In the confessional, I had a small television set up to watch some blue movies (I could not listen to these nonsense and gradually I had learned not to believe in God). From that little box I was always confined in, the outside world seemed limitless. The morons kneeling would keep on jabbering about some “sin” they had committed. But of stupidity, madness, error, the only one and the big one, it seems to me from now on, was to tell me their little secrets … I remember this December. It was cold in the basilica. I put this old video called “Kick in the background, I’m not your mother”. It was an odd kind of video, to be honest. The woman was washing utensils over the sink – her face was covered with a shroud – while some young boy who looked like Kafka fucked her mindlessly from behind. I was really engrossed in it when this old woman suddenly started confessing that she had recently began masturbating to God.
What could I say? What could I do, I who no longer believed in anything? I who stole the stupre as a new deity? I who stayed in this basilica only to keep the comfort of a free accommodation. Then I listened silently, my cassock raised on the shoulders and both hands busy. “Go on, my child. Continue!”. She, a lifelong atheist, was 76 years old and had had a difficult life. Recently, as she began nearing the end of her life, she was desperate to find God. The meaninglessness of her existence was unbearable. She read ancient books, mystical texts, visited every church she could but one night she started fingering herself while thinking about God. That was the day she found Him, she said. I was just about to explode.
And she described to me this god of lust, that daily rendezvous with little death, that end of self, this extravagance, this fantasy, this mystical experience. It was then that through the fence of the confessional arose a spurt of my cum. The woman, without taking a moment, started to lick it. God, God, God, she started to whisper while panting heavily. She swallowed everything. And asked for more.

What happened afterwards was worthy of a licentious work of the 18th century, or of a blue film of the Seventies. He made to this old woman an accelerated education. He taught this old woman to use her five senses, not to forget any of them. And this old woman rejuvenated by sight. Like a transformation (diabolical?). Like a metamorphosis. An apocalypse. And the priest who had stopped believing believed again. The apocalypse had come and gone. The only things that remained were these two people, God, and a blue film playing in the background. The priest thus named blue films The Modern Bible.

…
M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.