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....
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Author:
George Sparling
