Page 163 of The Liar's Reckoning

I try to focus on the few people this bill might actually help. The true victims—the young people who are being exploited and sold, moved across state lines to film porn or prostitute themselves, forced into drug addictions and repeatedly traumatized. I know it happens. But the truth is, there are already laws on the books to help them. This would just put it front and center—at least until the next big thing comes along.

Sex, as they say, sells.

And it’s all I can fucking think about.

I’m so exhausted—so sick of all of this. This isn’t what I signed up for when I ran for this seat, but at the same time, I don’t know what the hell I expected. What I didn’t expect was to feel this dirty. Like a coat of slime is constantly covering me, and no shower in the world could wash it off.

The self-hatred I’ve wrestled with my entire life is a noose around my neck, tugging tighter with every day, every interview,every lie or misleading detail that spills from my mouth like I’m reciting the alphabet.

The limo pulls to a stop at the curb in front of the next TV studio. I shove my conscience to the back burner and step out of the limousine ready to force some more smiles, pretending to be the man I’m supposed to be.

I wasn’tsure what to think the morning after I cornered Silas in the Hamptons when he texted me the video he recorded.

He sent no words along with it, which made me wonder whether he only wanted to prove to me he really did it—really recorded himself degrading and fucking me while I showcased exactly how much I wanted it.

I’m not sure he meant for me to get off to it as many times as I have.

For me to cling to it like a precious memento of the last time we were ever together, but that’s exactly what I’ve done.

It would certainly be harder to deny this one if it got out. So many aspects of the video give away where and when it was filmed. Anyone who’s ever been in that bathroom more than once over the last few years would recognize the original Kandinsky watercolor on the wall behind us. The bathroom was remodeled only last summer. The previous counter was black—this one Carrera marble. The walls used to be covered in floral wallpaper. No Kandinsky on a background of white shiplap.

And then there’s my face—the smattering of premature gray in my beard that wasn’t there a year ago.

Silas wouldn’t know any of that, though—other than the grays—although I’m not sure he looked at me long enough to notice them. It all happened so fast. It was brutal and awful andcraved. God, I’d craved it.

But now? If I thought the way I wanted him that day was harsh, the way I want him now is obliterating. The fact that I’m still functioning is either proof that God works miracles, or I’m capable of total dissociation, and I don’t know which of those ideas disturbs me more.

The second interview is easy, but the third is miserable, pitting me against a Democratic senator with very strong feelings and a reporter who clearly has her own bias not in my favor.

All I can do during that one is try not to say anything stupid and make myself go viral in a bad way. Keeping a straight face and not coming across as condescending is my only goal, and Brad assures me I managed it, but I want to watch the interview right away.

He doesn’t get it to me until I’m home.

After the divorce, my father rented me a townhouse in DC. For the first two months, he came to town with me. We ordered take-out. Watched movies. Talked politics among other things. I can no longer say my dad doesn’t know anything about me. I know more than I ever wanted to know about him, too. But my mother wasn’t happy with all his time away, so he’s delegated babysitting duty to a security service. Unlike Dad, they stay outside.

Still, it still feels like I can’t take a breath without it being noted for my father’s records. The townhouse is spacious and light, unlike the place I share with my sister and her kids in Manhattan. I love the quiet here. The relative privacy. The dildo that makes me make noises too loud for the thin walls in the Upper West Side apartment.

The bench in my shower where it’s suctioned to the tile is where I head the moment I get home. I tried two others before finding this one—it’s a garish purple, but it’s almost the exact size and shape of Silas.

If it didn’t vibrate, I doubt it would get me off while I’m wearing the cage, but because it does, the orgasms are swift andbone-rattling. Sometimes I ejaculate, sometimes I can’t. Sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it feels so fucking good, I go for two.

With my phone in a Ziplock bag and the shower spraying too hot water, I ride the fake cock in the motions I’ve now memorized from the video, climaxing with myself once again.

Instead of taking the cage off to wash myself, I use the shower nozzle and spray the water directly through the vents.

Once I’m out of the shower, I get into bed naked and watch the interview I’m most concerned about. Brad was right. I did a good job. There’s very little in it that could be used to make me look bad. If anything, I’m bland as hell, and I was able to counterpoint Senator Carver without sounding like a zealot. His claims of the legislation being a Pandora’s box that will pave the way to dystopia on the other hand? He’s the one who actually sounds nuts.

It’s just a trafficking bill for fuck’s sake. Surely he doesn’t want his kids kidnapped while he turns his back on them at his local Target. That’s basically all this particular legislation does. Well, that and the sex work deterrence part. But think about it—if we can arrest the kids we catch selling themselves and put them into the federal system, it might be their only way out of a bad situation. We could reunite families.

I can’t use that line in an interview though. It opens the door to one of the Dems favorite topics: prison reform. When did the world become such a mess?

I check Silas’s location after I order dinner. He’s at the Eastmoor, but he shouldn’t be for much longer. I watch his dot, thinking about what he said before he fucked me on the bathroom vanity. About how he already got laid that day. I’m convinced he has someone. A boyfriend or a lover. Certainly he’s not seeing clients in the Hamptons. Although, I suppose he could be.

This other UES building he’s in at least once a week…more often lately…means a relationship. What does it mean then, that he fucked me?

Nothing.

He wanted proof. He got it. And I let him have it.

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