She had to accept that the love of her life was a keen cross-dresser and attracted to men’s willies.
This is what she had to accept in return for any intimacy he was willing to share with her.
Life had a way of panning out. Every cause an effect, every effect a cause; equal and opposite and all that gubbins. She was where she was evidently meant to be, no more and no less. Her life wasn’t other than what it was, and maybe it wasn’t ever meant to be.
People now talked of ‘clichés being clichés because they were true’ which itself had become a cliché.
Because, it was true.
She was here in her own room; helping the man she adored dress in women’s clothes purchased by herself in Primark and various charity shops, to get him ready to go out to put his willie inside other like-minded men. Sometimes, the process of this transformation turned him on so much that he sought to use her as a sort of entre to coming events (no pun intended). She didn’t seek to evaluate if she hoped for this or not, the answer may have hurt too deeply.
Suffice to say she never refused.
She had long been one of those people who looked for love wherever she could find it. And she’d found it some really quite some unusual places. She had a friend called Stan who loved to laugh uproariously at her ‘confessions’ but he was a sensitive enough human being to recognise the great sadness implicit in them. In a way, though not a cruel one, he was laughing at the sadness. It was the only form of sounding board she could tolerate; one that disguised itself as humour.
What was perhaps most hilarious about it all, it certainly was to Stan, was that she’d fallen hopelessly in love with a cross-dressing, bisexual Muslim. Muslims weren’t supposed to be cross-dressing bisexuals were they? And yet….from an ‘equal and opposite reaction’ point of view it made perfect sense. Released from Muslim society and strictures who knew what these human beings were capable of being. The obverse of moral censorship and repression of the senses may well be expressed perfectly by a man dressing up as a woman and fucking infidels of the same sex. It may even be a wildly contorted religious statement. This is how the infidels deserve to be treated and it’s my Muslim duty to debase them thus, sort of thing.
The latter was unlikely, but this particular Muslim was certainly making a great deal of hay while the Sunni shined. Two, sometimes three, nights a week he was ‘going out’ now and coming back reeking of man-sweat and spunk. He told her the more manly types treated him ‘like a bitch’ passing him back and forth between them and using his two key orifices as vessels for their ejaculations. He told her there was a trough in the centre of some room in Mile End where men could take a shit. It all sounded disgusting to her but then, who was she to judge? It wasn’t so very long ago she was sharing gimp-masks with a virtual stranger in Croydon and whipping the raw, naked arse of an ex-BNP member in Hemel Hempstead. There was a time when she’d travel hundreds of miles to hook up with an online ‘friend’ and let them spill their lonely seed all over and inside her. Often a lost soul herself, she was an addicted collector of them. Waifs, strays and cross-dressing fans of Allah.
In fact, her whole life had turned into an exercise in debasement. If anyone ever professed serious love and regard for her, an eventuality she often articulated as her most fervent wish, she’d run a record-breaking mile in the other direction. People do not always actually desire that which they profess to. She’d had her chance of that kind of blissful love many moons ago and wrecked it for all that it was worth. She was seeking penance for something, only she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
Flawed Muslims, somehow, seemed to be a part of it.
