Chapter Four: Getting the Power

Genesis of Another American God

As a kid I played with the preacher’s daughter. We lived on a farmhouse, all run down with fallow fields. Forty acres of woodland spread across the back, and you could really lose yourself in the tall grasses. In the winter, we even skied through the wood trails. But spring, always, warmed my heart and happiness. Everything new, everything changed after the drear of winter. Now I did love snow, but the apple blossoms and sprouting trees and flowers hold a much more powerful sway. They still do.

Reva liked one thing and could not do another. She enjoyed trading sexes with me, trading underpants. An odd thing for any child, but what did we know? Surely not any better. We never played doctor, never experimented. But we traded underwear. The only drawback: she pissed her pants. Constantly. Getting ever so excited, and interested in the play or any action, she busied herself with matters more important than getting to the bathroom on time.

It’s probably why I wet the bed as long as a serial killer might. (Then again, I did set fire to the backyard once.) Probably why I don’t masturbate like other people do. I let the juices drip out into my underclothing, and revel as they stick back to my body.


*     *     *


So I’m sitting above myself and watching. I’m thinking Qaudrophenia again. Just done diving, and here we are in the snow, a form of water. And I’m looking donw at myself like in the song, 5:15. And what do I see pushing me down, weighing me? What do I see eating into my ribcage, my asshole, my brain? The demons are back again, with their teeth and features like processional giants. Like something Dali painted. Like the first time I saw and almost screamed inside, Lincoln morphing into Gala morphing into Lincoln.

What’s the real image anymore? It’s all these shatters. The anchor snapped. The line fell. I screamed from above to the demons to stop eating me. I needed a Lifter, another concept from my most juvenile writings.

A man goes to Hell, after living but not really living. He’s born in a orphanage. Raped as a child. Is a pretentious artist type teenager. He amounts to nothing in his life. He kills himself for really no reason, after beating and treating lovers badly. (Along with people more or less reaching out to him.) So he is sent to burn in the fires of hell. But Hell is not a forever, and though there is a lake of fire, Angels raid. Special Angels, called Lifters. But Heaven, where the unnamed man is taken, is not the end. It is a good place, but only a transition. One of many possible enlightenments is reached, but the soul is never complete, and the cycle must begin anew. You always return to live again.


Born in a shit house

Born in a shit shack

Born and abandoned


Born in a shit house

Left to die

Born and abandoned


Who will hear,

Who will hear,

Who hears the infant cry?


Growing up little tall thing

Face all there

Look so cute

You just don’t care

Whistling down the alleyway

You shouldn’t dare


The man comes up

He drops a buck

You bend down

To pick it up


The man he smiles

He jingles change

Takes advantage

Of how your mind’s arranged


Will anybody help me,

I’m screaming alone,

Can’t any body hear me?

Starved to the bone


The circle begins

The cycle moves on

The circle laps

Like water under song


Growing up strong

Leaping along

Hiding down the streets

Peeks into alleyways

Turns tricks on good days

Friends with all he meets


Something in his eyes

They say

There’s something

In the way


He moves over rambling

With guns and drugs

Hangs out with stoners

The losers and thugs


Is he looking for himself

Or just plain damned

Ask him he says

“It’s just how I am”


Just how I am

Just how I am

You better watch yourself

Just how I am

Just how I am

Leave me alone, and save your health


Something in his eyes

They say

There’s something

In the way


The cycle begins

The circle moves on

The cycle laps

Like water under song


I don’t care about what you say

I don’t care anyway

I don’t care if I hurt you so

I don’t care at all you know

Don’t care at all you know


Now you could hit the street

Or we could hit the sack

One way or the other

Like it or not, mother,

There’s never turning back

Never turning back

You’re never turning back


Now I could beat you

Black and blue

Have a shitty life

Now I could eat you

And love you too

Go on, roll the dice


Why should I care about you anyways

You’re just a woman

And that’s on your good days

I see nothing

I’m in this haze

Even murder couldn’t faze

I’m gone a ways

My mind plays

Steadiness that never strays


Strangle her

The voices call

Strangle her

With your strength

Strangle her

I feel so moved

To beat and rape

And great length


Who am I

Why am I

Wherefore shall I live?


Who am I

Why am I

No one the answer can give


Who am I

Why am I

Jumping now off the bridge


And down down down

Down into the water

Jumping and drowning

Pressure surrounding

Nature’s own true daughter


The circle begins

The cycle moves on

The circle laps

Like water under song


The judge sets before

He opens the book

Damns them to hell

With one quick look

Lines after lines

He sends them to fate

Time after time

They scream love and hate


Down in hell its burning hot

A lake of fire

Like the Sunday school

Where I played the fool

Told me but I forgot


Down in hell a burning flame

With no shame

Like martyrs tied up

Suffer eternal pain

And all Satan says

In Gods own name


When suddenly explosion rock

The core of this pit

Bursting by

Angels fly

Say “we’ll get you out of it”


And a chorus resounds

From all around

People waiting to get free

The song bursts from them

From so many

The song it bursts from me


Like from rote memory

A buzzing in the sea

            I know this

            Some good kiss

            Passion bliss

            Will set me free


            Oh help m Lifter

            Save me Lifter

            Carry me above

            Help me Lifter

            Save me Lifter

            Make me pure again

            Ease the pain

            Send me flying like the dove


            Help me Lifter

            I’m calling now

            Stop me Lifter

            From falling now

            Oh please Lifter

            I repent my sin

            Mercy Lifter

            Take me in


            Take me in

            Take me in

            Lifter Lifter

            Take me in


            I repent

            I repent

            I recant

            I repent my sin

            Love me again

            Oh Lifter, take me in


            Flying higher and higher

            A real live wire

            Catching desire

            Away from the fire


            Ever higher

            Ever higher

            Warm yourself

            In Grace’s fire


            Getting higher

            Getting higher

            So close to Gods

            So far from the mire

 (of hell)


Sit and think

Reach the state

You’ll get there

Just you wait


It’s all kindness


Gardens too



Colored blue



Coming towards you


It’s all kindness


Gardens too



Colored blue



Coming towards you


A classical garden

Zen raked sand

Sit and think a while son

Try to understand


The lapping of the waves

The playing of the band

The kisses touch the land

Sandy winds move sand

One more time

Then take my hand

We’ll take you back

Each magic man

Take you back

Down to the land


The crying of a newborn babe

In his mothers arms

Safely now

Across the hearth

So far away from harm


The father’s home

He sets his books

Down and takes a look

At The mother and child

So meek and mild

And all the work it took


A picture frame

Bears his name

The date of each birth

Love him now

Love him how

They show him his worth

On this planet earth


I need the lifters, because demons aren’t just sexual beasts. Jake swears by this, and constantly looks for books about demons. But for me, the demon is nonsexual. The sex is never about sex, ever. It’s about the crime, the sin. A rape is not sex with a crime. It’s a terrible crime with forced sex.

Fear. Her terrible tail twisted around my neck, and forced it to look out at the ledge we drove perilously over. I wondered about falling, and found myself back in my body. A tear ticked down my cheeks. I hate heights, flying, and altitude. I’m a low person, I think. I do better drowning than flying. Swimming underwater, diving, I mean.

I know diving only became popular because of the great Cousteau. And he only began to dive after he couldn’t fly planes. But I am terrified of heights. I can get on a plane, fine. Even look out the window. In the back of my mind I always wonder whether I’ll need to remember the safety instructions. Also, I sometimes wonder if my last act, the death act, will include ejaculation. What a glorious way to go, secreting all over oneself. Very dignified, completely different than the person I pretend I am. I’m a good boy, I play by the rules. Never do anything out of line, officer. At least when there’s risk involved.

I must get through this storm. I need to get back to school on time. Not because I like school, or even enjoy it. After all, I freaked out for the most part, and dropped the class with that crazed Whitman proclaiming, transcendentalist ruining so-called English teacher. I needed time, and understanding. A teacher ever bit as pretentious as myself would never allow that, believing her interpretation of everything always better than anyone else’s. Never mind I’m the only one who understood the sex innuendo of Dickinson and Wild Nights. Mooring, indeed!

Of course, I wanted to get back for another reason. Makayla. I spent hours dreaming of her body, beautiful with those long brunette locks cascading over the curves. Especially the curve of the back. I dreamed of her and I twisted together, her black boots still on. I dreamed love, kisses, and houses together. Child dreams. Still a child, I knew no better. I still believed in the ultimate grand outcome of the best laid plans.

Onward, then, through the snow. Speed on through all the little towns and get back as fast as possible to Corvallis. I hate the town but I loved the girl. And since the girl lived in the town, I could make exception. I wouldn’t revolt yet, but stay firm and wait for the girl.

We arrived home at about two in the morning. I went to bed, knowing I would face a terrible day of school, as vacation ended the next morning. Nature intervened, and it snowed even more heavenly heavily as I lay sleeping. I woke at about noon, and panicked.

“I’m missing school,” I called out, scrambling around and stubbing my toes all over the place.

“No you’re not,” my mother said back. “School’s cancelled.”


“Look outside.” I saw snow all around, snow even more than before. It reminded me of an early snowstorm, in my formative years. The wind blasted around all over the place, and when the snows finally stopped school stayed closed for half a week. I played around like a gopher digging through dirt, making forts of all kinds and enjoying the genderless feeling of red snowsuits. I went down to Makayla’s house and hung out, enjoying her touches, kisses, and the sweet smell of her scented hair brushes past my nostrils. She seemed rather off that day, pushing me away a little more than usual.

So I went home. Night fell. The stars sparked across the sky. I spent time on my computer, the whole night really, looking at shemale porn—a terrible fetish I am ever so shamed of—as well as talking with Makayla. I needed both. School came back in session the next day, and she decided to blow me up like an emotional Nagasaki.


<<I need to tell you something.>>


            <<What, what?>>

<<Well… I want to break up.>>


<<I don’t think this is working out.>>

<<I thought it was going rather well.>>

<<Well, its not.>>

<<We need to talk in person.>>

<<I don’t want you to come near me for a while. Leave me alone for tomorrow.>>

<<Can I come talk tonight?>>

<<It’s late. How’re you gonna get a ride down?>>

<<I’ll walk.>>

<<You really won’t.>>

<<I will. I’m coming now. I’m going now.>>

<<Well hold on. I’ll be in my room. Tap on the window, and I’ll let you in.>>

<<Okay. I’ll see you in, like, twenty minutes.>>


<<I love you.>>

<<See you.>>



So I pulled on a pair of long underwear, to warm from the cold. Over these I pulled jeans. I also put on a long underwear shirt, under a white t-shirt. Finally, I pulled on a grey parka. I inherited the parka when rummaging in the closet of my grandmothers house after my grandfather died. It kept me quite warm as I traced my way from my house to hers.

Under the night lights, with the pale moon casting shadows, I barely managed to sneak out. The darkness and demons surrounding scared me. Snow soaked into my shoes as I made my way through Walnut Park. I hoped dearly that nothing bad would happen.

I’m afraid of the dark, you see. It takes quite a time to get to sleep. There’s this terrifying feeling that if I let myself go, then the shadows will envelop and devour me. The demons will transform from the simply ethereal into corporeal. They will tear into me and open my head. And though I welcome death, I am afraid of the act itself. I wish to die, but am afraid like everyone else to follow through with the thought. Until my sophomore year of high school, I required a nightlight to sleep. Letting your guard down shows the weakness to the forces of nature, who are willing to exploit it.

Maybe the fear of the dark comes from an early age reading of H.G. Wells. At about seven, when I first moved from New York to Oregon, my mother gathered children of the neighborhood (near Halloween) and read them the story The Red Room. To summarize, a man is staying at an old house. He is told about a room where there have been murders. He wants to investigate, but the caretakers warn him of the room. He goes up and spends most of the night in the room, freaked out by the sights and sounds. The room is glowing red. When he gets out, and almost kills himself, the caretakers ask him what is in the room. He says something to the effect that the only thing that causes tragedy is the fear of the room.

Since we just moved in, the house needed refitting. My room lacked curtains. To make do for a while, my mother fastened up a red blanket. A streetlight sat in such a way that every night it would shine into my bedroom. The room glowed bright red. I couldn’t step in at night, and often needed someone to check for the monsters and demons let in because of the spooky light.  I never got over the red glow washing around the room like blood about to drown me. Eventually blue drapes solved the problem, and I could sleep at night.

But I still need a light sometimes. The darkness and demons are ever present. And that night, trying to make my way through the dark, I thanked the heavens that the light of the moon reflected from the melting snow banks. With tears still in my drama queen eyes, I walked down to Makayla’s house. I ducked in shadows on seeing one police car, as one o’clock is well past curfew for the underage. I didn’t want any trouble, just to talk with the girl my heart leapt into sickness for.

So I finally crept into her house, at about 1:30. I noted that it took me twenty minutes to walk, in the snow. That meant, I believe, fifteen minutes without all the crap. I tapped on the window, and she looked out. She motioned me inside, and showed me the guestroom, set up for my stay.

I’d been dying on the walk, and composing. When I feel down, saddest, I can make the whole world a terrible poem of rage and hate.


I’m dying like the

Whole world is crying

At my feet

            And I can’t stop the

            Feeling that I’m

            Wheeling and dealing

            And I’m just a sheep

            No one cares if I ever drown

            No one cares at the raging sound

            In this rain full of pain

            You’ll remember my name

            And never be the same

            I take the tokens the pawns

            Eat the shit like prawns

            Dead lost in the game

            Back at my feet

            Where we can meet

            And kiss

            And move through this

            Let’s get over the fight

            Today or tonight

            And move onto bliss

            Move into love again

            Move on into refrain

            Sounding something like this


            Though I’m a hatred

            And I’m fated

            To go down in annals

            Go through all the channels

            The worst man in history

            Baby Hitler ain’t got nothing on me

            Shake me falling out the tree

            I gave up like Cain

            The same old people again

            It’s the only story

            In this bleeding rain

            As we’ve stated


            So I’m in the shit again

            I could hit again

            I know that this is sin

            But I’m feeling rather pissed

            Now we could love again

            Couple like doves again

            Connect like bone and pin

            Forcing like a fist


            Though I’m a hatred

            And I’m fated

            To go down in annals

            Go through all the channels

            The worst man in history

            Baby Hitler ain’t got nothing on me

            Shake me falling out the tree

            I gave up like Cain

            The same old people again

            It’s the only story

            In this bleeding rain

            As we’ve stated


            I’m coming to you now

            I’m coming to you now

            Coming to you now

            Come on let us live

            With love that we can give

            One another

            Sister and brother

            Of the soul

            Burned up hot like coal

            I’m crying now


Though I’m a hatred

            And I’m fated

            To go down in annals

            Go through all the channels

            The worst man in history

            Baby Hitler ain’t got nothing on me

            Shake me falling out the tree

            I gave up like Cain

            The same old people again

            It’s the only story

            In this bleeding rain

            As we’ve stated


            I slipped into a prepared sleeping bag. I asked her to cuddle with me. She said no. I asked her to come closer; to tell me what she felt went wrong. She did so, and began to detail my long train of abuses, including not treating her as equal, and as an intelligent human.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

            “You don’t seem to.”

            “I know. I just—I can’t figure out what my life is about. Whether I’m coming or going. What it’s worth, or what it’s for.”

            “I want you—I need you to listen to me, okay.”

            “Okay. I love you.”

            “Shush. Just listen.”


            “Well, you see, you get depressed. It really scares me. I think you might kill yourself. I don’t want you to do that. Promise me one thing?”

            “Anything. I love you.”
            “I said shut up… now listen, and promise me. I can’t continue if you keep on like this, always going off and about to jump off a bridge or, I don’t know, so something. I want you to promise me… you won’t ever do something like that. Never kill yourself.”

            “I promise… I don’t really want to die. I’m scared of it.”

            “But I still think we need to break up.”

            I began to cry, I pulled her closer.

            “Kiss me, and say that again.”

            “I don’t want to do it.”

            “Just one last… a goodbye kiss.”


            “Yes.” I pulled her close to me. We locked lips. She pushed me down, and slipped her hand between the seams of my pants. It saddened me to think, later, that I did this. I should have allowed the break, and went on with my life. But I clung fast onto the first girl to really show me mercy, understanding. It always goes like this: if any girl takes any interest in what I do, I form a crush on them, which then almost inevitably becomes a problem—an obsession. And sometimes I lose the ability to understand my stupidity in these matters, and let my words, or my art, or something give the girl a clue. In the end it’s always a shutdown, shunning I receive. It’s the same cycle over and over, and I cannot break free, try as I might. Maybe I understand it so well, so analytically, I cannot change it.

            We slept arm in arm for that night, and surprised her parents when they awoke. Fortunately, we excused this by saying I felt rather depressed and needed to get out of the house. I felt rather scared. A lie. But I never said much, just letting Makayla do the talking.

            My cell phone rang. I picked up. My father spoke form the other end.

            “Are you okay?”


            “You coming home tonight?”


            “Next time just ask us… but we have to talk about the shit on your computer. I mean, it’s disgusting.” Just what I needed, my father not understanding or accepting my fetish.


*     *     *


            See I’m just like Jimmy Cooper. Damn that sonic mindfuck called Qaudrophenia. I’m so tired of loneliness, but I can’t change, so I got to play the asshole. The abuser. The one thing I never wanted. The one thing I most thought I would avoid. I’m a nice boy, I follow the rules. I’m thicker than most, but I’m the good guy. You can tell your problems to me, I won’t shut you up even if I don’t really care and wish you would go away. I really do hate my personality type, and wish it changed. But I can’t become what I’m not.

            I get so angry. People are stupid. Quoting Mr. Cooper, damned Mod, “There's a part of me that hates people. Not the actual people but how useless they are, how stupid. They sit and stew while the whole world gets worse and worse. Wars and battles. People dying of starvation. Old people dying because their kids have got their own kids and they ain't got time. That's what makes me smash things up. My shrink says I ain't mad. He should see me when I'm pissed.” That’s me. I’m raging. Sad. Switching from one pretend to the next, not knowing which is myself. The demons pull me in so many different directions, like a thousand toddlers vying for attention. I just want to sit alone, and have some angel, some lifter, some heart come to me. It’s no use getting up out of the seat anymore, I might as well just wait until the rocks fall into the water and I finally drown better than thinking of myself as what I seem:


            “Dr. Jimmy and Mister Jim

            When I’m pilled you don’t notice him

            He only comes out when I drink my gin.”


            Yes, I’m a lunatic thrasher. And I hate myself for it. Want to die, to drown. But I can’t. I made that promise. I won’t break it. All promises I make I mean. If I break them, it’s through my stupidity, or accident. I try so very hard to never, ever, ever say something I don’t mean. Consequently, the stuff I say is either sarcastic or just plain asocial.

            People don’t approach me anymore. I’m rather glad of that.


*     *     *


            At school the next day we, hand in hand, approach Careen. She raises an eyebrow. She draws close.

            “What’s up?”


            “We slept together last night.”

            “What?” She’s taken aback. A straight-laced girl, like the heroine of the most terrible bodice ripper, she believes in all the societal crap I never cared for. Stuff like abstinence. Looking good. Presenting oneself as a decent person. Her kink, I knew, involved whips and chains and domination. Very punishing and strict, probably learned from her punishing and strict mother. I always felt you adopt fetishes for survival, though I am unsure where and when mine spawned.

            “We didn’t do anything,” Makayla popped into the conversation, saving me from becoming an enemy. “Just actually slept together.”

            “Oh, that’s good then.” So we went off to class. I felt apprehensive about going home, and in the middle of the day realized I needed to borrow a camera from somewhere in order to make a short little shitty video for Child Development. I know—I can hardly remember myself in the class. But I think my gut’s knowledge of my ineptness at the subject is correct. I’m okay with children, but I’m way too dark for them. That’s why I’d rather leave them alone. The family camera, broken, I asked Makayla what I should do.

            “My dad has a video camera. I think you could borrow it for a while.”

            “Cool. I have a tripod.”


            “Yeah, but nothing to use it with.”

            “Well, why do you have it then?”

            “It was before my camera broke. I mean my parents broke. Water got in it, you know?”


            “Yeah, we have an underwater housing. The first camera broke when it flooded, and so we ordered a camera. It’s the same one, really, which is amazing. Apparently, it’s very hard to fit a camera to a housing since housings are made to fit specific cameras. Anyways, the same thing happened: it flooded.”

            “Oh yeah? Well, come over after school, and you can get the camera.”

            I did, and went home. Then the thrashing for my fetish began. I called home for a ride, and stayed as silent as possible. I just wanted to flop into my comfortable bed, and let out the tears of a long day. But I found my father waiting, with a voice like a thousand needles pricking one at a time into various places around my body.

            I don’t like much. Confrontation is high on that list. I just want respect, love, and sometime alone every once in a while. I also don’t want my likes and dislikes challenged. (This probably helped with the inevitable break up.) So my father starts in with the thrashings. Verbal thrashing.

            “What the hell is this on your computer?”


            “This porn…”

            “We saw what you’re looking at.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “How do they even do this?”

            “Is that even real? Do they use Photoshop?”

            “I dunno.”

            “Don’t lie.”
            “I don’t know.”

            “You can’t use your computer for a month.. Turn it off.”


            “No. Turn it off.”


            “And you’re grounded for a week.”


            “Go do your homework.”

            “I will then,” and so I huffed off into my room. I resolved to never let their dictation put me in chains. I won’t allow them to bar me; I will look at anything or everything I want. The effect backfired, I think, because now I am ever more addicted to the porn. Still ashamed, but not stopping. I think it’s about people telling me to stop, that makes me not listen. The whole part where I’m anti-authority, and so I just don’t listen to those in power. At least not until they show me their wisdom and worth in the position.


*     *     *


Well, seasons change. The snow melted, and ran like a flood through the streets, clogging the drains for a time. May buds pushed through. Like time lapse, everything went fast. Life wouldn’t slow, wouldn’t stop. Happiness kept going, reciprocating. Exponentially. Damned I didn’t know the biological mathematical factors of such things then. There’s always a crash. It builds up and up and up, and then comes down quick. The trick is trying to find a place, a kind of happiness that is just enough but not too much. Don’t get too high on the hope and promise of love. It leaves with the crash.

            In their way, I guess relationships are like small communities of animals. What I mean is the exponential growth then stabilizes, and a good relationship finds the threshold without crashing. If they crash its time to try some new tactic.

            Makayla and I moved foreword, into the hard love. I know this because she told me so. After one fantastic evening, laying in bed and touching and holding each other, she pulled me close to her. She whispered in my ear.


            “Thank you for waiting.”

            “Waiting for what?”
            “For me… to fall in love with you.”

            “I love you.”
            “I love you ever so.”

            “I know.” I saw her eyes, like the glisten of the Lifters. Demons started falling off my back. I felt on another plane, finally accepted and connected and loved. “Love you ever so.”

            “I love you too.”


            We kissed again. Fell back into bed, pulled the covers over our heads. I enjoyed most of all digging my tongue into her secret pleasures. I reveled in the taste, the juices dripping in, down and through my mouth. I always enjoyed giving oral sex better than receiving, and in fact better than most types of sex. Maybe I enjoy coitus—but cunnilingus is ever so much more enjoyable to my palate.

            But the power trip I needed, that addiction out of many, resurfaced. I glanced that amulet, in one of those heavenly lights that shines to me ever so often. I can see read clouds, and I can read lights. It’s my spiritual guide, telling me what to do. Sometimes it leads me wrong, but who’s to tell whether a light that seems so heavenly is right or wrong? Listening to clouds, to light, as I sometimes do, is the closest I get to fate.

            For example, I decided to revel in feeling let down one day. I strapped on my headphones, loaded Quadrophenia into a CD player, and walked on down to Walnut park. The winds raged around me, and I lost myself in the music, hearing cats and caterwauling. I heard rain drops falling both in the music and in the nature. But just as the end, the great refrain of Love Reign O’er Me reached the crescendo, with Roger Daltrey Screaming “On the dry and dusty road,” the sun pieced through the clouds. I looked up, and then backwards. The light showered, like the rain earlier, onto what I call shit shacks. Little lean-to like houses, where transients probably made their rest in times past. Now though, some owner might shoot them simply for living life as their heart dictates. I cried joy tears. No orgasm like simply letting the semen out. But a better orgasm, like when I started pretending, mimicking those of females. It always felt so much better. Like a complete connection with everything at once, like peaceful and perfect became reachable. It feels like stars falling over waterfalls, and exploding into a thousand fireworks of messianic messages and understanding. Or it feels like the end of a good book, you want to cry for leaving the friends held so long, whether the writer and his craft, or the character cast, but happy the ordeals are completed. In the right circumstance, whether correct or not, light brings me into this state.

            I nodded at the amulet. I looked down at the lovely half naked body before me.

            “Hey, can I try something…”


            “Can I—Uh, can I hypnotize you?” And thus began my cruel domination of the girl, which became a compulsion, a craving, yes the great addiction. I could not escape.

            “You’re not going to be able to.”
            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah. But go ahead and try.”

            “All right. Go on and close your eyes. Now,” I began with the softest, deepest voice I could find within me, “I’m going to count backwards from ten. With…each…wo—number, I want you to leave this place… go somewhere freeing, a happy moor, a castle in Scotland… one… leave yourself…. Two, three… the castle, the moor, the plains and their mists are coming into view … four, five, six… forget this place; travel the world of this lonely Scot castle… seven… going… eight… leaving… nine… gone. Ten.” I felt her go limp, her breathing slow. I knew her on a different plane, I could feel a new, deeper connection. “I have some questions, okay?”

            “Do you love me?”

            “I don’t… I don’t know.”
            “Do you want to love me?”

            “I think so.”     

            “May I continue?”


            ‘There’s a well in front of you, look inside.”

            “I see.”

            “See this golden ball, and take it… take the ball, and feel happiness, pure bliss, flowing outward and foreword. Bring the ball in towards you as I count. I am going to give you instructions, and then count. When I finish counting to ten, you will become what I say. Understand?”

            “Yes. Yes I do.”

            Some god would strike me dead as liar if I did not say I felt excited on two levels: the sexual and the metaphysical. After all, it felt thrilling to exert such power. It also felt thrilling to know that what I long held as a superstition and impossible actually worked like magic. I should never discover powers such as these. I still thrill for it, imagine the seduction. It’s almost vampirism, to take someone away from themselves and give them completely new traits. Immoral, probably. But I never did care, given the power.. I became the perfect example for Lord Action.

            “I want you to become a little cheerleader slut. You live for cock.” Here, I finally abandoned all civility. “You need mine in your mouth, you must have it, crave for it call for it, ask me for it. Giggle and pretend you are one of the preppy little cheerleaders. Ready? I will, I shall snap my fingers at the end of the countdown.”

            “Okay.” After she gave the word, I counted to ten. Snapping my fingers, her eyes opened. She did giggle, and put her hands to her lips.

            “Oh Derrick, I need you to have me right now. In my mouth. None of the other guys ever meant anything, so please just let me taste you. Come on, please give me everything. I need, need, need it.” She bent down, and let her mouth open wide. She tugged at my pants, and pulled them down. “What is it, what do you want? I’ll do anything, anything, anything to have you, please. I’m yours.”

            The power stunned me. Almost too much. But I thought for a moment. She whimpered beneath me, kept pathetically pleading. “Shut up, bitch. I want to think about that.”

            “That’s it! Beat me, abuse me. I’m yours. Just give me your sweet dick. I’m begging you.”

            The power brought a new demon, the strongest demon, forward. Strong muscles, and a bluish shape, curved without any particular geometry, with a spiked head, this demon, Power, dug right into my brain and did not let go. I let it in, quite willingly. I loved this new power, this new magic. It excited me so. I felt I should do something taboo with the power, not just given by Makayla, but by this character I conjured within her.

            “Treat me like a sister.”


            “Well, I want you to lick me where I would have a pussy, if I were a woman. And act like we’re an incestuous twin sister couple.” I thought for sure this would break the trance, but she did as I asked. She looked up, after playing with her sister for some time, and asked if she did it well. I said yes, and she shifted back into super slut. As I thought to give the creation of mine her desire, her mother knocked at the door.

            Makayla snapped out of trance.