Short Story: Lust

Not another piece about sex addiction

Lust shows up in my bedroom one night. You know, like the seven sins? I don’t know what versions of Lust others have been meeting, but the one I met is an absolute sex pest.

You’ve heard how Gluttony is, right? Fat overflowing, bursting from its skin. Hunger only rivalled by that of Greed — and perhaps Lust, as I met her. Covered in crumbs like Lust was covered in cum.

No one who claims to have met Lust has actually met her, if they’re describing the beautiful vixen woman from all the tales. That version of her is a fantasy, a fantasy of what their lust for someone else would want to see. But Lust herself, she’s horrid. Desperate. Dirty. Deranged, and never in a sexy way.

You ever see someone with a kid and wonder who would have slept with that? That’s the same feeling I got looking at her. Who would sleep with that. But that’s the thing about people with no standards. They go for anything, and become something only others with no standards would go for. Lust, with Lust, becomes about the act, pure, nothing about with whom. All the other pleasures about physical presence vanish, and everything there is to be as a person becomes reduced to even the barest essentials of sex.

She doesn’t hunger for touch, for connection or for pressure. She hungers for more. This endless more of extreme, everything filtered through the end goal of sexuality: bliss. Oblivion. Collapse.

Anything can be endured if filtered through an orgasm. Anything can be a positive if twisted into arousal. In her world, there is no pain, no discomfort, no damage. Just… well, it’s not even pleasure for her at that point. Just the raw reduction of all else. Life, devoid of texture. A mind cramped into distorted signals, misunderstanding what her body is for, what she was meant to do with it.

When she came to me, when she grabbed me by the genitals and looked me in the eyes with her grotesque bitter grey eyes, she came as a warning.

Not by her account, no, she came to me as a proposition. As a partner, a peer, welcoming me in joining her as one more. As a fellow. Excited to meet me, she lustfully listed all the plans she had for me, the bright future she was painting from where I was beginning.

I saw my future, my fate, in her filth.

I guess that’s how the Seven Sins warn us. They show us what we are to become, were we to follow their lead. They come to us with ambition and pursuit, to convince us to follow.

We see what we would have if we did.

The next day, I went to my first 12 step meeting.

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I wrote this as a creative exercise during one of my writer’s circle’s meetings. Inspired by a post I saw somewhere complaining that depictions of the seven sins personified should be consistent in whether they represent the allure or the consequence. If gluttony is disgusting, then lust must be a sex pest. If lust is a vixen, then gluttony must be a five star chef.