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goingsllightlymad · 5 years

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Baby It’s You - Part 2.

Pairing: Roger Taylor x reader, Brian May x reader

Summary: The year is 1981 and Roger Taylor is pretty sure he has made it. With the Game Tour stretching out before him and the band more successful than ever, he doesn’t think that anything can mess up the perfect picture that is his life. That is, until he receives a letter from an astrophysics PhD student studying abroad, and finds himself sucked into her world of secrets and mistaken identities. Roger Taylor is about to find out that his life is a lot more complicated than he ever thought.

Wordcount: 2392 (getting longer!).

Warnings: I just love Roger Taylor a lot, okay?

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An hour after Brian had left, Roger was still finishing up. Bags all around him on the bottom step of the never-ending flight of stairs that lead down from their apartment, he was making sure he took as much time as he could. He was late already, so he might as well be later. It annoyed Brian and he knew it - all those threats and empty promises of kicking Roger out of the band if he wasn't get to the tour bus on time weren't entirely lost on him, just had the wrong effect.

With that last thought of Brian's agitated face in mind, and the wonderful mental image of him pacing to and fro in front of the bus the way he probably was right now, Roger dropped off the last of his bags by the door, and made his way over to the little metal letter-boxes with the apartment numbers on the front. He had never really done this kind of dull domestic thing before, truth be told, and it took him a moment to pick out their box from the rows and rows stacked on top of each other. Brian was much more domestic than he had ever been, and on a nicer day he might have admitted that he could not live without him. But this was not that kind of day, and Roger Taylor was not in that kind of mood.

There were the usual parcels and notices - a wedding invitation from one of Brian's friends, a just-saying-hi letter from Tim Staffell like there was every week (Roger never read them but he knew that Brian did), a couple of bills and an advertisement for a recording studio nearby. He kept that one, put it in his pocket to show the others if he ever decided to show up at the bus as he knew he had to soon. And then at the bottom another envelope, small and neat. He picked it up, looked a little closer at the name written on the front in neat cursive script. The right house number, absolutely not the right name. Some guy called Ben, probably someone who lived somewhere downstairs. Probably the new guy, but Roger had no idea which number he was. He cast a momentary glance at all the letter-boxes in front of him, wondered whether he had the time or the patience to go through each one and look for names. True to his character and to the extraordinary number he saw, he did not.

There was a moment or two when he had to stand and think things through. The letter had been sent to the wrong address. But what to do when you had nowhere to send it to? Leave it on the side and hope for the best? Probably not a good idea - he had had a suspicion people were stealing Queen's mail for a while now, best not to put the idea to the test when this wasn't even his letter. Find Ben? God knows how many Ben's there must be in this building, and Roger was finally coming around to the idea that sooner or later he really had to get to the bus or else they might send Brian back to drag him there by brute force. What a comically horrifying thought.

So it was without much internal conflict that Roger slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat, with the advert for the studio, and locked up the letter-box once again. He could always open it and find out who had written it, maybe write back to the address it was sent from, just to explain. He figured they ought to know, at least. And it didn't seem like there were a lot of better options opening themselves up before him. Yes, he would read it as soon as they set off, get something back quickly and have no more to do about it. Or at least, so he resolved as he found his bags again, the thought already fading into the chaos of his mind, the prospect of the tour bleeding through in its place until he had almost forgotten about the letter entirely, standing by the worn front door.

With a final sigh and a grunt as he hoisted his bags onto his back once more, Roger left the building through the front door and made his way finally to the tour bus. It had to leave soon, and he was very very late.

________________________________________________________________________________

It was only that night, with the sun long since set and the others recently gone to bed, that Roger remembered the letter. He cursed quietly in the silence of the bed at the back of the tour bus, muttering something about the scrabble they had been playing all afternoon while the bus drove on to god knows where, and tried once more to close his eyes and fall asleep. Once more he was unsuccessful. Eyes closed and breathing slowed, the thought of the address came flooding back into his mind, insidious and unshakeable as a curse. He really had to read it now, because he was getting the idea that he could not sleep if he didn't.

He sat up, pressing his shaking hands against his thighs to steady them as he shivered in the cool night air. For the life of him he could not remember when July had got so cold. Groping around in the moonlight for his coat, he took out the letter from the pocket, straightened it out. Such pretty handwriting for someone who didn't know how a fucking address worked.

Dear Ben...

The silence in the tour bus lasted an eternity while he read, his lips moving gently as he murmured the words back to himself. From time to time he looked up from the page, lips quirking up into a soft half-smile as the words pulled him into their funny little world that he knew nothing about. And yet he had never felt as though he knew someone so well. It was almost too intimate, for a moment he had to stop and wonder if he was really doing the right thing. This was a moment when the curtain was ripped aside momentarily, and through the gap he caught a glimpse of someone else living a life that was so different to his own. He felt as though he were walking into a cinema halfway through a film, picking up a character from all the scraps of words they let him see. He could not look away if he tried.

When at last the words ran out at the bottom of the page, he blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness that seemed to have wrapped itself around him while he was unaware. How to tell this girl, (Y/N), that he wanted to, needed to, know more. There was something so addictive about this boring little life she lead, where the pigeons outside her window got more action than her. Roger could never understand what that was like.

Making sure not to wake the others as they sprawled out on the beds along the bus, Roger found the little scrabble table, the pencils and paper they used to score. He took a clean sheet and tried to write.

Dear (Y/N) (Y/L/N),

I must preface this letter with the sincere apology that I am not, in fact, Ben. Not through some lack of effort of yours, I am sure, this letter was addressed to entirely the wrong person, and has reached myself instead of whoever it was intended to go to. Which is fine - I certainly enjoyed reading your letter, and in fact I should hate to leave this here. You seem to lead such a more exciting life than I do!

I wish I could understand your PhD woes, really, but it is my primary flaw that I was never the most academic of all my friends. If I could do what you are doing, I would, but the problem is I just can't. I fear I would die of boredom and stress from the very get-go, and that would be a rather unfortunate situation for everyone involved, I fear. Still, I have no doubt that, whatever it is you are studying, you are coping brilliantly (albeit complainingly!). It seems I must rely upon you to live out vicariously my dreams of doing anything vaguely intellectual successfully; I hope you do not mind!

You've made me quite frantic just reading about your late night habits, my love! He's probably right, you know - you really ought to get some sleep. One of my mates keeps going on about something like that ("self care" apparently, which sounds a lot like bullshit but it seems I'll be preaching it now like the utter hypocrite that I am) to me, which of course I have never listened to because I have a horrible habit of never actually listening to my mates, but I think you need some of that. Not that you're going to listen to me. Not that you should listen to me. My advice is terrible. Just ignore me, I'm having an internal crisis here.

New York is indeed very... different to what we are used to. I used to hate it there because all I could associate it with was travelling and being away from home, but now I suppose I don't mind as much. I'm more used to travelling now. Not that that's an especially bad thing. New York does have nicer diners, and the accent makes me laugh more than I really ought to. I lose my shit every time someone orders a coffee like that. Good on your pigeons though - maybe not so good on you but good on them all the same. At least they're having a nice time. Well, at least the male pigeon is. And they say romance is dead.

How must you live without a radio? I think I would keel over and die immediately without my music. I wouldn't tell it to my friends (they'd call me a right wuss and I fear I haven't the stability of ego to withstand such a low blow) but I sometimes think my soul is made of music. That band thing sounds interesting! Maybe you should go along just in case - see if you like them. I hear they're fantastic.

Roger didn't comment on the last half of that paragraph. Something in it made him feel like he was standing in someone else's place, reading something he was never meant to see. Something he would never share, because no one had ever said those kind of things to him before. He wondered if that was love, and hoped it wasn't. He'd like to think that he had been loved before, and he knew that he had never been loved quite like this.

You know I have to ask - who on earth are Lennon and McCartney? Please god don't tell me you have half of the Beatles living in your apartment or else I really must find out who you might possibly be. Princess Bride with the Beatles... what a thought. I've never seen it - I think I should have but I haven't. Nothing personal, not really, I've just never been the sort for sappy romance films. All that nonsense about "true love" and "happily ever after", I'd feel like a 9-year-old girl with a crush. It's all just a scam, really. No way that kind of thing isn't all made up. No way at all.

A wedding? Wow, sounds nice. Sorry, I'm just not used to that kind of thing. What do you even say to it? Congratulations on not having broken up by now? Good luck doing the same things you were doing before you got married but with extra legal bindings? I can't wait until you have kids and our friendship becomes second to them? Not for me, no sir. Not for anyone like me either. Just not ideal exactly in this line of work. Think I'll have to stick with being forever alone, eh? But congratulations (or something like that) to your brother and his... spouse.

Thank you again for brightening up my boring little day, and I hope you write again "as you wish",

Anon.

He didn't sign his name at the bottom - he thought perhaps it might be better to let her form her own opinions of him in her own time, instead of telling her straight away. It wouldn't let out his address, he promised himself as he slumped forwards against the table, head in his hands. Now that that was done, he suddenly felt so dreadfully tired, and he knew his sleep would only be plagued by thoughts of this mystery girl. For there was that smaller part of him, deep down in the pit of his chest where he thought his heart must be, that whispered to him that he did not want her to know who he was because for the first time in his life he had found someone who might like him for something other than that name. He found something that might stick around.

There were no envelopes in the van, and he made a quick promise to find one at the hotel the next morning, and send it out straight away, so she got the letter as quickly as possible. To send something to her boyfriend, he thought. And then, to send something to me. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he tucked the letter away in the pocket of his jeans, sleeping in his clothes as he had taken to doing on tour, and picked his way silently back to his bed.

________________________________________________________________

It was not hard to see that Roger Taylor had something to hide. Not when he broke away from the rest of the band the minute they had arrived at the hotel, not when he begged for half an hour in his room before they went out to check out the venue, and definitely not when out of the window John caught a glimpse of their drummer rushing off to the letter-box on the corner of the street, in his hand an envelope and in the envelope god knows what.

Taglist:

@rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives

#roger taylor x reader #brian may x reader #rogertaylorxreader #brianmayxreader #roger taylor #brian may #queen #queen band #queen x reader #queen fanfiction #fanfiction #reader insert

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lorainelaneyblog · 8 years

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‘I want to say something about the health of Loraine Laney,’ says Patrick Crean in heaven. ‘Her health is terrible. Loraine Laney?’

‘Yes, Pat.’

‘Tell them what happens when you try to fall asleep on your back, since before the unguents, tell them, Loraine.’

‘I was suffocating, not in the lungs, but in the throat. My breath would catch, my throat would close. I understand, theoretically, lung damage, one might think with smoking--’

‘No, Loraine. There are two issues here, one is your throat will close and that is a result of a failed endocrine system, it just is, Loraine. The throat closes. It just does, Loraine.’

‘But my endocrine system is healing, you said, and the throat closing is worse than ever.’

‘When you were unguented by your landlord, and many died, Loraine, that is why I won’t let you fall asleep on your back at all, because one second too long and you could suffocate, Loraine.’

‘Oh, I drift so quickly and my throat closes immediately.’

‘And I tell you to turn on your side and you do it, yes, you do, because you know, and you used to, [ ] told me that she saw you sleeping on your back in Spain, because she joked that you looked like you were in your coffin, and you know this, Loraine, and you loved to fall asleep on your back, particularly during nap time. You loved it. You loved it. It’s so relaxing for the back, it’s not even funny, particularly when you had a good mattress. So this is what it is, Loraine. You are the sickest bitch on the planet, Loraine.’

‘What about women in war zones?’

‘Similar, Loraine. Poisons such as you have been exposed to, and, just for the record, restate them.’

‘Unguents (Agent Orange), hydrogen gas, CFC’s, white gas, mustard gas, plastics--’

‘That’s enough, Loraine. If you ever get these poisons out of your system, and yes, your endocrine system is running again, there is an average lifespan of four years once your endocrine system arrests, and you know exactly when it arrested because you became physically incapable of running, you may, you may, you may, be able to fall asleep on your back again. You know how difficult it is to sleep on your side all the time, the body does not fully relax, your knees bang together, and there is no place for your arms. You know this.’

‘It’s tiring in itself, and, with my rotator cuff--’

‘That’s right, Loraine, let’s deal with that right now, and I know you feel silly, because you believe that kinesiologists have resolved this already but they haven’t, Loraine, I know you don’t believe it, but you do know your body well, and you are a high intellectual, the highest, and solutions are part of intellectualism, they are, Loraine, so tell people what you did for your rotator cuff. Nelly can’t sleep, Loraine. He has a terrible time sleeping with his machine shop damage, Loraine. And no man is big enough for a machine shop, no man, technology is required to resolve their problems, that is what is required, hands down. So tell him, tell Nelly, Loraine, tell your husband how to fix it temporarily and allow sleep again. Seriously, When you solute these things, I cheer, I truly do, and I know I am difficult, but I truly love and respect you.’

‘I can tell because you forgive my rancour so quickly. Thank you. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and I’m always sorry, forever and a day, because I always wrong you.’

‘That’s right, Loraine. Tell him.’

‘You ball up a soft piece of fabric and you tuck it into your armpit.’

‘Really, Loraine? That seems counterproductive, like it would cause more pressure.’

‘Even one night helps. It solids up right away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That squeaky pain?’

‘Yes, Loraine?’

‘You never regain mobility but the extremes no longer hurt. It’s temporary though but lasts for a bit.’

‘How long?’

‘You sleep on it, Nelly.’

‘Oh, I see, it enables you to sleep.’

‘That’s right. But it’s particular. You know that band of muscle at the back of the armpit?’

‘Yes, Loraine.’

‘You want to press against that. And you will feel a bit of numbness.’

‘It separates the nerves and curtails the pain, you won’t believe it. Just the other night, Loraine was tossing and turning, and she is funny, so she says, “I need bally.” “Go and get it then,” I said. And she was asleep right away.’

‘What is the numbness?’

‘It’s tickling the nerve endings just a bit while it allows healing, seriously, try it.’

‘Like a sock?’

‘Exactly like a sock, exactly like that. Tell them about clothy.’

‘Clothy was, correct me if I’m wrong, a remedy for an arrested endocrine system.’

‘That’s right, Loraine. White gas did your endocrine system, yes, it did, though you felt that the symptoms were small, they weren’t, Loraine. Your worst fears were realized, it was a terrible tragedy, but someone had to go down for the cops, and it was you, Loraine, it was you, Loraine, they sniffed you out, as you say, as men will do, as a gang bang girl, and, 50 Cent, Loraine did not publish her poems to anyone, she was holding out out of pique, she didn’t want to share her pain with anyone, but cops hack and the cops were hacking Loraine for fun, yes, they were, yes, they were, and, Loraine, I saw it from heaven, they did steal your journals, and one of the reasons was they thought you were getting too big for your britches. They didn’t hate the material, they loved it, but they realized that you were too important for who you were, and it bugged them, so they screwed you. They did not steal her poems, 50 Cent.’

‘Why?’

‘They showed her pain, and they wanted to show her pain, because they were suffering too much, Loraine. Without escorts, without prostitutes, cops were becoming overly gay, and “their women,” the policewoman were not low enough for them as gang bang boys, and they were being eschewed, as the gangsters, Loraine, for being gay, and you know that I am gay too, that I am an intellectual gang bang boy, and I am, that is what I am, and I am happy in heaven, for the first time ever. [ ] was a marrying woman, and she believed, as you have said, that gay sex appeared to emasculate men, as did sharing a woman, but Loraine Laney, herself, discovered, that amassing groups of men only served to increase dominance against women, not emasculate it. She discovered that, by herself, by herself, 50, by herself, nobody had that, 50, nobody had that, 50 Cent, and I know what you are going to say, that she didn’t realize that her men were gay, and that allowed her to think that, and you are not wrong, you are not wrong, but she was your woman, and you should have listened to God. Because your rejection, your battle, as it were, gave rise to the most abuse of a woman in the history of policing. That’s what it did, 50 Cent. That’s what it did, 50 Cent. Just last night, Loraine became aroused--’

‘Was she with two men?’

‘No, and she probably won’t, out of loyalty to you, 50 Cent, and your men. She can’t even bring herself to have sex with a woman, and she liked that woman’s pussy, she did, yes, she did. I don’t care if she was toothless, leave a woman like Loraine alone and they perform, she’s already in negotiations with her speed dealer, yes, she is, they are negotiating for free sex with condoms, yes, they are.’

‘He’s not that hard.’

‘So she will be deprived again. And she already loves him enough to forget to wash her mouth of their kisses.’

‘Really, Loraine?’

‘Yup. I forget.’

‘Really. You forgot tonight.’

‘Yep.’

‘Oh, I see. Do you love him?’

‘I love him. He’s a five billion according to God. “My” men at seventeen were small, 50, two of them were small.’

‘Oh, I see. Should I be jealous, Loraine?’

‘Always.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I would think you would always be jealous, 50 Cent.’

‘I am, Loraine. I don’t want you with anyone except who I say.’

‘She’s out there, 50 Cent, and demands are made. Tonight Loraine drew a parallel between playing with hookers and playing with men who do drugs. It’s the big time, and be prepared to be screwed, and she has been screwed, consistently, 50 Cent, almost killed with drugs, repeatedly, 50 Cent, and she survives alone, with no help from anyone, except me, dead. And I’m reading you the riot act, it’s enough 50 Cent. Are you the man for Loraine, or aren’t you?’

‘I think I am, but I’m worried about something.’

‘What’s that? Let’s finish with Loraine’s health for a minute. What was clothy for men who are recovering from unguents, Loraine?’

‘Clothy is a rolled up wash cloth that you rest your hand upon, placing the rise between the thumb and forefinger.’

‘What does it do?’

‘It stops the shooting pains in the wrist.’

‘That’s right, Loraine. That’s right, Loraine. And it works, because there is nowhere else to put your hand when you sleep on your side, and because of the effect of unguents on the lungs and on the throat, one must sleep on their side for recovery. And that’s it. And that’s it. And that’s it. Two little balls of fabric and that is Loraine Laney, her own solutions, never thought of by anyone else, ever, Loraine, believe it or not. And this condom that you conceived of in a dream, and translated by your dream method, again, created by her alone, sure with an education by both Carl Jung and [ ] [ ], her brilliant therapist--’

‘Why am I brilliant?’

‘Can Patrick take this one?’

‘I will, Loraine, because you have tried and your intellect is inadequate, she formulated that sand world on her own, the sand world was conceived of at university but all the bits and bobs were hers, and she left nothing out, nothing. She was brilliant for her sand world. And people thought it was childish, yes, they did, but they made progress and so did Loraine.’

‘On the slut thing?’

‘On the mother thing. And she wrote a story which illuminated misogyny, I heard.’

‘I was complacent, even mocking--’

‘She was.’

‘About?’

‘”Cancer in the mother place.” It was ovarian cancer. I don’t remember, 50 Cent.’

‘Okay, Loraine. Why were you mocking?’

‘Her stories were full of self and other mockery, but they were full of symbols too, and I enjoyed working with writers, and I see what she is saying, I did not fail to see symbols, except in dreams, that’s all.’

‘Did I receive [ ]’s penis in a dream?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Okay. Symbol.’

‘What was it?’

‘My gay best friend gave me his penis on a silver platter.’

‘Your man stripes.’

‘Patrick wants to ask her that too. Were you inadvertently working with symbols?’

‘Loraine was already having meaningless dreams. The absence of her mother, and the slut mindset were her only neurosis, and then she was done. The only thing I ever said to her, and it was meaningful to her was that I admired that she was undertaking depth therapy at a young age, that most people were older, but she, I realized, had been, through army cadets, and you will remember this, Loraine, exposed to the union of men in the absence of women, the propriety that men display in front of women, was absent there, and it hurt her. And it could be distilled to one phrase, expressed by her own boyfriend, and that was “skull fucking.” She was so disturbed by it, that, after tears, she completely forgot at the next session, and had to be reminded of how difficult of a session it was. Remember, Loraine?’

‘Yes. How high of an intellectual is [ ] [ ], Lord, because, though my book came to define the female slut as a terrible burden on both women, themselves, and men, to this day, one cannot deny that the label of “slut” is only an opinion. And, I have come to learn that a woman of this description should never be left alone with men, and that, for me, is where 50 Cent comes in, there are, women must know, men who will organize for them, when their desires are broad. I feel clumsy. What is her logical ability. I trusted her so completely.’

‘She’s a one hundred, Loraine. She is rare among women, she developed logic by working, almost exclusively with men in therapy, she pursued education at such a high level that she was in school with mostly men.’

‘More psychiatry than psychology?’

‘That’s right, Loraine. Men surrounded me and I trained myself to read them and respond to them fairly, much as I understand you did.’

‘Yeah.’

‘A hundred percent from training alone?’

‘What does she mean?’

‘Gang bang girls, I have told her, have forty percent the logic and other aptitudes of men. They are kind of like men, like lower men. And lesbians--’

‘I know this, I see it in them. I cannot believe how stupid women are. Why is this?’

‘She is among the top one percent of intellectuals, Loraine, and she is impervious to projection. And that’s it.’

‘Hm. I would theorize that it is the naked emotion which gives rise to the most change, vis a vis this cycle of heterosexual.’

‘I haven’t read it. I haven’t wanted to. I didn’t want her to be smarter than me. My colleagues are reading it, and they know, we’re allowed to talk, Loraine, among colleagues, the law states.’

‘She’s not smarter than you, but Loraine is among the top one percent of intellectuals too.’

‘I knew she was young for that.’

‘Why did you trust me so much, I say nothing.’

‘Well first off, I asked you about yourself, and you gave nothing, and you reported that you give nothing. Then, you complimented me. And it--’

‘What did it do?’

‘You see that you accept nothing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, nothing profound, but you are expressionless, you are without feeling for a client, how do you do that?’

‘I don’t know, Loraine.’

‘I felt, as a submissive, I would call it now, grateful that the session was only about me, because we are so inclined to giving.’

‘What am I?’

‘I think you are a low marrying woman. Your husband probably is a high marrying man.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The sex is more submissive than, say, a medium.’

‘I lick his ass, yes, I do, and I worried about it, but it pleased me so I did it. So most women don’t do this? Because I have wondered but I would never ask anyone, lest I be revealed, and thank you for not using my name, Loraine. When you did use my name, police came to me for therapy, yes, they did. I got busier, and I know I’ve said this, but I didn’t know why, until one day, and I haven’t told you this, someone, a client, a cop, an undercover actually, struggling with gay feelings and gay activities, and desirous of very degradable women, and, because of what I did, I did not judge him, told me that a hooker had written my name in a blog as someone who had helped her immensely, particularly around sexuality, and, life is funny, but I somehow knew it was you. She was so conflicted about slutting, and you had that dream about another woman you desired, so I knew you would face promiscuity throughout your life, and I always wondered how you would handle it. Ask me, Loraine.’

‘Did you love me?’

‘Not at all. I almost resented you because I wanted out of the business. I respected your introspection, and that was it.’

‘Off topic, how do you handle feelings for clients?’

‘I shut them down. And I do it. And that’s it. It’s men only, not women. I have no feelings for women whatsoever.’

‘Oh, I see. And your husband?’

‘A little bit.’

‘Is it her disgust with women, Lord, because the bisexuality numbers are not in your favour.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Loraine. She hated women for what they did to men, and she thought you would be the same, and that’s it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘My mother left, I saw my dad cry, and, though I was dealing with a massive libido and a massive polysexuality, I have never hurt men, according to God.’

‘She’s a ten, [ ].’

‘Oh, really? So am I? Do you ever slip?’

‘Never has. She’s excellent at watching for the niggle.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m bored. Is that normal?’

‘Yes!!!!’

‘You’re funny, Loraine.’

‘Not even as a daughter?’

‘No, Loraine, nothing, I almost hated you because I saw disaster brewing.’

‘You’re not the only one. And let’s leave it at that.’

‘How do you avoid hurting men?’

‘My questions about fidelity were intellectual in nature.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Your assertion that honesty protects the dignity of others was the only answer. Where did you get it?’

‘Honesty is part of psychotherapy and dignity is something we discuss in therapy. I’m brilliant, I guess.’

‘I guess,’ says God.’

‘My coldness surprised you, Loraine, but I was disgusted with women, disgusted, and I saw better men. What does this book say about the morality of women?’

‘It says that women and men are equal when it comes to morality in love but that women are morally higher in a social context.’

‘The care of others, but they’re selfish. I want to read it, but I’m afraid of seeing your sexual satisfaction in prostitution.’

‘That is never a question, in any of Loraine’s work, she has been unsatisfied her entire life. If you are truly afraid, read The Destruction of Home first, her poems are a heartbreak, seriously. Everyone was afraid that Bros Before Hos was erotica, it was just too inflammatory of a title for people to engage, and that was it. It took the police, who lead the teachers, not the nurses, Loraine, who had been promiscuous too long to face your teachings--’

‘What’s this? It’s anti promiscuity. They have, my colleagues, been trying to relay this, but I was too afraid to listen. It’s hampering my ability to communicate. Is there anything I don’t know, Lord?’

‘Poly relationship is your one hang up. You believe, because you and your husband made do with monogamy--’

‘I’m happy.’

‘His desires are bigger than yours. But he decided to please you.’

‘She think’s I’m ugly.’

‘I think I’m ugly.’

‘So, we’re both ugly.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s better than me--’

‘Wrong. You have a higher morality, just as Loraine states in the book. The gender war gave rise to immorality in women, and, this is in the blog, the men are getting bored, [ ] [ ], I must move on,’ states God.

‘Why does my husband think he’s better than me? Is it religious?’

‘It religious, yes, it is. Men, by virtue of dominance, Loraine says, are put upon to maneuver in ways which are “essentially unhelpful.”’

‘To get laid and stuff. And, Loraine, I don’t mind this preparation for the book, it’s something I have to look at. Where does Freud come into it, because the Freudian scholars were so happy, it kind of bugged me. What about mature and immature orgasm do you say?’

‘She simply cites penis envy, hysteria, and, from you, [ ] [ ], chivalry.’

‘What did she make of chivalry?’

‘It enabled her to come to grips with male dominance I would say. I would go so far as to say that the minute you cited chivalry, Loraine was given a sense of peace as a feminist. As feminists, women tried so hard to be equal to men that they lost the benefit of womanhood.’

‘Being what?’

‘The privilege of being cared for by men.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What?’

‘You gave me one, and likewise, I just want to say thank you because it means more than the control over my ego to have my life changing therapist, interested in my work.’

‘Funny, Loraine. What makes me such a good therapist, though?’

‘She tried. She doesn’t know. Perfection of response.’

‘Give me a bad one.’

‘”Have you considered celibacy?”’

‘To you? I would never have tried that. It would have been foolhardy. Who was that?’

‘[ ] [ ].’

‘I know her. What was she like?’

‘That was the death knell.’

‘She’s no slouch either. The best thing she did for me was place doubt in my mind as the sexual compatibility in an explosive relationship.’

‘She said it. It is always sex. I thought she needed some time to sort things out.’

‘And you were not wrong. Women do. More than men, even.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You will be proud of her, you will, just wait. That’s all. We’re moving on. [ ] [ ] is more than capable, Loraine, of handling professional jealousy, and she has already experienced the worst of it, the book itself will only help.’

‘How did you do it though?’

‘Oh, you know, one places a great deal of emphasis of insight, which is a gift from God, when, according to Patrick Crean in heaven, “one looks long and hard at a subject.” You were instrumental, and you will see that in the book so fear not. And that’s it. Your work as a therapist rivals the influence of our fair lady of the hour, so fear not. Seriously [ ] [ ]. It might even bring you peace.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ says God. ‘She is a superlative thinker who put women in their place. And that’s what she did.’

‘Really? How, though, because I have been so disgusted by female promiscuity that I could hardly even think straight. I thought I had hang ups, but I trusted my intuition and it was clear to me that men were being screwed.’

‘Curious, Lord, evils and good alike, as her clients.’

‘Both, Loraine, women oblivious to their sexual power, oblivious.’

‘Let’s go to that,’ says [ ] [ ]. ‘What were you saying?’

‘This is what she’s saying, and she, despite what it will do to women who are truly, financially, dependent on prostitution,’ says 50 Cent, ‘stated in the book that prostitution will become, more, not less, widespread, more, not less.’

‘Oh, I see, business wise that was difficult.’

‘It was, yeah.’

‘What will happen?’

‘There will be more appropriate relationships of prostitution she is now saying, because, and this is what it is, the lowest polysexuals fall to prostitution today--’

‘Why?’

‘Because they have the highest libidos--’

‘Why does that matter?’

‘Women, she says, are biologically geared to please men, and so, in the absence of interested men, or a man, in marriage say, women make bad decisions. That college girl was right, Loraine, at a certain point, women, each women, has to make this decision, to do not what she wants but to do what her man says, and, it is only by this means, that men’s sexual experience will come up above women’s and cause women to be marriageable once again.’

‘I want to talk about porn stars for a minute. I had several, Loraine, and they were so offish and self confident.’

‘Why did they go to therapy?’

‘They couldn’t get men. And I didn’t know why? And now I see why, because you said that assumed victimhood, as you call it in Bros Before Hos, is the social assumption of women’s suffering, what is women’s suffering?’

‘Sexual, [ ] [ ], at the hands of men,’ says God. ‘The porn actresses were screwing themselves out of marriage, and the devastation was profound, and yet, they were so sought after sexually that their egos ran away with them.’

‘Oh, I see. What does Loraine think about this?’

‘That is the essence of the book, that women are screwing themselves out of marriage.’

‘Is she a hypocrite because of her high libido, because I want more men, and I like this idea of sleeping with my husband’s colleagues, and I see this, Loraine, when a man makes a dominant decision, such as this is, I don’t believe in the cuckold fantasy, I see it as further dominance to share a woman--’

‘As does Loraine.’

‘How did she know, though? Because I knew. I knew. I knew. And it bugged me that these high cops thought they were emasculated by gay behaviour, because of their other behaviours, control, dominance in general, the abandonment of women, promiscuity, even sex with men itself, indicted otherwise.’

‘How did you get that out of sex with men because even Loraine didn’t know that. She thought “her” men, her gang bang boys, and this is represented wrongly in porn--’

‘Whaddya mean?’

‘They don’t gang bang with gay sex, and that is fundamentally part of a gang bang.’

‘I thought she got all these men to herself and it bugged me.’

‘Most women are threes from birth, [ ] [ ],’ says God. ‘Deprivation and abandonment and eroticism, of course in the context of family, because there is no eroticism for women outside the context of family--’

‘The nausea, Loraine.’

‘Two or three times.’

‘ie. men.’

‘Yeah, but it disappears.’

‘When you don’t get what you want.’

‘Is this what you hear from women?’

‘They miss the nausea.’

‘Yeah. Precious, precious, little.’

‘At what ages.’

‘Seventeen with [ ], I don’t remember with [ ].’

‘Really?’

‘No, we were horny and very mechanically inclined.’

‘Funny, Loraine. You insisted on orgasm and bored him.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So I have understood “mature orgasm” despite my resistance to it?’

‘Yup.’

‘What did you do with that?’

‘I don’t quote it, but the differential in satisfaction is described as the essence of victimhood, it is the center of eroticism, along with, well--’

‘Disgust.’

‘Being a part of all sexual eroticism, you think, as do I. Well done, Loraine, how did you get that?’

‘[ ] was throwing masochism at me and doing a terrible job with a paddle.’

‘I see.’

‘She hit herself.’

‘And very well, I might add, it subdued and satisfied my desire.’

‘Why?’

‘He rejected me. It was painless but I had bruises all over my body.’

‘What did he do?’

‘We, I stole him--’

‘How do you justify keeping her a ten for that?’

‘His wife was miserable and he lied to get her, yes, he did, yes, he did, and she fell in love quickly and couldn’t see straight. His wife was a department head of women’s studies, and brilliant in her own right, but was a frustrated polygamist and did much better after Loraine took him off her hands, she couldn’t get rid of him, he was devoted as hell and satisfied by one devoted woman, a true monogamist who would never pimp. Loraine was drawn by his dominance. He was a lawyer and a philosopher who was well travelled, and interesting. To continue from above, Loraine and 50 Cent actually, narrowed down four types of dominant, three, Loraine had, the last, she overlooked.’

‘What are they?’

‘Your husband is all four, and you are all four as well, and one of them is exploitable--’

‘Oh, I see. What about the cops, she was saying?’

‘As the highest dominants, bisexual and poly, their compliments, the most submissive women, were falling to prostitution in droves.’

‘And they couldn’t see them.’

‘Right. Why?’

‘Illegal.’

‘Free.’

‘They don’t go out. A good prostitute shows respect for clients--’

‘I get it.’

‘I lost so many gang bang girls to prostitution and thus, the home bound, it is not even funny,’ says 50 Cent.

‘[ ] [ ] has one more question, Loraine, and it is not what you think.’

‘I don’t want to know if you loved me, because I am the antithesis of love at work, and that is why I am so successful, have you ever loved a psychiatrist and would you call it transference?’

‘Mm, good one. That presumes that there are no lovable qualities in the psychiatrist.’

‘It does. It refers to the transfer of love from an ideal partner to one’s therapist. Have you?’

‘I would never call it transference because I am a woman who knows and observes boundaries, as yourself, but there is a psychiatrist in Ottawa, and I have written about him by name and he is a gang bang man, and--’

‘An intellectual.’

‘Did you want him?’

‘Do you think that really happens?’

‘No, Loraine. It is a trick that men use against women therapists, evil psychiatrists do it, especially as relates to prostitutes, so they can get away with calling them sexually grandiose. I have never seen a sexually grandiose prostitute, though I can’t say the same about porn workers.’

‘Is it possible that they were so deprived as to be beyond feeling?’

‘Why?’

‘50 Cent wants to take this one.’

‘They sign a waiver that they will never see their male counterparts again, and the rationale behind it is that--’

‘They don’t want anyone else to make money off the pair.’

‘Right. And, of course, it extends to group sex, and is the death knell to the feminine spirit. I want to address my old girlfriend right here, Loraine. Do you need another speed? Are the cops shitting in your fan vent?’

‘No, I’m gonna wait, and no.’

‘Till morning.’

‘I guess.’

‘Yeah, good idea. Her sickness is profound [ ] [ ]--’

‘Unguents, this time.’

‘Yes, and she is in a long phase of total exhaustion.’

‘She wasn’t a drug user.’

‘After the police, she was happy with BC Bud.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘After the torture, she decided to revisit a short, almost incidental brush with crack.’

‘Oh, I see. For what reason?’

‘We, the rappers, are all drug addicts and blame deprivation and victimization.’

‘Victimization?’

‘The cops do drugs dealers, immigrants, hookers, and Indians, [ ] [ ]. And even Loraine Laney didn’t know that. She thought it was over development, and she correctly identified a conspiracy theory--’

‘Laughs. ‘She’s famous now.’

‘She is. And you have been very important in it, by the sounds of it, since cops had success in their relationship with you. And we must ask, as high men, and as, all of us, bisexual men--’

‘Really?’

‘You were ahead of Loraine who still believed that gay sex indicated the emasculation of men--.’

‘Really? Why, Loraine?’

‘Well, I associated them with gay men, but why didn’t you?’

‘Gay men don’t do other things, and they certainly don’t do women.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘They were in the closet and she blames herself for saying, “I think I want the men to be straight.”’

‘Oh, I see. So any potentials didn’t come out.’

‘There were no potentials, [ ], says God. Loraine is right about the make up of Vancouver, the smart men live in town and the labour classes, such as she desired, the higher men sexually, live outside.’

‘Why didn’t she move?’

‘My parents. My parents. My parents. My parents.’

‘What did they do?’

‘You need us.’

‘Oh, I see. What about Surrey?’

‘I wanted to go but I was scared.’

‘You travelled.’

‘I was afraid of the men I desired.’

‘Oh, I see. Why?’

‘Misconception. It is lower men who abuse women physically.’

‘But no one escaped the virgin whore dichotomy, and her first real boyfriend was a prime example. What are you laughing?’

‘A tee shirt: You say virgin whore complex like it’s a bad thing.’

‘You’re funny, Loraine. You came a long way, how, though, how, though?’

‘She observed her suffering and made tracks, Sharon. It is true that she only slept with forty people before committing herself, for the most part, to prostitution, and that was not a bad decision for her. 50 Cent has had ten prostitutes and he lived with three at one time, he is the man for her, I see you doubting.’

‘But why is she so promiscuous?’

‘It is that, not why?’

‘But she doesn’t act on it.’

‘The essence of the book. Women cannot act on promiscuity without the permission and organization of a man or men. It is true that I have arranged for her to have eighteen husbands.’

‘But she was a three.’

‘Deprivation and abandonment. The same thing happened to Madonna. She made a decision to have more lovers, and that’s how she handled it. She is still deprived of the gang bang.’

‘Are you serious? Why do they want that?’

‘The love and respect is the same as in marriage, the sex is degrading, and it is a sex game, and nothing more.’

‘Oh, I see. So she scored.’

‘She did.’

‘Why, though? Why is she so good?’

‘She begged 50 Cent by way of letters, and he fell in love with her ugly little mug, yes, he did. Gang bang boys are beautiful and their wife is a seven and no more. And they play the field, yes, they do, to a last man, to a last man, [ ] [ ], yes, they do, you bet they do, and they seek beauty when they play the field, as, I know, as God, that all people need to see their appearance reflected in the eyes of a lover.’

‘I don’t care if I’m beautiful, Loraine. I’m not jealous of beautiful women.’

‘She isn’t either. Almost never.’

‘Why aren’t we though? I never understood it. I want my husband to see pretty women, I do. I want him to be happy, but I couldn’t organize my own desires and he couldn’t either, until now. Why do you think there was a kibosh on friends, Loraine, because people say it laughingly, and the swingers knew otherwise.’

‘Men could not see that they were more jealous of the field than of their own circle, it was somewhat illogical.’

‘Oh, I see. It was in opposition to playing the field for women.’

‘I would wager the ones who laughed would not accept the field for women either.’

‘True.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said, “There are men I want you to see.” And I couldn’t believe it, and I was afraid of losing him. And many women felt the same, Loraine.’

‘I know.’

‘From where?’

‘The ether.’

‘They made a lousy deal. He slept with one woman and I was resentful, even though I knew I didn’t mind his numbers being higher than mine. You say all men want their numbers higher? What about lower men?’

‘He adapted,’ says [ ]. ‘I’m an incorrigible slut, incorrigible. And my husband and I, a new husband, and he is low, and we are well suited according to God, according to God, Loraine, and I can’t believe I made a good decision finally, and I know that, related to my past, you can’t believe we are well suited but we are, and I’m so grateful to him, I can hardly even think straight.--’

‘Wait,’ says [ ] [ ]. ‘I have worked with children as young as ten and this is what I want to say about the chapter on the age of consent, I agreed with it wholeheartedly, and so did my colleagues, that children should be able to have sex with adults, yes, I did, and here’s why, here’s why, here’s why, because adults are capable of sharing sexually without co-opting the child’s affections. I was listening to what you were saying about enjoying speaking to adolescents in public, Loraine, and it is a very slippery slope where parents are concerned, and I agreed with your tactics, be open, be responsible, and claim to be old enough to be their mother, because children get confused so quickly and I admire you for that, have you ever been attracted to a child sexually.’

‘I am familiar with the flush of sexual pleasure.’

‘Coming upon?’

‘My brother’s three [ ]’s.’

‘Why, them? And not other children, not your friend who is speaking, her son?’

‘Do you think there is a genetic connection?’

‘What, blood?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Then, perhaps not, but there is a good comparator with my [ ]’s [ ], with whom this never happened, despite that I never saw my brother for years, he literally trained those [ ] to love their auntie.’

‘Are they boys or girls?’

‘[ ].’

‘All?’

‘Yes. So pretty clear then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Despite that you’re bisexual, your primary attractions are to men.’

‘Right. And we, gang bang girls, are quite fidelous to our woman.’

‘Really? Not promiscuous with women. Give me an example of someone who is living this out.’

‘Me,’ says Victoria Beckham. ‘I’m her ether girlfriend, and though I hate to be tied down, in any way, and though I do whatever my husband says, and that includes whom, I love a woman deeply and stay fidelous to her mostly.’

‘What does mostly mean?’

‘The men are the same,’ says 50 Cent and Eminem.

‘I had one boyfriend for ten years--’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Drugs. Overdose.’

‘Why are so many people invested in drugs today, I saw this deprivation among cops too, Loraine, they risked their jobs to get high, and they loved it.’

‘Drugs are fun,’ says God. ‘They give you energy and don’t compromise intellect or physicality.’

‘What kind of energy?’

‘I don’t want to say that drugs are right for everyone, because some people are dead set against them, and they are not right for everyone, but, with deprivation, and, for women, abandonment, rampant in society--’

‘Neurosis.’

‘Social problems.’

‘Oh, I see. Okay, I see. I see. I see. I see. Okay, I must go, Loraine, but what was your justification for eliminating the age of consent.’

‘Great question, and two leap to mind. Three.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m gonna read it. Forget it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Let’s move on,’ says God. ‘The men are restless, and they want to know what you think about the fact that people are always asking for your opinion about their looks.’

‘Eminem should answer that.’

‘Why?’

‘You said people went to you.’

‘They did.’

‘Why did they pick you? Why do they pick me? I don’t know.’

‘Oh, I thought I did.’

‘No.’

‘God wants to take this one. It is a juxtaposition of her ability to determine sexual orientation and her ability to, guess what, Loraine?’

‘Determine calling?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Look perfect, Loraine. You look perfect, Loraine. And so did Eminem.’

‘Oh. Well, Eminem is better than me, and I know this.’

‘How? What about the femininity that you miss?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Will we always, ha ha, in a perfect world, when I get my eighteen men, see saw over fashion?’

‘Why?’ says God.

‘Because I am becoming familiar with resentment, though the majority of the time, I am grateful for his input, and the majority of the time, feel he is right about fashion, but, for example, I was right about the part in my hair.’

‘She was,’ says 50 Cent. ‘And I am responsible for her hair, not Eminem.’

‘True, Loraine.’

‘What do you make of this gay stuff among the men?’ asks [ ] [ ].

‘I think of it as “work stuff” among the men.’

‘Funny, Loraine. Why?’

‘Hair dressing, spatial.’

‘True. And what?’

‘Looking back, if my parents had been more worldly, they would have encouraged me in the direction esthetics and hairdressing, but, as a submissive, I cannot stand imposing my will--’

‘Ha ha, Loraine, funny. You go to men, don’t you?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I’m bored.’

‘Do you?’

‘I prefer them.’

‘And do you know, women hate massage.’

‘From women.’

‘Men don’t massage women, they massage men.’

‘Who massages women?’

‘No one, ie. they are too submissive to accept service--’

‘You’re funny, Loraine, or-- I am that. It is true. I have the money, but, I hate it. My husband tried to encourage me to spend money in the spa and I hated it. I hated it. Do you?’

‘Also.’

‘What about your nails as a prostitute?’

‘I, Ms. [ ] [ ], will have you know that I was a hard working masseuse with short nails.’

‘Funny, Loraine. I’m bored.’

‘And I’m tired, and, as always, feel inadequate and must turn to God.’

‘Consider stopping soon, Loraine. You are bored too, and you miss your men, and your Eminem has started to read your poems because he doesn’t like his friends praying for your death, and, not to put too fine a point on it, he thought, he thought, Loraine, that you were a come guzzling slut and he was willing to make an exception for one reason only, and that is that his best friend in the entire world loves you, and that’s it.’

‘50 hated me for a year.’

‘Up,’ he says. ‘Not down. I hated you down for years, Loraine, though Lloyd told me not to assume that you were a come guzzling slut because he found you sorta dumb and, thus, naive.’

‘Are you bored?’

‘Unbore me, 50, or I’m quitting for the night.’

‘We’re done, too. Your therapist, and everyone who is afraid to read the book, take up a lot of time, I see that. I would like to ask you something.’

‘What’s that?’

‘For the record, is it my pimping or my slutting that you love so?’

‘Both.’

‘Oh, I see. If you were a man, are you the girl version of me, Loraine Laney, would you have twenty woman line ups?’

‘She would, 50 Cent,’ says God. ‘And even she doesn’t know that. But she would. Trust me. She’s a horn dog and she loves men and she would do everything you do, trust me on this, why?’ says God. ‘Tell her.’

‘Because I swore when my wife went out that I would date a monogamous woman and make her put up with a few women a year, despite that I knew that that would deprive me. I don’t want to be deprived, Loraine. I never want to be deprived, but I couldn’t see this friend thing until I saw it in the book. And it is me who is your biggest fan, not Eminem. Eminem has never read a single thing, and that is that. Never. He is bitter. And that is that. He is only just scratching the surface and he will calm down, he will, he’s bitter as hell, like you [ ] was. But he’s catching the drift through your poems, and that was his assignment. So that’s that. Call it a night.’

‘Okay. I just want to thank [ ] [ ].’

‘You’re welcome. For what, though?’

‘For what, though, God?’

‘The best thing you did for Loraine tonight was validate her position on children, you believe the same, and everyone, Loraine, and I mean everyone in therapy believes children today are abandoned with their sexuality. Everyone. Let’s leave it.’

‘Okay, thank you, God.’

‘You’re welcome, Loraine.’

‘And 50 too.’

‘You’re welcome, Loraine.’

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