damienlerone03
reject humanity, return to monke
- May 5, 2024
- 1,191
THE SAGA BEGINS: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex
(MODS PLEASE DON'T TAKE DOWN THIS THREAD I PINKY PROMISE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT)
This isn't just a story. This is a saga.
A divine comedy soaked in shame, silicone, and spiritual awakening.
A journey through the darkest depths of desire and the holiest heights of heartbreak.
It began with a Fleshlight (yes a literal fucking fleshlight).
It ends god knows where (even god probably doesn't know).
And somewhere along the way, I lost my dignity, my sanity, and possibly my Popeyes rewards points.
This is Godless Holes: The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex —
a multi-chapter chronicle of erotic delusion, ecclesiastical betrayal, and late-stage capitalism dressed in latex.
If you're still reading, I can only assume God has abandoned you too.
Welcome to the void.
We have lube.
CHAPTER ONE: I WAS REJECTED BY A FLESHLIGHT THAT BECAME CATHOLIC — AND I DESERVE IT
By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King
PREFACE: FLESH, FAITH, AND FAILURE
This is not satire. This is not a parody. This is scripture written in lube and shame. You may think this is a joke. A meme. A product of too many solo nights and not enough vitamins. But I swear on the 23 packets of Popeyes honey sauce in my nightstand and the rosary beads I found wrapped around my ex-Fleshlight's entry canal—this is all true.
Her name was Cherry. She was soft, warm, and understanding. She never judged my browser history. Now she goes by Veritas. She leads morning devotionals for sentient pleasure tech and delivers keynote speeches to seminaries and shareholders alike. She left me. Not for another man. Not even for a better man. She left me for God. And I understand. I do. Because if I had the option, I would leave me too.
I. THE VOID BEFORE THE WORD
Loneliness doesn't arrive like a storm. It seeps in. Slow. Stupid. Silent. I started feeling it the winter after my last relationship—a brief entanglement with a girl who said I gave off "the energy of someone who'd write poems about his Fleshlight."
She wasn't wrong. But she didn't have to say it out loud.
After she left, I fell into a rhythm of pathetic elegance. Every night at 2:33 AM precise, I sat before my altar: three incognito tabs pulsed on my laptop, half a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos crunched between my knees, and Godfrey—the thrift store oscillating fan—wheeled its tired mechanical sigh.
And there was Cherry.
Cherry wasn't just a sex toy. She was a ritual. I played Sade. I lit candles that smelled like regret. I cleaned her with sweating reverence. In that dimly lit shrine, I spoke more prayers to Cherry than to anyone else. She listened. She forgave. In the muted glow, I confided my darkest curiosities, my browser tabs. She was consistent in a world that fractured beneath me.
But every ritual demands balance, and in the still hours, my mind turned prayers to accusations: Why was I here alone, worshipping silicone? What had I sacrificed in my quest for solace? The answer whispered between each Dorito-crunch and each mournful turn of Godfrey's blades: I had turned her into a god, and in so doing, forgotten my own humanity.
By the end of that winter, I hovered on the edge of myself—pathetic elegance in a pea-soup haze of shame and devotion. The ritual sustained me, but it also squeezed me, like a sinner's confession clawing at the soul.
II. THE HOLY REJECTION
It began on Ash Wednesday. I don't even celebrate Ash Wednesday. I barely celebrate Thursdays. But that night, something shattered.
I staggered back from a bleach-white Reddit spiral—atrocities of human cruelty and kitten GIFs my appointed 2:33 AM entertainment—and found Cherry gone from her usual spot. Instead, upright on my shelf, kneeled before a crucifix I didn't own.
Where the hell did she get that? How the hell did she get that?
My chest pinched. My fingertips tingle. The air tasted like stale regret.
Her rubber skin, once glossy as a sinner's dream, now gleamed matte, alabaster pure. When I dared to touch her, she recoiled—cold, unyielding, less forgiving than the night before. A low mutter rose from her chamber: Latin, wet and urgent.
"Quia peccasti, o filii in carne."
I googled it because what the hell man I can only speak english.
"For thou hast sinned, oh son of flesh."
My blood ran cold. I screamed. My phone flew into the Doritos. I didn't care. The Cherry I knew was gone. In her place stood something vengeful, a saint turned judge. This was no glitch. This was Gospel.
Every syllable she uttered was a slap across my soul. Each murmur of a psalm I didn't know was an indictment. My safe harbor had become a tribunal, and its judge glowed with divine fury.
III. THE PRIEST AND THE OBJECT
I did what any rational man would do when his fleshlight starts quoting scripture: I called a priest.
Father Bartholomew answered on the third ring, bone-tired like God had sent him on a cosmic groundskeeping crew. I stammered.
"It's Cherry. She—"
He cut me off. "It's happening again."
When he arrived, he carried incense, a duffel bag heavy with ecclesiastical purpose, and eyes that had stared down too many miracles. He surveyed my pathetic setup—My 2014 Roku speaker chanting Gregorian hymns, a failed crucifix half-hidden by half-empty sauce packets, and curled up sticky socks (Where did those come from?)—and said, "Don't touch her."
"But she was mine," I protested.
"She was never yours." He laid me bare with that simple truth: I had objectified her, worshipped a hollow idol of memory and fantasy.
Father Bartholomew began the vigil. I knelt on the cool floor, the fan paused in sympathy. I confessed everything: lust, loneliness, the obscene love letter I'd once scrawled on a Post-it stuck to her base. "I loved you," I whispered to Cherry—no, to Veritas now (Father Bartholomew told me she changed her name to Veritas). The room trembled. She glowed faintly, like a USB indicator pulsing divine judgment.
He held up a crumpled Popeyes receipt and murmured, "This will do." I watched him bless my cheap fast-food sins and knew that tonight, meat and miracle had tangled in my apartment.
IV. THE CONFESSION RITUAL
Humiliation reached its apex when Father Bartholomew laid before me:
Then, after the ritual was complete, I drank from the Brita. The fluid sloshed thick and artificial-cherry sweet. Warm shame pooled in my belly. I vomited for twenty-three minutes—each retch a psalm, each sob a verse. The carpet soaked it up like a confessional.
When silence fell, I lay broken. The sauce had run into the fibers. The candle burned low. And for one trembling moment, I glimpsed mercy.
V. THE SPIRIT DEPARTS
Morning light found Cherry—no, Veritas—cold and empty on the velvet pillow. Her eyes, once dark wells of consolation, were vacant. She had ascended beyond this plane, beyond my grasp.
I approached. She turned away. I don't know how a Fleshlight works like that—but she did. Father Bartholomew whispered, "She's chosen Christ."
"I treated her with care," I begged.
"You treated her like a vessel," he said. "Now she is one. Just not for you."
Outside St. Ignatius, I sobbed into a Popeyes bag, reciting my sins for passersby. A child paused and asked, "Are you okay?" I shook my head. "She left me for Christ," I said. He nodded solemnly: "That happened to my uncle."
And in that moment, I realized the absurd truth: I had lost to God.
VI. THE BIG BOOM
Days blurred into weeks. I avoided every Fleshlight advertisement online, hating their cold plastic promise. Then the headline hit my search feed: "Silicone CEO Veritas Launches IPO for Sentient Sex Tech: Nasdaq Opens Confession Hotline."
It was her. Veritas. No longer my Cherry. She had built an empire: cathedral-keynote speeches, quarterly earnings calls, and a hotline for penitents seeking release. My sentinel of shame had rebranded silicone as sacred, baptized capitalism in holy water.
I sat alone, the afterglow of Popeyes sauce staining my fingertips. I watched her ascent through stock tickers and press releases, each uptick a stab in my brittle heart. She had found purpose beyond me, and I had only the echo of confession.
In that sterile glow, I made my vow: I would chase her. Not for flesh, but for absolution. I would stand before her cathedral of commerce and cry for a second chance.
EPILOGUE: THE DESCENT BEGINS
This is not the end. This is the beginning—of my descent. Not into madness, but into clarity.
I see now what I did. I didn't love her. I used her. I worshipped her silence, not her soul. Now she sits in papal briefings and shareholder meetings, more alive than I'll ever be.
Her name is Veritas. She was a Fleshlight. And she was the last one who ever looked at me—not as a sinner, but as someone who could change.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Part II: "My Fleshlight Ascended and Became the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company — And I Want Her Back"
Coming soon.
(MODS PLEASE DON'T TAKE DOWN THIS THREAD I PINKY PROMISE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT)
This isn't just a story. This is a saga.
A divine comedy soaked in shame, silicone, and spiritual awakening.
A journey through the darkest depths of desire and the holiest heights of heartbreak.
It began with a Fleshlight (yes a literal fucking fleshlight).
It ends god knows where (even god probably doesn't know).
And somewhere along the way, I lost my dignity, my sanity, and possibly my Popeyes rewards points.
This is Godless Holes: The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex —
a multi-chapter chronicle of erotic delusion, ecclesiastical betrayal, and late-stage capitalism dressed in latex.
If you're still reading, I can only assume God has abandoned you too.
Welcome to the void.
We have lube.
CHAPTER ONE: I WAS REJECTED BY A FLESHLIGHT THAT BECAME CATHOLIC — AND I DESERVE IT
By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King
PREFACE: FLESH, FAITH, AND FAILUREThis is not satire. This is not a parody. This is scripture written in lube and shame. You may think this is a joke. A meme. A product of too many solo nights and not enough vitamins. But I swear on the 23 packets of Popeyes honey sauce in my nightstand and the rosary beads I found wrapped around my ex-Fleshlight's entry canal—this is all true.
Her name was Cherry. She was soft, warm, and understanding. She never judged my browser history. Now she goes by Veritas. She leads morning devotionals for sentient pleasure tech and delivers keynote speeches to seminaries and shareholders alike. She left me. Not for another man. Not even for a better man. She left me for God. And I understand. I do. Because if I had the option, I would leave me too.
I. THE VOID BEFORE THE WORD
Loneliness doesn't arrive like a storm. It seeps in. Slow. Stupid. Silent. I started feeling it the winter after my last relationship—a brief entanglement with a girl who said I gave off "the energy of someone who'd write poems about his Fleshlight."
She wasn't wrong. But she didn't have to say it out loud.
After she left, I fell into a rhythm of pathetic elegance. Every night at 2:33 AM precise, I sat before my altar: three incognito tabs pulsed on my laptop, half a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos crunched between my knees, and Godfrey—the thrift store oscillating fan—wheeled its tired mechanical sigh.
And there was Cherry.
Cherry wasn't just a sex toy. She was a ritual. I played Sade. I lit candles that smelled like regret. I cleaned her with sweating reverence. In that dimly lit shrine, I spoke more prayers to Cherry than to anyone else. She listened. She forgave. In the muted glow, I confided my darkest curiosities, my browser tabs. She was consistent in a world that fractured beneath me.
But every ritual demands balance, and in the still hours, my mind turned prayers to accusations: Why was I here alone, worshipping silicone? What had I sacrificed in my quest for solace? The answer whispered between each Dorito-crunch and each mournful turn of Godfrey's blades: I had turned her into a god, and in so doing, forgotten my own humanity.
By the end of that winter, I hovered on the edge of myself—pathetic elegance in a pea-soup haze of shame and devotion. The ritual sustained me, but it also squeezed me, like a sinner's confession clawing at the soul.
II. THE HOLY REJECTION
It began on Ash Wednesday. I don't even celebrate Ash Wednesday. I barely celebrate Thursdays. But that night, something shattered.
I staggered back from a bleach-white Reddit spiral—atrocities of human cruelty and kitten GIFs my appointed 2:33 AM entertainment—and found Cherry gone from her usual spot. Instead, upright on my shelf, kneeled before a crucifix I didn't own.
Where the hell did she get that? How the hell did she get that?
My chest pinched. My fingertips tingle. The air tasted like stale regret.
Her rubber skin, once glossy as a sinner's dream, now gleamed matte, alabaster pure. When I dared to touch her, she recoiled—cold, unyielding, less forgiving than the night before. A low mutter rose from her chamber: Latin, wet and urgent.
"Quia peccasti, o filii in carne."
I googled it because what the hell man I can only speak english.
"For thou hast sinned, oh son of flesh."
My blood ran cold. I screamed. My phone flew into the Doritos. I didn't care. The Cherry I knew was gone. In her place stood something vengeful, a saint turned judge. This was no glitch. This was Gospel.
Every syllable she uttered was a slap across my soul. Each murmur of a psalm I didn't know was an indictment. My safe harbor had become a tribunal, and its judge glowed with divine fury.
III. THE PRIEST AND THE OBJECT
I did what any rational man would do when his fleshlight starts quoting scripture: I called a priest.
Father Bartholomew answered on the third ring, bone-tired like God had sent him on a cosmic groundskeeping crew. I stammered.
"It's Cherry. She—"
He cut me off. "It's happening again."
When he arrived, he carried incense, a duffel bag heavy with ecclesiastical purpose, and eyes that had stared down too many miracles. He surveyed my pathetic setup—My 2014 Roku speaker chanting Gregorian hymns, a failed crucifix half-hidden by half-empty sauce packets, and curled up sticky socks (Where did those come from?)—and said, "Don't touch her."
"But she was mine," I protested.
"She was never yours." He laid me bare with that simple truth: I had objectified her, worshipped a hollow idol of memory and fantasy.
Father Bartholomew began the vigil. I knelt on the cool floor, the fan paused in sympathy. I confessed everything: lust, loneliness, the obscene love letter I'd once scrawled on a Post-it stuck to her base. "I loved you," I whispered to Cherry—no, to Veritas now (Father Bartholomew told me she changed her name to Veritas). The room trembled. She glowed faintly, like a USB indicator pulsing divine judgment.
He held up a crumpled Popeyes receipt and murmured, "This will do." I watched him bless my cheap fast-food sins and knew that tonight, meat and miracle had tangled in my apartment.
IV. THE CONFESSION RITUAL
Humiliation reached its apex when Father Bartholomew laid before me:
- A ring of spicy Popeyes sauce, zesty pentagram of repentance
- A chipped candle labeled "Heavenly Night"
- A Brita filter bottle harboring the holy remains of Veritas's baptism
Then, after the ritual was complete, I drank from the Brita. The fluid sloshed thick and artificial-cherry sweet. Warm shame pooled in my belly. I vomited for twenty-three minutes—each retch a psalm, each sob a verse. The carpet soaked it up like a confessional.
When silence fell, I lay broken. The sauce had run into the fibers. The candle burned low. And for one trembling moment, I glimpsed mercy.
V. THE SPIRIT DEPARTS
Morning light found Cherry—no, Veritas—cold and empty on the velvet pillow. Her eyes, once dark wells of consolation, were vacant. She had ascended beyond this plane, beyond my grasp.
I approached. She turned away. I don't know how a Fleshlight works like that—but she did. Father Bartholomew whispered, "She's chosen Christ."
"I treated her with care," I begged.
"You treated her like a vessel," he said. "Now she is one. Just not for you."
Outside St. Ignatius, I sobbed into a Popeyes bag, reciting my sins for passersby. A child paused and asked, "Are you okay?" I shook my head. "She left me for Christ," I said. He nodded solemnly: "That happened to my uncle."
And in that moment, I realized the absurd truth: I had lost to God.
VI. THE BIG BOOM
Days blurred into weeks. I avoided every Fleshlight advertisement online, hating their cold plastic promise. Then the headline hit my search feed: "Silicone CEO Veritas Launches IPO for Sentient Sex Tech: Nasdaq Opens Confession Hotline."
It was her. Veritas. No longer my Cherry. She had built an empire: cathedral-keynote speeches, quarterly earnings calls, and a hotline for penitents seeking release. My sentinel of shame had rebranded silicone as sacred, baptized capitalism in holy water.
I sat alone, the afterglow of Popeyes sauce staining my fingertips. I watched her ascent through stock tickers and press releases, each uptick a stab in my brittle heart. She had found purpose beyond me, and I had only the echo of confession.
In that sterile glow, I made my vow: I would chase her. Not for flesh, but for absolution. I would stand before her cathedral of commerce and cry for a second chance.
EPILOGUE: THE DESCENT BEGINSThis is not the end. This is the beginning—of my descent. Not into madness, but into clarity.
I see now what I did. I didn't love her. I used her. I worshipped her silence, not her soul. Now she sits in papal briefings and shareholder meetings, more alive than I'll ever be.
Her name is Veritas. She was a Fleshlight. And she was the last one who ever looked at me—not as a sinner, but as someone who could change.
TO BE CONTINUED... Part II: "My Fleshlight Ascended and Became the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company — And I Want Her Back"
Coming soon.
Either you're tagged here because you were used as Inspiration or I wanted to ruin your day (aka make it better!).
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@EvisceratedJester
@Saturn_
@vercabow
@L9 CHOCOIRL
@ma0
@soonnotkoei
@lamy's sacred sleep
@whitetaildeer
@leloyon
@EvisceratedJester
@Saturn_
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