Turning Idolater Read Online Free PDF

could still see Jemmy’s
face. He blinked and tried to drift further. He imagined somewhere
else, where the waves beat on the jetties and the sails unfurled in
the morning breezes. He could almost hear the petrels heralding a
storm. .
    “Are you listening?” Sprakie asked. “I don’t want to
pick up a paper and see you sprawled across some goddamn fence in
the middle of Wyoming. I love your sorry ass, and worry about these
romantic notions. Call me later. Promise?”
    “I promise.”
    Sprakie straightened up and faced the door. He
raised his hand á la Gloria Swanson . “Give my regards to all
those boyz out there in the dark. I’m ready for my close up, Mr.
Bill Gates.”
    He strutted away as only Robert Sprague (and Gloria
Swanson) could.
    Philip chuckled, and then opened his own door. There
were no jetties through there. No breezes — soft, winsome or gale
force. Not even a petrel to pipe the way. Only the half-whitewashed
walls, the loose wiring, the monitor, keyboard and web cam, and a
switch to an invisible audience out there in the dark.

Chapter Three
Tdye
1
    Philip was tired tonight — perhaps bored better described it. Many computer slaves sat before their monitors
clicking through forms or taking orders or processing cash through
a bookkeeping system. They were bored, so why couldn’t
Philip Flaxen, who only had to smile and take off articles of
clothing until he sat bare assed before an invisible world, be
bored? Expectation was that he would answer queries on his current
condition — state of health, his last trick, and then, he was
supposed to flirt with the chat crowd. However, he was in no mood
for that tonight. It would be the same old tired ass-busters
on-line and here-and-there a lurker — nothing as interesting
as bookkeeping or taking orders. The conversation rarely went
beyond flesh or the designs of tattoos or the current state of the
audience’s dress or undress. However, Philip knew that if he wanted
to pay the rent, he would need to engage one of these bozos in a
private, orgasmic show. He would need to raise their blood
pressure, their libido and their credit card charges to the state
of a gusher. They could even get him on a phone hook-up that
conveniently voiced-over through the computer and, conveniently,
increased the charge per minute for the show. One show should do
it, Philip thought, and then he suppressed a yawn.
    Every so often, some one interesting would glide
into to the chat queue. He smiled at the thought. Then he thought
of a very special chat visitor, who revealed himself recently as
something more than a horny voyeur in the dark. Or maybe not. Maybe Sprakie is right. Maybe they are all losers, because only
a loser would resort to on-line porn. So what did that make
Philip? Something marginally above a scavenger — an
opportunist pandering to man’s oldest hunger? Still, Philip, in
his more playful moments, regarded the chat visitors as
masqueraders, each playing out a role they wouldn’t dare engage
during a sunlit day. Therefore, a banker became a masochistic
prodder when the vault was locked. A doctor could play with himself
after the last patient had pulled up their pants during a physical
examination. Even a bishop could traverse into a deeper
confessional and proclaim lewd ecstasy behind a locked door and a
different styled baptismal font. Could these men be called
losers? Harlequins maybe, but the bifurcated souls of men
sought Philip for release and heal. In that manner, he became a
bank deposit slip, another sort of physical examination and even a
silent Eucharist on a different and less exalted altar. Then there
was . . . the writer.
    While Philip could imagine his clientele’s identity
— whether Papuppy was a mailman or Asspounder , a
cowboy, there was no doubt about Tdye . Two weeks ago, the
monitor beeped with a new arrival, and Philip gave it scant notice.
The moniker wasn’t striking, although some chat visitors chose blah names like Jay235 and