Decadence. A Sermon.
The aged movie star rose late on that particular day. The interviewer was not to arrive until noon, and in the meantime the star was reflecting on the grooves between her toes and the curious sound her icebox made when it needed fixing. There used to be someone around to fix it, at all times. They took care of her icebox, and set her table, and cleaned up her crumbs. There never used to be any crumbs afterwards.
On Saturday she would go for a ride in the country with her friends and lovers. They cavorted until lunch, then had a picnic and tried not to pester the ants. Sometimes, they’d get lost and have to fight their way back. It was on occasions like this that the aged movie star would remove her skirt, stare at the stars, and prepare for the onslaught. After a brief initiation, she would parlay all day. Saturdays now are dull. Rarely anyone comes around, and when they do, the aged movie star is usually too tired to parlay.
Between meals, she used to lie on a huge velvet couch, wearing eyeliner and mascara and other things that went “shine.” All the boys would flock to her, and she would flock back in droves. The girls would flock too, and to them she’d coyly flirt. The secret meetings were a blast, and she delighted in subverting the neophytes.
When she was in the torture chamber, she’d erupt into a fury of pure energy and excitement. The aged movie star was pale on screen, but nebulous in the torture chamber. She would take it and give it, and relished both. She owned her own rack, but had to borrow the thumbscrews.
The moonlight would accompany her post-film studio excursions. Seclusion was their law, and revealing one’s identity was forbidden. The gate was underground, and the key was ecstasy for all involved, except a select few picked for their less ecstatic eccentricities. The aged movie star misses these types most. The way they agonized and extended themselves really made the post-film studio excursions exciting.
The morning has gone, and the icebox has stopped growling. The interviewer rests his case as the aged movie star relaxes. She has not been listening, and when questioned concerning her attention, rolls her eyes and apologizes. The fun she could have had with this man in the old days, she ponders, but dares not to say aloud. Instead, she offers an anecdote concerning the fate of one of her late co-stars and proclaims sadness for the family. If only they knew how many times she’d encountered him in full body suit, coated in apple cider and wearing a blindfold. But, the movie star thinks to herself, the old days have passed, and the ecstasy has been replaced with brittle bones and orange bottles.
Some nights, though, in the twilight hour, she sees an apparition of some former transgressor, and together they dance through the night. Someday, the decadence may return. Someday, she dreams, while the interviewer, strapped to an ironing board, screams in agony.
On Saturday she would go for a ride in the country with her friends and lovers. They cavorted until lunch, then had a picnic and tried not to pester the ants. Sometimes, they’d get lost and have to fight their way back. It was on occasions like this that the aged movie star would remove her skirt, stare at the stars, and prepare for the onslaught. After a brief initiation, she would parlay all day. Saturdays now are dull. Rarely anyone comes around, and when they do, the aged movie star is usually too tired to parlay.
Between meals, she used to lie on a huge velvet couch, wearing eyeliner and mascara and other things that went “shine.” All the boys would flock to her, and she would flock back in droves. The girls would flock too, and to them she’d coyly flirt. The secret meetings were a blast, and she delighted in subverting the neophytes.
When she was in the torture chamber, she’d erupt into a fury of pure energy and excitement. The aged movie star was pale on screen, but nebulous in the torture chamber. She would take it and give it, and relished both. She owned her own rack, but had to borrow the thumbscrews.
The moonlight would accompany her post-film studio excursions. Seclusion was their law, and revealing one’s identity was forbidden. The gate was underground, and the key was ecstasy for all involved, except a select few picked for their less ecstatic eccentricities. The aged movie star misses these types most. The way they agonized and extended themselves really made the post-film studio excursions exciting.
The morning has gone, and the icebox has stopped growling. The interviewer rests his case as the aged movie star relaxes. She has not been listening, and when questioned concerning her attention, rolls her eyes and apologizes. The fun she could have had with this man in the old days, she ponders, but dares not to say aloud. Instead, she offers an anecdote concerning the fate of one of her late co-stars and proclaims sadness for the family. If only they knew how many times she’d encountered him in full body suit, coated in apple cider and wearing a blindfold. But, the movie star thinks to herself, the old days have passed, and the ecstasy has been replaced with brittle bones and orange bottles.
Some nights, though, in the twilight hour, she sees an apparition of some former transgressor, and together they dance through the night. Someday, the decadence may return. Someday, she dreams, while the interviewer, strapped to an ironing board, screams in agony.
posted by Matt at 3:41 PM
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