Dear Mom: Don't Read This One
Teatime in Paris — God and his daughter — The charming nature of fate
Teatime in Paris
She walked in the hostel bar to the sound of Eurotrash dubstep and 47 male necks breaking in unison. This woman was every man’s dream — long-legged, blonde, alone.
She was far too pretty to be approached by a mortal man. Luckily I possessed a godlike confidence at the time and followed my flexed torso over to her table.
We made our way to an Irish pub and found ourselves giggling in a corner about whatever young horny people giggle about. Across from us sat a man, drinking alone. He gave us a look that said “why must you laugh at my misery?” which of course we weren’t — we weren’t monsters, nor had we had a chance to notice the great humor in his saddened state. He nodded his head slowly and walked away. I felt sad for a moment before she put her hand on my thigh to remind me of what was truly important.
The night progressed as you might expect. She talked about fashion, abortion, social media followers. I think she may have been basic, partly because she kept saying “I know I’m just a basic British girl, ha ha ha.” But I don’t know… a basic British girl still seemed pretty cultured to me.
Okay, I’ll skip to the romantic part.
Dumb drunk and skin shining with sweat, we made our way into the streets of Paris to rub jeans under the Pont des Arts. I grunted and she panted to the tune of Symphonie fantastique played by the homeless saxophonist at whose feet we tussled. The architecture resembled the early work of Le Corbusier, and I admired the sculptural expressionism in the way the Brit kept one pinkie in the air while the other remained {omitted}.
We drunkenly necked in the backseat of a rustic french taxi. God we must’ve looked just like Hemingway and Fitzgerald.
We entered the hostel lobby in a dead sprint to her bedroom. Oh, by the way, I’m staying in a 12 person dorm (I’m poor) so can we go to yours? I said oof, I’m sharing a bunkbed with my friend (slightly less poor) who was Muslim, and due to his religious beliefs we would be obligated to join him in prayer the following morning if we proceeded to do the Haram and risk waking a man named after the prophet Muhammad.
We quickly agreed on the unpleasantness of that, so we got as far as we could before the elevator doors opened and shook hands before parting ways. I made my way back to my quarters and climbed onto the top bunk with an abundance of stealth and the desire for British conquest still fresh on my mind.
God and his daughter
She was a short Catholic girl with four names and eight siblings.
She was returning to her family home in east Texas, where she was a learned woman in the ways of family and the church. She spoke about God with an unbridled passion and praised him for placing her among his most devout disciples. I praised American Airlines for placing her in 19B.
There was something erotic in the way she spoke about God and his love for her. His forgiveness. His grace. He listens to her and makes her feel heard. I did the same as my pecker did pushups in my H&M sweatshorts.
We discussed many things, from charity to the occult. She had once seen a man undergo an exorcism at the hand of her pastor, at a reasonable rate of just 10% of her parents’ wages.
She spoke of an interest in exploring other philosophies, but didn’t wish to anger God in her betrayal. After all, he provides for her. He taught her how to ride a bike, and how to not be afraid, no matter what. I told her I knew just what she meant, as I too feared the repercussions of my many betrayals of Heimdall, the pagan overlord who keeps watch over my family’s home.
And who was this “God” she spoke of anyway? There was a moment where I began to wonder if I see myself as a god, and indirectly felt like she might be in love with the idea of me. I pondered this as the other passengers closed their eyes and clasped their hands in prayer while the plane began its ascent — yet her eyes remained fixed on mine.
Which led me to question: was I the God she spoke of?
Sure, I had the makeup of an earthly boy, but I always suspected that I possessed a hint of the divine. It is said that Jesus was born to a woman who was a virgin, or at the very least, one who was willing to go to great lengths to avoid being stoned to death. I too came from a complicated home, a foot taller than my father with a striking resemblance to Dr. Schrader, the man who removed me from my mother a few odd years back.
If I was indeed the God to which she had devoted her existence, the implications were indeed delicious. I pictured our life together. Me and her. She and me. The land our kids would work on. The goats we'd sacrifice together. Being in your late 20s has an existential quality to it, but with her it was all starting to make sense.
Our conversation was interrupted when the wheels of the plane smashed into the ground and everything began to shake violently. People were rocked from side to side. Babies flew about the cabin. She said we had no reason to fear, as she could feel God’s presence there with her, and one day she would repay him for guiding the vessel to safety. I told her not to worry about it.
As I followed her off the plane and into the arrivals wing of the airport, I had never been more sure of what I was feeling. But I couldn’t help but wonder — could there be someone else? Was I misguided in thinking that there could be another being for whose soul she lusted? Was I truly the God she spoke of? I felt so sure of it at the time.
But as we exited the airport I watched her collapse into the arms of her father, and I knew I had found my answer.
The charming nature of fate
I orgasmed into the sock and kept my foot on the gas. I tossed it out the window and looked out at the New Mexican mountains that surrounded me. Ah, nature.
I drove over a hill and noticed an oddly-shaped tree near the road, and also a man and a motorcycle tumbling toward me. What’s that guy doing? I wondered.
I pulled over and the man had made his way to his feet. He was screaming violently and trying to get his helmet off. I was afraid when he pulled it off I would be faced with something disturbing, but thankfully he was only mildly unattractive.
His energy reminded me of a wild animal, kinda like the one that had taken off running after I stabbed it in the heart with my mother’s scythe. The man was looking around and yelling “where is that big ass fucker?” I started to unbuckle my trousers until I noticed him pointing at the large deer laying behind me. I shrugged and followed him over.
By the looks of it, God must have really hated this thing. One of its legs had this long, jagged gash running from the upper thigh to just above the hoof. Also its neck was broken. Poor deer, I thought. You have to pay attention when crossing the road, everyone knows there’s wild motorcyclists in these parts.
While we waited for the ambulance to come in from the big city, a redneck couple stopped to ask if we were okay, and also if they could get their hands on that sweet roadkill loin. We said sure and they hopped out of their truck and began mutilating the deer. I had never seen that fast of a transition from living creature to pile of meat. They offered me some, which was really nice. To be polite I asked if they would like to try a piece of me in return, but I don’t think they heard me.
The couple drove away with their year’s supply and I was alone with the man again. I liked it better that way. He told me his name was Travis, which was fucking insane, because my name is also Travis. We grinned to ourselves after learning this, thinking about how crazy a coincidence it was that two people could have the same name at the same time.
He and I shared a bond after that. Eventually the ambulance came and informed us that he was probably going to be okay, unless he had internal bleeding, in which case he was going to die. I started walking back to my car. He said “see ya around Travis” with this gay little glimmer in his eye.
I would say the whole thing felt like a movie, but I don’t really understand that expression. Because normally I can’t even remember what’s happened in a movie after I’ve left the theater, and I still think about Travis all the time.
Dope.