Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been thirteen-and-a-half years since my last confession. And that last confession wasn’t genuine. I had to tread a tightrope with that one. I had to maintain the fine line between ‘believable’ and ‘not so true as to compromise my position on the non-eternal damnation stockpile’. But it’s alright. I only half believed in damnation then, and now i have conclusive proof that in accordance with the well orchestrated Catholic rhetoric, damnation IS, in fact, real. But I no longer fear it. I lived it. It was located in the communal staff area at my last place of work, between the mortal hours of 1-2 PM (G.M.T), so I may as well have been honest.
That last confession about not helping my Ma to do housework around the gaff? I should’ve mentioned her black vibrator and KY Jelly. I should’ve discussed my liasons with boys at bus stops, that involved impure thoughts and savage sex scratches on my teenage thighs.
So I thought i’d remedy my dishonesty Father, by giving my current confession to you straight.
I have a dirty little secret. I have a filthy little non-Christian obsession and I think the best person to offer me advice on the matter is a sexless fifty year old, peddling lies, in a dress. Did I come to the right wooden box?
It’s about a boy. Quite a young boy, as it goes. But you know all about that, right Father?
And yesterday I made a purchase for him.
It took me a while to pluck up the courage. I wandered around Tesco piling extra small condoms, panty liners, vaginal douches, Grease 2 on DVD, incontinence pads, hemorrhoid cream, those knickers that pull your gut in, facial hair remover cream and fourteen packets of laxatives in my trolley, before I had the courage to ask the fella behind the counter if he had what I wanted. And as he handed it to me, I put it at the bottom of the trolley, under the other shit, and tried to avoid the eyes of the girl as she scanned it through.
When I got it home, I sat looking at it for a little bit. Wracked with guilt, but throbbing with excitement. I took it out and fingered it’s shiny surface, and the sensation it caused was not entirely unrelated to the genital region. I slipped it in the CD player and sat back, enraptured.
See Father, I bought the Justin Timberlake album. And it’s not the first Justin Timberlake record i’ve clumsily purchased and hidden under the illegal porn, under my dirty clothes, in the washing basket.
And, i’ll be honest here. It’s not just his music.
Now i know, what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘How can one be enamoured by a skinny corporate white man, making fourth-rate black music?’ and, ‘What can she find attractive about the orchestrated off camera simper, the schnide-o Michael Jackson dance moves, and the David Beckham earring?’ You might even be forgiven for failing to see the appeal in ‘A clear record executive puppet, who makes a living by buying the talent of great black music producers, feigning friendship with them by dancing in unison in heavily stylised music videos, and creating a final flourish by participating in elaborate handshakes with Pharell’.
But Father – and here’s the rub – there’s just something ABOUT the cocky little cunt. He says ‘filth’ to me, as he moonwalks his way through Timbaland produced RnB records aimed at 12 year old Yank girls. I look at his face and think, ‘cunnilingus’. Even the lip licking interludes in the million pound music videos; my better judgement rationalises the process- it’s a direction, it’s been market researched, 45 record executives have worked out demographic requirements and acted accordingly. But fuck me Father, if i’m guilty of a little transparent, market-researched consumer-led sexuality, it’s a burden i’m willing to bear.
I don’t know how I developed a lust for a groin-grabbing 20 year-old, but it’s been eating away at me for some time now. And since we’re on the subject of Justin and eating away, you would though, wouldn’t you Father?
Fucking RIGHT you would! You, me and KD fucking Lang.
I’m not sure I’d CRY him a river, but he’d sure as fuck get one.