I hadn’t even made it inside yet.

I was walking up to the church for breakfast — just another cold morning, just another line outside.

That’s when I met Helen.

We weren’t even in the building.

We were about to get in line.

She didn’t waste time warming up.

“Can I look up your shorts?”

We hadn’t even sat down yet.

Then:

“Let me feel your chest.”

She wanted to hold hands.

I saw no issue.

And we did.

Like we were on some strange, unspoken first date.

By the time we got through the line, she’d shifted gears completely — like I’d unknowingly walked into the pilot episode of Helen: Uncensored.

The one-liners kept coming, faster, bolder, each one just a little more feral.

“You make my minge wet.”

“Can I have you for the hour? I’ll pay you ten pound.”

“I’d have my way with you.”

Personal favorite was this line:

“It won't matter what your name is when I’m pulling your hair.”

Accompanied with this dance move.

She wasn’t whispering these, either.

She was announcing them.

To me.

To the volunteers.

To the entire room.

And the weird thing?

People leaned in.

Like she was hosting breakfast cabaret.

She told me to sit by her.

I told her I was sitting by my girl Jemma instead.

(Jemma’s quiet. Keeps to herself. Doesn’t narrate graphic sexual fantasies over toast. We’re chill like that.)

Helen shrugged, kept eating.

When she was done,

she just got up,

left her dirty plate,

and floated off to talk fantasy with the volunteers.

Later, she came back.

“Can I have your name?” she asked.

I told her.

Then I paused.

“You forgot your plate.”

Helen blinked.

Then cranked up the volume.

As if she wanted everyone to see what came next.

“What?”

I too, turned up the volume.

Gentle, but firm.

“You left your plate. You need to bring it back.”

Pointing to the counter.

Helen smirked. Like she had me cornered.

“If I can have you for an hour.”

Me:

“I’ll do it for a kiss.”

Me:

“I’m the boss.”

Me:

“But I do like being bossed around.”

Me:

“Who made you king?”

Me:

"God I love him"

And she brought her dirty plate back.

Fast forward: I’m wiping down tables.

Airpods In.

My Jam:

Helen is now full spread eagle.

One leg on the table.

One leg on the floor.

Direct line of sight to her private parts.

Like a lighthouse beam.

Except this lighthouse was drunk.

I ignore her attempts.

A guy walks over, whispering like he’s passing on a state secret and doing me a favor.

“Mate, you know she wants to have her way with you?”

“She’ll pay you to…”

I look at him. (A bit sad because, not because he's feeling left out, but because he hasn't conquered his desires.)

“I’m well aware. I think everyone here is.”

He smiled.

He nodded.

Then he offered me knucks.

“Respect, mate.”

I bumped him.

Breakfast diplomacy complete.

Went back to cleaning.

HELEN OF TROY

She arrived like a hurricane.

By the time she left,

the room was grinning like nothing happened.

But I told you. They were hunting.

“Who made you King?”

I did.

Not by birthright,

not by vote,

but by claim.

By stepping into the space others hesitate to fill.

By pointing the way when no one else will.

Sovereignty is not given.

It is taken through self control.

It is claimed in the silence between words,

In the decisions that ripple beyond the moment.

Because power feels like freedom,

the freedom to shape my story,

to draw my own lines,

to choose what to own and what to leave behind.

And now I wonder,

What will I claim next?

What territory of thought,

action,

or heart

is waiting for me to plant my flag?

A great man doesn't seek to lead, he is called to it.

A leader is one who knows the way, goes the way and shows the way.