An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)

The person sitting in front of me—this person who is enjoying a luke-warm cup of Earl Grey (with a generous squirt of honey, but passing on the lemon wedge), while our barista sets down a marbled sliced of cheesecake—isn’t what I imagined. Though, I can’t say what I imagined. Or who, for that matter.

“Expecting a long, wisely old beard and a toga?” the person asks, reading my mind. It takes some getting used to, I admit. However, it isn’t very long before this person—what gender pronoun can I even use here?—continues, “Neither and both. Considering the consensus of the religiously”—air quotes—“astute in this country, you may call me him. But no capital ‘H.’ I hate that shit.”

After a sip of his tea, he adds, “Call me God, Logos, or Prometheus. Any name will do, actually. Given the opportunity, which I’ve had several times in the past, I’d call myself Lloyd. Can you imagine that, though? Going to church—if you went to church that is—and reciting, ‘All praise be to Lloyd, who all things obey?’”

Lloyd, God, Logos, Prometheus stands no taller than five-six in platform boots. His frame is feminine and thin, with slight muscular undertones which is visible beneath the skin-tight, long sleeve shirt he wears underneath a blazer. He is garbed in black with facial piercings, resembling a person who listens to the lyrical genius of Dani Filth than Amy Grant. He takes a ginger forkful of the marbled cheesecake in front of him, and makes a face when the taste registers on his tongue.

“The things you people put into your bodies,” he says taking a drink. “I’m sure Luci is going to get the rap for this one, as well.”

“Who?” I ask.

“As in Fer. Lucifer,” he laughs. “Satan. The Morning Star.”

“So he’s real, too?”

“Oh, you’d better believe he’s real, too.” He stink-eyes the cheesecake, makes a move for it, before retracting back into the lean of the sofa chair he occupies. “He’s not too bad,” he continues, “Satan. Gets a bad rap for what’s written in the second half of that book. He’s a pussy cat, really.”

“So original sin, Job, and all the end times?”

“I’ll give you Job, but he was only doing what I hired him for,” he answers. “When I found ol’ Luci, he was stuck in some middle management job over the Betelgeuse sector…” He pauses and looks me over, smirking. “Yes, Heaven is all encompassing the entire universe, not just the earth as some of you”—air quotes—“astute religious leaders believe. When I designed the big bang, I had this plan to spread out as far as possible and create as much as possible, but I couldn’t be everywhere—yeah, I said it—so I started up a franchise and hired a bunch of angels to do my bidding in the other sectors.”

“So is ours the center of the universe?”

“Of course, not. We’ll get there shortly, however,” he takes a drink of his Earl Grey and makes for the marbled cheesecake once again. After a grimace and forced swallow, he opines, “That’s me awful.” Continue reading “An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)”




“Beauty as we feel it is something indescribable; what it is or what it means can never be said.” ― George Santayana

“I’m assuming, Guillermo, that you prefer thin women,” she said. What an assumption, I think. She’s only met the last girlfriend. She doesn’t know the history of my relationships. How the “love of my lifes” have come in many shape and sizes, and it just so happens that this one is thinner, better looking, and wonderful. It’s situations like this, by the way, that make me wish I worked at home. And I can’t take too long to answer this statement because it will only confirm that I do like thin women, and I’m some “gentleman who prefers blondes.”

“I like people,” I muttered. Wait? I like people? Since when? Since when does the greatest misanthrope I know like people? I worded that wrong. Before I can correct myself, the conversation’s moved on.

I’m going to think for a moment. Have I ever liked someone for physical reasons alone? Sure, there have been celebrities who caught my eye. And the occasional porn star in my youth, but these are abstract people. People without personalities. That’s not saying Neve Campbell, Zooey Deschanel, or Jenna Jameson don’t have personalities – well, maybe just the first two – I’m stating that I don’t know them, or the personalities personally. But these people have just been idols of affection, not the actual affection.

There are physical attributes I do find attractive. I’m partial to green eyes. A flock of red locks will turn my head. A potential significant other’s hands must be neater than mine, but not been deprived of actual work. That doesn’t mean I’ll find a woman attractive if she has all these attributes but lacks the ability to form a cognitive thought. That is, no bimbos allowed.

I’ve only been attracted to two girls that met all three attributes, and only dated one. The first girl was in the sixth grade and she dragged me through the mud by using my affection against me. The second was my ex-girlfriend, whose ego matched mine and, for those who don’t know this, that can cause a relationship to implode. This, of course, has led me to think my “preferences” are misguided – at least when combined with redheads.

Whenever I was unfortunate enough to “hang” with the guys, I happened a lot on the typical eye-fucking of random objects of desires. They always commented on that girl’s tits, or that MILF‘s ass, or that one woman’s legs and how their “dick sucking lips” can be seen from space. Most men salivate over big tits like a hungry newborn. I prefer smaller breasts, playfully calling them boobs when I want to act like a child with the woman I love. Mind, I don’t shun busting bosoms should they be attached to something more meaningful, I just don’t “prefer” them. If I had to boil down my animalistic lusts – I am human, after all, and flawed like all men – my eyes will perk up when a sculpted backside waltzes by. Thankfully, my  lusts are usually at bay and I never boast about this perversion of my senses.

Too much time has passed, of course. I couldn’t even bring it up if I wanted to. Someone should write a book. An Introvert’s Guide to Working in the Workplace. And it should contain chapters dealing with those awkward personal conversations that we are all doomed to be a part of. Millions will sell. Instant bestseller. You’re welcome.



Writing & Writers

This feeling’s almost pornographic


via: EmilyStrange

Several years ago, a buddy had this idea that we should make pornography. In hindsight, the idea was doomed to fail. First of all, neither of  us had a camcorder or camera, for that matter. We also lacked the basic editing software (I didn’t even have a computer at the time). There were so many things wrong with the idea, but we were young and stupid and willing to believe that the impossible would happen. He started choosing his porn director’s name before we even had anything ready. That’s like already planning the title of your album when you buddies agreed to join your band.

Four-finger John – the buddy – was an old high school buddy. I’d gained so much weight by the time of our reunion at some hot dog joint that was run by another high school chum. He didn’t even recognize me, even though we were speaking for a long time. “Fucking Willie,” he finally said. “Dude, I didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s the weight,” I said. “I get that a lot.”

He approached me with the idea of making porn with  a story – influenced by the golden age of the adult industry when sex happened during a story. The story didn’t have to be all that great, it just had to have some more substance than “I’m here to clean your pipes,” or “You don’t have money to pay for this pizza?” Because I was going by the title of would-be writer at the time, he wanted to me to pen a script that would be our pornographic opus. To be honest, I didn’t have a single clue what went into a porno script. Does a pornographic writer have to include the “oohs,” “ahhs,” “oh gods,” and “I’m cummings?” Did we have to describe the sex acts? When the players would remove their clothes and in what fashion? It became so hard (no pun) to figure this shit out, that I just called it quits. Not worth it, mostly because the only thing I had penned was some Amish porn that I’m sure was going to be twisted into some sick depravity that I wasn’t even willing to partake in. Thus the porno dream was over. Good timing, too. With the advantage of the internet on the fingertips of several pirates, I’ve heard the adult industry had taken the same spill the mainstream film market took.

A couple of years ago, I took this freelance writing gig from some Canadian porn blog. I got paid $5 a post of a 100 words. All I had to do was watch a clip and then write something dealing with it. My subjects ran from wanting to be a cuckold to the ordinary girl-next-door wanting to explore the depths of bondage. All in all, it was boring work and by the end of my contract I wanted to be so far from it that I took a vacation to the local hospital to get my appendix removed (I’m told this is totally unrelated).

It seems that it always returns to pornography. Ever since I was introduced to it, I’ve been intrigued by what gets people off. What turns them on, what makes their skin crawl and what pulls them out of their comfort zone. Maybe not just pornography, but human sexuality. Both vanilla and the decadent (not to be confused with depravity). In college, I’ve wrote several essays on pornography and pornographic related topics – mostly literature based pornography like William S. Burroughs’ (in)famous novel, Naked Lunch, and the Kinsey Report.

But I think back to Four Finger John’s idea. Porn for a reason sounds like something worthwhile. Blurring the line between the art world and that mainstream media ignores. It’s just a shame that I didn’t think of this earlier; it seems that others have beaten me to the punch.