Aware of:

• the lingering smell of incense carried on dust in suspension, particles faintly tinged by sunlight through colored glass
• hymns confined to hymnals impatient for Sunday morning services when hands scrubbed clean of blame crack open covers and voices liberate hosannas
• lumps in upholstered kneelers remembering countless knees: young, old, fat, thin, arthritic, prosthetic, the gamut, impressions left like footprints in Eden’s mud
• one parishioner’s rosary beads tapping against a pew, his pudgy fingers pinching through a well-worn set while reciting Hail Marys
• hinges squeaking to announce the comings and goings of forgivers and forgiven
• pigeon coos proclaiming their right to sanctuary somewhere under eaves
• idle pipes of an organ staggered in clusters at calibrated wavelengths, mute but standing at attention, poised to intone almighty praises
• Stations of the Cross depicting bittersweet vignettes of Christ’s climb to Calgary, faltering en route, the weight of Mankind’s guilt an enervating burden
• outside traffic noises filtered through the hush-ness that steepled structures breed, transept, belfry, sacristy, and vestibule embracing hallowed spaces,

none so intimate as the confessional booth awaiting her who approaches, enters resolutely, kneels, crosses herself, and addresses God in silhouette—or him who will transmit her gross transgressions, whispered discreetly by proxy into The Omnipresent’s ear.

              ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession, and here’s my latest list: mostly sins of thought and word—my boyfriend’s out of town so I haven’t logged many bad deeds. Masturbation is all. I’ve done that a lot. Maybe because I’m pregnant—out of wedlock, yes, but I’ve confessed that already. And don’t you worry, Father, abortion is out of the question. We are engaged. The child will be baptized Catholic. I know premarital sex is wrong; but what’s a girl to do? I mean, think about it; you’re twenty-two years old, living on your own, earning a decent salary, and "hormonitis" hits like a ton of horny bricks—picture bricks with clits and penises and maybe you’ll get my drift. Sex is all I think about, morning, noon, and night; in every way imaginable; the more perverse the better. Last month things got so intense we managed to break his prick. I kid you not, Father, gave way like a tree limb; still connected to the trunk but suddenly set askew. When I felt that awful snap my heart just sank. Six weeks to mend. Which means he’ll almost be healed by the time he gets back. Meanwhile I’ve been using these things, you know, like dildos? Lap drugs none. But what I absolutely crave is cunnilingus. All I want to do is wrap my thighs around his face and have him lick me into rapture after orgiastic rapture!’

              The silence that ensues to fill Joanna’s brief hiatus (she adores these raw disclosures and recounts them unabashed candor) is breached by the telltale sound of heavy-breathing—wheezy, hoarse, the aged Reverend off to an early start on his afternoon nap.

              Aware of some (or all) of her confession going unheard, Joanna adds:

              ‘Oh, and I’ve used VibraCum, Plugged, and Simulationships on my VPCR.’

              She rat-a-tat-tats on the frosted-glass partition.

              ‘During which, I believe, my language got pretty foul, and for which I, dear Father, am heartily sorry.’

              Roused from slumber, the priest prescribes an Act of Contrition,, assigns a modest penance, and bestows his Holly Blessing.

*

              Between Saturday afternoon, alas, and Sunday morning Mass (when the Sacrament of Communion is administered and received), temptations may arise that go un-resisted; those in store for Ms Meerschaum transpire as follows:

4:20 pm

I suppose I’d nod off, too, if I heard litany after litany of people’s misbehavior. Try to keep mine spicy, but the poor old dear just snored. Let me off pretty easy, though; five Our Fathers and the usual promise to avoid those ‘near occasions'.

4:24 pm

Goddamn motherfucking sado-city whores! Another parking ticket? Christ! On a weekend? Don’t they ever rest? Forgive my profanity, Lord. ‘Occasions', for us motorists, are gosh darn unavoidable.

4:35 pm

What’s with all this traffic? Must have been a game. Baseball. All they do is guzzle beer and fellate hot dogs. Thankfully my fiancé is not a sports fan—except for games we play behind closed doors. Speak of the devil!

4:36 pm

Lost him. What’s he doing in that car? Must be a rental. What’s he doing back? It’s a week too soon. And why did the creep not call me? Something isn’t right.

4:42 pm

Think that’s him ahead. Oh, shit! He spotted me. Or did he? Maybe not. I thought he looked. Flamingo pink Mercedes are pretty hard to hide. There; I swear he saw me in his rear-view mirror.

4:43 pm

Okay, jig is up. I know he knows I’m following him. He turns; I turn. He slows down; I slow down. Bastard ran a red light; FUCK, I’m stuck! Drives me nuts to think he thinks I’m so predictable.

4:45 pm

Should have noted the license plate number but I didn’t. Maybe I should call? Assuming he has his cell. Assuming he has it on and the battery isn’t dead. Sneaky son-of-a-bitch, he’s pulled in behind me!

4:46 pm

Look at that shit-eating grin; he thinks he’s so clever. Easing up alongside, now; he's giving me the eye. Pretending like he’s trying to pick me up. Okay, smart-ass.

4:47 pm

What’s he up to now? He’s taken back the lead. Letting me keep up. No more sly maneuvers. Heading where, I wonder; his place? No; the freeway.

4:56 pm

Sand Hill Road; we’re exiting. This is rather fun; I’m starting to get excited. Fell’s been more inventive since we put that kink in his peepee, ‘doing unto others', namely me, in lieu of gratifying himself. Men with disabled dicks can do fabulous things with their other appendages.

5:04 pm

Where the hell are we? 84 South, 5 miles to LaHonda? Then what? West, I’ll wager. To the coast? Or that Forest Inn Motel we’ve never stayed at but passed often enough? That would do. Any place would do, in my current state of heat. Skip the chitchat, rent a room for the night, and get down to business.

5:24 pm

I’ll be damned, I’m right; he’s pulling in. Should I wait outside, let him register? God I’ve missed you, Rockefeller Falk, for all your quirks and craziness; never has a lover ever satisfied my whims with such panache.

5:30 pm

Isn’t he sweet, dangling that little key, opening the door, waiting for me at the threshold? Mm, I do so love the smell of his cologne. Funny, he’s so courtly he’s almost unfamiliar. Must have bought those clothes in New Zealand; I don’t recognize...

‘Before you shed those britches, Mister Mystery Man, I caution you to stop. You’ll leave them on throughout or I’ll depart this very minute.’

5:32 pm

‘Good. I’m glad to see obedience, for a change. Remember doctor’s orders. Six full weeks of inactivity, if you want that horn to mend. Gore me thou shalt not. Cat got your tongue? Just as well; I’d rather you not speak. Lie down there on the bed. You may take your shirt off. I’m going to straddle your lumberjack's prickly puss. I’m going to make you make me come so many times you’ll think my g-spot’s spastic. After which we’ll sleep and dream your prick is back in operation.’