Who Am I Now? - Sex Stories

Who Am I Now?

... tell her the only thing he could really think or feel or believe right now: baby, I just fell off a shelf and broke all apart and I need you…jesus, fuck, baby I need you…to heal me all back up with your sweet little pudgy hands and those lips outta paradise. It would almost be better to turn around, get back on the train and go home. But it was Thursday. Their day. Everything would feel out of place, and if he got back on the train now it would only feel like he never got off. At least if he waited until morning, as usual, it would feel like the scene of somebody else’s crime. The Pentecostal church on the corner of Elmhurst and Woodlawn was lit up and bursting with sound. It was usually quiet on Thursdays, but tonight it was full of aching believers. As he passed by the front, Bill caught a flash of a man’s voice singing something about not letting the devil drive your car. Sure, I ride the fuckin’ subway , he thought. But the sound was strong even as it was slightly muffled by the church walls and it felt like the man’s voice was penetrating his blood. Bill walked up the steps and found a clear spot in the stained glass window where he could peer inside. There was a full band spread across the front of the pulpit, and the singer was standing in front of them. The man was huge, wearing a mustard yellow suit that draped him like a boat sail. He was sweating with the strain of conviction, eyes closed and gripping a wireless mic. He had to be close to three hundred pounds and ...

... was using his body to help push out the words, as if maybe he could fire them closer to god that way. The pews were packed full of people. Heads were bobbing, leaning back, dropping forward. Hands were raised in the air. An ancient woman with a midnight dark complexion in a turquoise dress was on her feet, leaning on a walker and singing along. Bill turned away and sat on the steps. Listening. Except for the icy cement against his ass, he almost felt warm. He almost wanted to go inside, but he couldn’t. He would cease being a ghost. And anyway, there was no devil. Just a thousand tiny little ones that chip away at whatever they can reach in a thousand tiny little ways. Erosion. The devil wasn’t some monster car crash. It was one day after another of the kind of soul-sucking mediocrity you never see coming. He sat and listened until an elegantly dressed couple was suddenly there, walking up the steps. He got up and headed for the sidewalk, giving them a nod as they passed. They called at him to come inside, but he just waved without looking back. It would have been too much like getting back on the subway. A couple blocks down he spotted the orange and silver chimi truck that was always parked for business on the other side of the street. For the first time in three years of Thursdays, Bill crossed the street and decided to see the truck from the other side. There were a couple of people at the window ordering something in Spanish. There was a squat, almost stocky man standing ...