Story on Display: Bacchus' Mistress

[noizchild]

Bacchus’ Mistress

Chapter One: Lord of Wine:

I am not a gentleman. I don’t pretend to be. I never was a gentleman and I refuse to be one. I am just a bastard. I am the one that everybody warns to avoid if they still want to stay wholesome. I am the last thing a father would want for his precious little daughter. Hell if I had a daughter, I wouldn’t trust me with her.

I mean, look at me. I have never looked that attract in my life. I am thirty-seven, but I look close to fifty. The embodiment of a vampire and death in human form can be the best way to describe my appearance on a daily basis. I am pale from my forehand to my toes. Nobody has even seen me dressed in any other color than black. I really do stand out on the streets in board daylight. I smoke and I am an alcoholic. I have been that smoking and drinking since I was fifteen years old. Booze and cigarettes are my breakfast. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night sleep. In fact, I never sleep. When I do, it is mostly a blackout from all of the booze that I drink on my heaviest of nights. You can always find me in the seediest part of New Orleans. Mostly in the strip clubs and topless bars. All of the underground knows who I am. Bottom line, I am the dictionary explain of a creep. Hell, I could make a pedophile, rapist, and a serial killer look like the kindly father figures next door at first glance. But, I’m not completely scum. I do have some class to me. I make my own money.

I am I writer by trade. My novels are of the adult entertainment. I do short stories of the erotic variety. Sometimes, I even publish my work for some of the dirtiest magazine that manage to get published without being censored, fined, or shut down by the church-happy dumbasses. The “normal” class of people would think that my work is trashy. My fans eat it up like coke. (Not the drink, either.) I am famous even above ground because of them and the church-happy dumbasses that try to shut me down. (The latter always makes me laugh. All of their squawking only gets me more attention and more fans. Way to go conservatives.) I make enough money to supply my drinking, cigarettes, living, and trips to the strip club. Yes, I live the sleazy life. It’s not bragging, it is what it is.

Everyone in the publishing company that I send my work to asks me if I will ever find I wife. “Isaiah, when are you going to find a good woman?” they ask me every morning I come in with new material to be published. I do not have any plans to settle and slow down. I just want to keep on living my pathetic, wasteful existence until I die. I get the feeling that death is always, as the Rolling Stones puts in their song, “Gimme Shelter,” a shot away. (Sure, that sounds lame, but how else can I describe it?) But, I don’t care. Or at least I didn’t in the first. What changed my mind about wasting away? An angel. Actually, many angels. Why am I telling all of you “normal” people this? It’s almost a hard story to tell. But, I must tell it for the lovely girls drive me to speak of their immortal charms that stay in my head as I close my eyes and try to sleep at night.


Bacchus' Mistress

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