And I Serve Satan in Exchange for a Magic, Aging Painting

Why do I look so young? Thanks for asking. I wish you hadn’t.

I just turned 54 and I feel great. But I look late thirties, early forties. At least that’s what others tell me.

“I just met your little sister,” my brother’s work friend said to my confused ten-years younger than me brother. My brother was pissed.

“Did you have work done?” my coworker asks. “I just can’t believe you are as old as you say.” She frowns.

“Your parents look their age. So does your brother. What’s your secret?” my friend asks as she swigs Merlot from her wineglass.

“You must have good genetics,” a neighbor comments after asking why my tits are so firm. Which is a weird conversation, by the way. Why are you checking out my breasts?

It’s as if by looking young, I’ve committed a crime. As if I forged my Hawaiian birth certificate to age me twenty years. No, I’m 54. Born in 1968. My mom will confirm this if you call her. I was a teen in the 80s. I have photos to prove it. I was a child in the 70s — and have photos to prove that.

But I guess I can’t hide the truth from the world any longer.

You’ve found me out. And it’s getting harder to uphold the lie. As I am moving towards my sixties, if I keep glowing this way, you’ll know something is amiss. So, I’ll confess. It’s only fair, so you, too, can have the youthful glow that I enjoy. I can’t lie anymore. So here it is. My confession.

I admit that I have a painting in a hidden, dark hallway of my home. It currently looks 60 while my face and body remain a lovely and respectable, and acceptable, early forties. I had to make a deal with the devil for it. But keeping the agreement is not so bad.

It’s not that I use dye and perfume-free skin care. Or that I’ve followed a strict skin regimen for the past forty years. Or that I drink at least a gallon of purified water every day. Nope.

It’s not that I regularly hit my step count, go for jogs or, if I’m feeling it, runs. It’s not the hours of yoga. Nope.

It’s not that I have not consumed soda in over twelve years. I did have a sip about three years ago. Poison. Or that I do not drink alcohol except maybe once every two or three months. And I only have one drink. Nope, it’s not any of that.

It’s not that I do not do drugs. I don’t smoke (not in years). I don’t rush home to my bong. I don’t vape CBD oil constantly (you know who you are — and I don’t care you say you’re 30 years old, you look 50). I don’t take tons of meds or demand antibiotics every time I sniffle. I don’t pop pain meds for every ache — and I do have them at 54. It’s not any of that.

My painting ages and I remain unchanged.

It’s not my daily vitamins. It’s not that I get enough sunshine to protect my vitamin D production, but not too much to avoid wrinkles and spots. As my tanning obsessed peers watch their once lovely skin turn to alligator leather, I suffer their stares and jibes. Yes, I am in league with the devil. And, yes, I let him penetrate me anally to maintain this skin.

It’s definitely not the greens and salads and raw foods. Or the kale. And garlic. Nope. It’s the demon ass sex. For the painting. That is looking old and frail.

It’s not that I refuse to eat poorly. That I avoid junk food or processed anything. That I make my own granola and cereal. Nothing I eat comes out of a microwave tray. It’s not that I learned how to cook, so I never need to microwave anything but popcorn. It’s not that I grow my own food where and when I am able, or buy organic from farmer’s markets. It’s the demon anal sex thing.

It’s not that I avoid pesticides in my garden, scent sprays in my air, or chemicals on my clothing. It’s the contract with the demon. He gave me the painting. It keeps working because I lube my anus regularly to accept his giant member.

It’s not that I rarely eat out. Because… salt. Monosodium glutamate. Roaches. Or that I never eat canned anything but beans. And I wash them. And they’re organic.

It’s not that I do facial exercises. Or that I get massages. Or that I practice to reduce my anxiety attacks. Or that I avoid social media and the cruelty it delivers. Or that I don’t compare myself to anyone but me. Or my access to and willingness to seek excellent healthcare.

It’s not your self-serving bias, your confirmation bias, illusory correlation, bias blind spots, or illusion of control bias. Or a pill or quick fix.

Demon. Big shlong. Anal insertion.

I get to keep the painting that gets older, so I don’t. Best deal I ever made. Makes staying young and fresh and full of life easy.

It’s not that I get outside for fresh air and avoid television and binge watching anything. It’s not that I enjoy a healthy sex life. Or that I enjoy the power of touch with my partner — or hug my kids as often as possible. Or pet my cat. Or play with my dog. It’s not the joy of connection and living life.

And it’s not that I have cleared my heart of hate and thoughts of revenge or jealousy. It’s definitely not that I live my dreams even if it means I don’t have a new Audi. Or luxury anything. Because I have peace.

And lovely skin.

And, yeah, it’s the demon anal sex contract for that aging painting thing.

You can get lube with an AARP discount at Walgreens. You’re going to need it.