Contributor: George Sparling
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My homeless self lay clothed on my back on Father Butler Quincy’s bed in the university’s Newman Center. We met in the center’s parking lot after I had slept behind nearby bushes. Bernadette, an ex-nun, Butler’s sister, undressed me and told me to watch her disrobe her nun’s habit, a striptease, Jesus’ large brown cross on the wall behind her.
The phone rang downstairs. “Butler slit his wrists, took lots of barbiturates and was found dead in a hotel bathtub in Chartres,” she said. “Did you see the piece in the local paper about the district attorney charging him with five counts of child molestation?” She spoke distanced as a newscaster on TV.
She mounted me, my dick hard as the wood of Q’s cross, and she bounced high and deep over my tool, and yelled, “Die, priest, die,” as she had orgasms. What a drama queen.
We lay on Butler’s bed, menstrual blood smearing the sheets.
“Blood from the stigmata,” I said.
“Must run in the family,” she said, patted the sheets and tossed her head, her hair swooshing back.
Today, during spring break, she had the keys to the center.
She bore no resemblance to her brother, her dark brown hair unlike Q’s balding, wavy blond hair, eyes farther apart, she more muscular than Q, with a cleft chin unlike her brother, she taller than Q. Though my clothes stank, my beard shaggy, and I had left keys far behind ever since I became homeless, she invited me inside, a charity case I presumed. It was cold outside.
“I remember your first and last meal here, Jude. I cooked the spaghetti and meatball dinner for the students. You lambasted Q for his ignorance of ‘60s culture and politics. Where had that rage come from?” she said.
“I ate at the Newman Center because I was broke. The student loan disappeared because I spent it all on booze and drugs, and flunked out. Wouldn’t you be pissed?”
“Yeah.” Her Lexus outside undermined that sentiment. “Butler thought himself a sixties aficionado. He lost face with the students,” she said.
“Yeah, a real insurgent I was. Going to his funeral dressed in black?”
“I won’t bother going,” she said.
“Q was a snobbish aristocrat, hovering above us serfs.” She frowned at that remark.
“Want another hit?” she asked. The meth was superior, expensive.
Closed for spring break, the Newman Center was ours. We smoked pipes. Bernadette filled them both, the crystal a bright white high, our minds pinnacled, focusing on one another. “I know Butler had sex with boys in this bedroom,” she said.
“How?” How had she known, not the obvious dominance he held with children’s crusade, not her ascendancy she had over me, her untermenschen.
“I could’ve snuck in with my camcorder if I had it,” she said.
“My dick just got hard. The camcorder did it.”
We lay back, she massaging my belly. She would not let me do that to her. She pulled the pipe from my hand.
“I never told you what happened once with Father Quincy, did I?”
“What?” Her tiny pupils spun pinwheels of anticipation.
“One day in his office downstairs, he stood up as I entered. I was desperate. I thought if I went to a priest it would be like a porn confession, a private affair. I couldn’t think straight. I wanted absolution because the pressure valve needed release.”
“Did you see a lot of young porn?”
“Not a lot but plenty.”
“I like girls spanking boys, schoolgirls getting caned. I especially like scenes where women in latex and whips denied male’s ejaculations.” So did I.
“He sat with his butt on a corner of the desk, one foot on the floor, and explained that my meeting was not a privileged, confidential counseling session. He sensed something wrong with my pop-in visit, I not Catholic. He looked me up and down as if I were loathsome. A pariah”
“What came over you to see him?” Her ring flashed at me. It looked like it came from Tiffany’s.
“After that young flesh online, I felt empty. I saw him after a night of bingeing. I needed reaffirmation so I could keep doing it.”
She left the bed and put a disc into the computer.
“Verdi’s Requiem, I love its death and carnality.”
“I like Megadeath and Motorhead,” I said.
“How gruesome,” she said, tossing back her hair, accentuating her judgment.
“His face reddened. He told me if I bothered him again about my ‘crimes’ he would report me, that he was on good terms with the local police chief and the D.A. Just for the hell of it, I asked him for a bible. It plopped into my hands without him touching me as if were a leper.”
“What contempt. Did you want revenge?” she said without emotion.
“I wanted to get even. How I didn’t know,” I yelled.
“Butler dead, that must have pleased you. The irony,” she said. She dressed and told me it was nice.
We walked downstairs and left. She locked up and drove away in a Lexus and I resumed life behind the bushes.
Maybe the next priest at the Newman Center will have a sexy sister and if he persisted in kid stuff and ODs on barbs, then I’ll have it made, I joked. Reality: The chances are nil.
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My homeless self lay clothed on my back on Father Butler Quincy’s bed in the university’s Newman Center. We met in the center’s parking lot after I had slept behind nearby bushes. Bernadette, an ex-nun, Butler’s sister, undressed me and told me to watch her disrobe her nun’s habit, a striptease, Jesus’ large brown cross on the wall behind her.
The phone rang downstairs. “Butler slit his wrists, took lots of barbiturates and was found dead in a hotel bathtub in Chartres,” she said. “Did you see the piece in the local paper about the district attorney charging him with five counts of child molestation?” She spoke distanced as a newscaster on TV.
She mounted me, my dick hard as the wood of Q’s cross, and she bounced high and deep over my tool, and yelled, “Die, priest, die,” as she had orgasms. What a drama queen.
We lay on Butler’s bed, menstrual blood smearing the sheets.
“Blood from the stigmata,” I said.
“Must run in the family,” she said, patted the sheets and tossed her head, her hair swooshing back.
Today, during spring break, she had the keys to the center.
She bore no resemblance to her brother, her dark brown hair unlike Q’s balding, wavy blond hair, eyes farther apart, she more muscular than Q, with a cleft chin unlike her brother, she taller than Q. Though my clothes stank, my beard shaggy, and I had left keys far behind ever since I became homeless, she invited me inside, a charity case I presumed. It was cold outside.
“I remember your first and last meal here, Jude. I cooked the spaghetti and meatball dinner for the students. You lambasted Q for his ignorance of ‘60s culture and politics. Where had that rage come from?” she said.
“I ate at the Newman Center because I was broke. The student loan disappeared because I spent it all on booze and drugs, and flunked out. Wouldn’t you be pissed?”
“Yeah.” Her Lexus outside undermined that sentiment. “Butler thought himself a sixties aficionado. He lost face with the students,” she said.
“Yeah, a real insurgent I was. Going to his funeral dressed in black?”
“I won’t bother going,” she said.
“Q was a snobbish aristocrat, hovering above us serfs.” She frowned at that remark.
“Want another hit?” she asked. The meth was superior, expensive.
Closed for spring break, the Newman Center was ours. We smoked pipes. Bernadette filled them both, the crystal a bright white high, our minds pinnacled, focusing on one another. “I know Butler had sex with boys in this bedroom,” she said.
“How?” How had she known, not the obvious dominance he held with children’s crusade, not her ascendancy she had over me, her untermenschen.
“I could’ve snuck in with my camcorder if I had it,” she said.
“My dick just got hard. The camcorder did it.”
We lay back, she massaging my belly. She would not let me do that to her. She pulled the pipe from my hand.
“I never told you what happened once with Father Quincy, did I?”
“What?” Her tiny pupils spun pinwheels of anticipation.
“One day in his office downstairs, he stood up as I entered. I was desperate. I thought if I went to a priest it would be like a porn confession, a private affair. I couldn’t think straight. I wanted absolution because the pressure valve needed release.”
“Did you see a lot of young porn?”
“Not a lot but plenty.”
“I like girls spanking boys, schoolgirls getting caned. I especially like scenes where women in latex and whips denied male’s ejaculations.” So did I.
“He sat with his butt on a corner of the desk, one foot on the floor, and explained that my meeting was not a privileged, confidential counseling session. He sensed something wrong with my pop-in visit, I not Catholic. He looked me up and down as if I were loathsome. A pariah”
“What came over you to see him?” Her ring flashed at me. It looked like it came from Tiffany’s.
“After that young flesh online, I felt empty. I saw him after a night of bingeing. I needed reaffirmation so I could keep doing it.”
She left the bed and put a disc into the computer.
“Verdi’s Requiem, I love its death and carnality.”
“I like Megadeath and Motorhead,” I said.
“How gruesome,” she said, tossing back her hair, accentuating her judgment.
“His face reddened. He told me if I bothered him again about my ‘crimes’ he would report me, that he was on good terms with the local police chief and the D.A. Just for the hell of it, I asked him for a bible. It plopped into my hands without him touching me as if were a leper.”
“What contempt. Did you want revenge?” she said without emotion.
“I wanted to get even. How I didn’t know,” I yelled.
“Butler dead, that must have pleased you. The irony,” she said. She dressed and told me it was nice.
We walked downstairs and left. She locked up and drove away in a Lexus and I resumed life behind the bushes.
Maybe the next priest at the Newman Center will have a sexy sister and if he persisted in kid stuff and ODs on barbs, then I’ll have it made, I joked. Reality: The chances are nil.
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Author:
George Sparling
