Valerio slouched, hands in pockets, in a pew near a confessional, idly fingering himself while waiting for the last penitent to exit. The confessional was built into a stone wall with two doors, one for the priest, one for the penitent, a pair of lights above the space between them, one green, one red. There was no third door, as in a double confessional, an auspicious fact that added to what Father Dorato called “the beautiful privacy” of the sacrament. High above the doors loomed the shattered mirror of a stained-glass angel holding up a white cross radiant with the late Neapolitan sun behind it. Valerio thought of the blasé expression on the angel’s androgynous face as the same blank look a harpy might have just before swooping down on a victim. He imagined the angel coming to life amid the colorful panes and gliding down, like a crazed aerialist, to snatch the sunglasses hooked in the neck of his sleeveless T-shirt.

In the corner of his eye, he noticed the red light go off, the green on. The penitent opened the door and stepped out, a coarse, heavyset woman in a black dress, brogans, and stockings with a black kerchief wrapped around her head and tied beneath her chin. As she shuffled away, Valerio rose, took his hands from his pockets, and strolled over, his worn-out Nikes hardly making a sound on the marble floor.

Inside the booth, he shut the door, slumped on the seat like a dog in a doghouse, and, knees spread, began unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. After the stocky woman, the muggy confessional smelled of vinegar, and it certainly was not the most comfortable nor private place for tricking in La Nostra Donna di Sincerita. There were rooms which could be locked, including Dorato’s office. But sex in the sacred booth was much more exciting than in a cozy office or even a toilet stall in a public men’s room mainly because of the great taboo, and Dorato, Valerio knew, was definitely hooked on what must have been for him the incomparable thrill of such an utterly profane violation.

The little problem of the lattice screen between the booths had been solved long ago when a number of the congregation had fortuitously expressed a desire to confess face to face. Clever as he was, Dorato had conveniently come up with what he called “a decent solution” and had seated the screen on a sliding track so that the penitent could open it if he or she chose and Dorato or another confessor could close it so that the next penitent could make up his or her own mind. It was, in fact, a glory hole in church clothing, and the padded kneeler and arm rest were a minor physical obstacle that Valerio had quickly learned to overcome. Of course, the fact that he was well endowed helped considerably. The bronze crucifix over the grille was not much of a spiritual obstacle either. Valerio had always seen it more as the warped image of some sick sadomasochistic torture that had gotten out of hand, a stark symbol of self-mortification that ironically aroused him.

“Would you like to pray for the spirit of repentance,” the priest asked, “in order that you see you sins for what they are and—”

“Father,” Valerio began, freeing himself from his jeans. “We may as well be praying to one of those polished skulls the Death Cult names and talks to.”

“Valerio,” the priest sighed, making the sign of the cross. He sat up straight to gird himself for his role. “My son,” he murmured, “are you here to admit your guilt and be absolved of your sins?”

“No, father,” Valerio replied, fondling himself. “I’m here for my Wednesday blowjob.” He always gave the priest bulk rate since they had been having sex so long, in fact, in one form or another, since he was nine.

He began slapping his cock gently until it stood up straight, and when the priest heard the quiet slaps, his posture immediately dissolved, and he leaned against the wall between them, resting his head near the little lattice sifting his loved one’s voice.

“And how many times have you committed this sin this week?” the priest asked, touching the latticework tenderly.

Valerio rolled his foreskin between his thumb and index finger, smiled, and wondered if the priest wanted him to tell a pornographic anecdote to arouse him.

“It’s not a sin, Father,” Valerio stated, noticing the priest’s stout fingers. Stuck to the crosshatching, the pale hand reminded him of a spider caught in a Venus Flytrap. It also reminded him of a prisoner’s resting on bars. “You have to choose to sin,” he explained, “and I didn’t choose. I am. I just am. No choice, no sin.”

The priest pressed his forehead against the wall: “We both have the power to denounce this sin and walk away from it.”

“It’s not a sin,” Valerio stressed, bored with the priest’s remorse. He stood, lay his sunglasses on the seat, and looped the front of his T-shirt behind his neck. Then he faced the little window and began slowly stroking himself. “And I’d like to see you walk away from this.”

Occasionally, the weary priest, Valerio knew, would lapse into a bout of doubt and depression, deluding himself into thinking that the frail saint in his mind had the upper hand over the virile lech in his robe who, when younger, had preyed on nubile boys, but who now, as the years advanced, had managed to limit himself to this furtive and troubling release once a week. It was his way of keeping the lid on what he thought of as his boiling passions.

“After all,” the priest whispered, “it’s a venial, not a mortal, sin.”

Valerio could hear the thin resolve thawing in his voice, breaking up into delicate, see-through plates of ice floating down the minutes.

“Not a sin, father,” Valerio countered, noticing the small, awkward valentine that he, as a teenager, had scratched into the panel with a pocketknife. Someone had darkened it with furniture polish so that it was almost impossible to see it in the gloomy booth. “An act of pleasure. Anything that feels good is good. See for yourself.”

The priest knelt as if to pray and, as he watched Valerio intently through the grille, began unbuttoning his cassock below the sash. Then he reached inside it and began pulling himself.

“I’m sure rape feels good to the rapist,” the priest breathed.

“Would you like me to rape you?” Valerio asked, a palm on a pec. “In the booth? Now?”

“No,” the priest replied, disturbed. “No, Valerio. Don’t do anything foolish, please.”

“Feels good to both, father,” Valerio stated, irritated with the priest as with a fly. “Christ, father. Sad that I have to spell things out.”

When the lattice slid open, Valerio could see how servile the priest was, lips parted in anticipation, eyes fixed on him with fervent desire, even adoration. Because of the black robe, the handsome face in the small frame looked as if it were floating in the dark, a strange, middle-aged portrait of sensual, if not spiritual, torment that had magically come alive.

“You have the freedom to make decisions,” the priest said, jerking himself casually. “You can will yourself to lead a better life.”

To Valerio, the priest looked as if he had stuck his hand inside a ruptured suture and were manipulating an internal organ.

“Nothing’s better than getting a blowjob,” Valerio said, “especially when I’m getting paid for it, especially by a priest. And even if I did will myself to fuck a woman, I’d still be gay. You are who you are, not what you do. I could fuck a woman the rest of my life and still be gay.”

The priest took his hand out of his cassock and reached through the window to hold Valerio. Valerio stepped forward to accommodate him, then just stood there, legs spread, hips thrust forward, quietly watching the hand closed around him. Then Valerio began lightly fingering the fuzz around his cool nipples, pubescent wisps of hair as fine as the white down on a plant.

“I’ve known many proud gay men deeply involved in the gay movement who have renounced this—” The priest searched for a word. “This practice…and went on to marry and raise a happy family.”

“Father,” Valerio smiled, enjoying the familiar touch of the man’s big hand, all the sweet, warm sensations it was giving him. “Gay men don’t turn straight, and if one thinks he did, he was never gay to begin with. He may have engaged in gay sex, even exclusively, but he wasn’t gay. More likely, though, he’s lying to himself and everyone else for that matter, the way you’re lying to me now and the church and everyone else who walks through the door and kneels before you for communion. I know how you feel when a boy sticks his tongue out. I know how you feel when you place the wafer on it. I know how you feel now.”

The priest withdrew his hand, stuck it in his cassock again, and pressed his face, like a man in a pillory, into the window, mouth open, tongue out, as Valerio had described, for the blissful blessing. A starving chick could not have looked more solicitous, straining for the worm.

He teased the foreskin with the tip of his tongue, making the member snap to attention again and again like a coil, but when he actually went down on him, Valerio stepped back, slipping out of him, and said, “Money first.”

The priest retreated into the shadows, and Valerio could hear the witchy rustle of the cassock as the priest rummaged through it.

“Thirty this time,” Valerio added. “I need thirty.”

“Thirty?” the priest balked. “Why?”

“I want pants worthy of the shirt an admirer gave me. I want to look my best for my friend.”

He knew how much to take from the priest both in euros and emotionally. As his father once said, “To remove the bark in a circle would kill a tree.” But today he was asking only a little more.

“No,” the priest stated, stunned with jealousy. “The usual.”

“You’ll give me thirty,” Valerio said confidently.

“You threatening me?”

“I don’t need to threaten you, father. You’ll give it to me.”

“Why?” the priest asked, pondering the euros in his hand.

“You’re in love with me,” Valerio smiled. “You love me even more than that fictional god you say you believe in.”

“May God forgive you, my son.”

“There is no God, father. Your faith’s a lie.” Humiliated, the priest handed over the money, which Valerio counted and stuffed into a pocket. Then Valerio stepped forward and grabbed the priest by his forelock. “Open your mouth, father,” he said calmly. “Time for communion.”

As the priest blew him, Valerio tweaked his left nipple with his left hand, and unconsciously touched the soft, sensitive area behind his right ear with his right. The latter gesture had something of a surprised element to it, a curious puzzlement over the priest’s sporadic foolishness about sin and guilt and penance. Valerio wondered what had spooked him during the week, what threat or disgrace. He also wondered if the body of Christ, especially a small, wheaten wafer, had ever given the priest as much consummate solace as he himself did now or the grape juice of Christ in an ounce of semen.

Whatever the case, once the priest had surrendered to him sexually, he had given himself up entirely, heart and soul, sucking him off in such a slavish frenzy that he brought him off rather quickly for Valerio, who could usually hold out as long as a client wanted. Through the years, Valerio had become programmed to the booth erotically, and when he came, ecstatically sighing, his pecs and palms lit up as if pressed, not against a wall, but someone’s back and the back of someone’s hands.

On the other side of the wall, the priest looked as if he were punching himself in the crotch. Then he gagged on Valerio such a loud gag that he startled himself, jumping back onto the seat and furtively coughing and gasping.

“Are you sorry for this sin?” he asked, buttoning up.

“Sorry?” Valerio smiled, pulling up his jeans. “I enjoyed it.”

“Do you intend to commit this sin again?”

Valerio laughed to himself. “Yes, father, I do. Here with you next Wednesday.” Then he added, “And if you call it a sin again, I’m going to drag you by the hair down the aisle and fuck your lame ass on the altar.”

“You must do some good to make up for this—”

Before the priest could finish, Valerio snapped, “I do a lot of good. I give men pleasure. It’s the only thing I can do that’s good, and you should thank me for it. In fact, I insist. Thank me for it. Now. Father?”

“What?” the priest asked, sprawled against the seat.

“Thank me,” Valerio said. “Now.” When the priest failed to speak, Valerio kicked the wall and shouted, “Thank me!” and his voice went echoing down the nave.

“Thank you, thank you,” the priest whispered nervously. “I’m grateful for this favor you do me once a week.”

“More like it,” Valerio said, zipping up.

Then a lull ensued. On one side of the wall, Valerio adjusted himself in his jeans. On the other, the priest tugged, unconsciously, on the small, white square at his throat. He looked as if he had just been locked in a solitary cell forever.

“I forgive you, my son,” the priest said, casting about the booth.

“Nothing to forgive, father,” Valerio replied, straightening his T-shirt. “Forgive yourself for being such a fucking hypocrite.” Then he added under his breath, “Such a fucking mess.”

As Valerio picked up his sunshades, the priest murmured, “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

“And six acts of contrition for you,” Valerio suggested, slipping his shades on.

He stepped out of the confessional and squinted toward the glare of the entrance. To him, stopping by the church on Wednesday was like stopping to smell rosemary on a walk. He would rub the tip of a sprig between his thumb and index finger, sniff the clean, refreshing scent on his fingers, and stroll on.

 

© 2008 Ken Anderson

Ken Anderson is a Professor Emeritus of English and has been a consultant for a fine-arts journal and a literary quarterly. His fiction and poetry have appeared in over a hundred journals and anthologies. His novel, Someone Bought the House on the Island: A Dream Journal was a finalist in the Independent Publisher Book Awards, and a play based on the novel won the 2008 Saints and Sinners Playwright Contest and premiered at the Marigny Theater in New Orleans. He is looking for a producer for the screenplay verion of the novel. He has published fiction and drama in The Statue of Pan: Six Stories, a Novella, and a Novella-Play, and Hasty Hearts. His play, Mattie Cushman: A Psychodrama, has been produced twice and aired on cable. He has two books of poetry, Permanent Gardens and The Intense Lover: A Suite of Poems and two screenplays including The Crystal Ball and The Statue of Pan.