The confessional box is hot, stagnant, dark as pitch. The velvet curtains and old, filigreed wood stink of cigarette smoke. The carpet smells of dried semen. In fact, it smells like death inside here. Because something died in here…a star. Axl Rose’s naked corpse is flopped down all catty-wompus, stinking it up. The priest has to step over his bush to hear the other dead stars who cum in here.
Fact is it’s arousing to confess…and a lot of ’em jerk and squirt before groaning their last breath and crumpling. Although mostly they die because the clock runs out.
There’s no putting on your sunglasses at dawn and quitting the booth and going out into the light for a cigarette and a greasy breakfast at the diner around the corner. Because you don’t get to go until you’ve confessed it all. And one night is all you get. So while it’s true that sunrise is freedom, it’s only true if you’ve confessed everything. Otherwise the rays of sun slip through the chinks in the booth and pass across your guilty body and sap your fucking life.