ten miles away from that place I disliked very much—the awful convent. I had always wanted to do porn growing up. Even though no one knew it, my mom, Cindy, was a working girl who never reached glory heights. 'Working girl' was her nickname for fellow whores who relished sex with men in the face of cameras.
My face tightened with worry as I stepped into the filming room. I noisily shut the door behind me. Fifteen heads quickly reversed, their seething faces scowling at me. "I am so sorry," I apologized to the director, Kirby, who stroked the tip of his cigar on a glowing flame. "The traffic delayed me. I also had a long way to walk just to chance on a cab."
As the cigarette touched his lips, he sucked in a breath of dissipating smoke, and gracelessly bemoaned, "You give me the same lame excuse everyday. I no longer have faith in you, Alex. Try being an honest nun that you fake to be, even for just one single day."
I blazed red. When I was Alex Peters I loathed being reminded of the work I did in the hours of daylight. My heart tore apart with madness, my fingers tensing and my hands curling up into stony fists. In my vision, everything flared red. My teeth gnashed; through the gaps between them I chimed out, "I have jeopardized my reputation so I can keep your ungrateful ass from slipping into poverty. If you won't tell me what the hell I am here for, I am going to return the same way I came. Do you hear me?"
A driblet of sweat oozed down Kirby's appalled face. He glimpsed my piercing glare and shrank back. I crinkled my nose as if though he stank. Perhaps he did. In his moment of unease, his penis swelled inside his pants and soaked his feet with passing urine. What the hell was that? I burst into instantaneous laughter. The rest joined me. Stupefying shame overpowered him, crippling him in the process. He wanted to go into hiding that very instant and never come out.
"We have a man from Dallas nicknamed Brady Fucks. He is new in porn; he is also the guy you will be screwing tonight. There is no script. It's just immediate sex with no any kind of plotting or precise direction. Fuck him all the hell you want. The cameras will be switching close. We are filming this as a promotional clip to our new website, www.raunchygirlz.com. Please bear in mind that you have ten minutes to fuck this guy like this will be your last porno ever."
"And where is this Brady chap?" I questioned, my curious gaze prowling around, "Does he meet my requirements?" I concealed this in my heart: All the men here were ugly. I never had sex with plain-looking guys. I fancied comely boys with stuck-out muscles, unmistakable two-packs, and heavy asses. A satisfying dick of whatever shape, whether banana or zigzag, was a must have. If any of these things lacked, the deal was scrapped.
