God is Not Watching
short story by Russell Winkler

You're okay with this. You're walking down the stairs.

You remember when you masturbated at 13, a rush of secretive darkness that was transformed into ever-repressing regret right after you came. At first it felt good to piss on God's plan by wasting seed and exploring your growingly perverse mind. But after those 10 solid minutes of pleasure and rebellion you felt less evolved than a dog and too perverse to be known completely.

Right now, to continue the “piss-on-God's-plan” analogy, you're pre-stream. The tea pot that is your adrenaline has just been put on the stove. You're not thinking about God's punishment for poor morals because - as you discovered after years of young-adult masturbatory exploits - He's not watching you. He's not watching you, and He's not watching him.

But you're watching him, and you've had your eyes on him for weeks. You have options. You can go introduce yourself and hope for the best. You might say, “Hey, I'm Chase, I've been watching you for a while from my bedroom window that looks into your patio and I can't stop imagining having sex with you. Would you like to go out for dinner, maybe Thai, and then let me fuck your brains out after stopping for gum to mask the curry taste I'll have in my mouth?”

If you were lucky, he would reply, “Why yes, of course! I've been letting you watch me, and I love Thai food! Please, let me buy the food, and I already have Wrigley's spearmint gum that I purchased after rummaging through your trash can in hopes to find some of your favorite things. You sure do chew a lot of gum!”

"Oh, it's a way to stop from grinding my teeth. My therapist thought of it after I chipped my third tooth from my anxiety related compulsive behavior," you exclaim with an award-winning smile and a “go get ‘em” attitude that is one of the many alluring qualities you constantly exude.

His eyes sparkle and he says, “I love anxiety related compulsive behaviors, let's wed!” Then the two of you live anally-ever after.

Or you could send him love letters so poetically written he's smitten off his ass and into your arms. Maybe you could just appear around the building a lot and hope for him to talk to you. He would ask you out for coffee, and you go (although you hate that shit) and have a wonderfully witty and imaginative conversation that is the penultimate activity you share before fucking each other so wildly you invent new yoga positions.

Obviously you don't imagine any of these scenarios playing out exactly as planned, because of course there would be many pretenses to build to special-effect yourself into looking like a psychologically sound and philosophically fulfilled person, so you decide for a different route, one that will immediately satiate your cravings and minimize the need for small talk and pleasant conversation.

By carefully combing through the possible outcomes, you've found the perfect strategy: you're going to rape him.

You are okay with this and you're walking down the stairs. The red Mercury you've seen him drive has just pulled up and you're going to follow him to his apartment where you will rape him. He's carrying groceries. Plastic bag handles are tightly coiled around his hands in the same bondage style you'll bind his wrists. You offer to help. “Do you need a hand?”

Yes, that's you're voice, all meek and phlegmmy. Not at all the voice you been hearing in your head, the mantra your hamster brain has been wheeling on, God is not watching. God isn't here. God did not make you and he never made love. Take what you want, even though you won't remember when you die. God is not watching...

“Yes,” he accepts your offer. Not in a grateful way, but with a dead-pan delivery that makes you think he's never given you a second thought. This doesn't change anything, you grab the bags in one of his hands (your hands brush each others!) and split them between your hands. Now your hands are involved in plastic bag bondage.

As he walks in front of you, you hear a thanks that sounds similar to your timid offer to help, and you just follow. You might be saying, “no problem,” or, “my pleasure,” but your thinking, God never made love. Take what you want. There is no plan. God is not watching.

He takes out his key and opens the door. With your free hand you reach for the gun you have in case he lives with someone and they're home. It's hard to imagine roommates, even ones that argue a lot, nonchalant about the other being sexually abused. "Excuse me, sir, would you tighten that cloth around his mouth? It will drown out the screams," as they lean over their unfortunate roomie saying, “this is what you get for leaving the dirty dishes out!”

Click, squeak, fwoosh, the door is opened. Remember that tea pot? Your just beginning to hear the water boil. You walk in and close the door behind you. You are okay with this, you're not going to wait and you're not going to chicken out. Move now.

God is not watching. God isn't here. Take what you want. Take what you want. God isn't...