Dude,

I fucked your mother and learned so much about you. We pretended the Pooh Bear nightlight in your bedroom-shrine didn’t remind of us a zygote. She hid the refrigerator polaroids of you and me kicking soccer balls together on a prepubescent travel team. We fucked, but it wasn’t just hollow fornication, not mechanical insert-withdraw repeat, not accessorized masturbation, not without need or intimacy. She and I leaned way way in.

In the hours before we met by the dairy aisle, I tripped over caveman thought-shadows: there must be a soul because I can feel mine pissing on my liver, swelling secondary bladder eroding a hollow in my gut, pressing the abdominal wall, stunting my appetite. I decomposed, was wasting away at photon speeds, reduced to spinal column, dermal shroud and a soul-pissy balloon near my navel, staggering around the streets like a stem with a single clinging grape. The soul piss sac wanted parasitic ground beef, tobacco and a set of bell curved hips –the kind that toll when in motion and make my soul snap its jaw so all my emaciated ears hear is ringing female anatomy and clicking incisors. Which is when I saw your mother holding a gallon of skim, looking soulful.

Lust faded like an anti-polaroid once she squished her wounds against mine. Skin cells and capillaries knitted together, binding us in knotted scar tissue. The whole situation only became uncomfortable when your mother referred to my penis as a “little exclamation point.” She punctuated her moans with tantric ooohhhhmmms and probiotic brand names. After our exclamations wilted we laid in ageless eggshell sheets, sweat damp bed covers, my panting dome on her left areola, listening to the hump and pump of her chest cavity.

Your mother made me brush my teeth and change into flannel pjs before she recited a bedtime story (one she told you, once upon a time) about the man who floated above sticky linoleum floors on a cushion of cig and bud smoke. A methed out Jesus. No name, no clean socks or place to sleep at night, but the man made every party hop by whipping his waxy mane and whiskers in precise orbits until anonymous pills flew from his roots like the devil’s own dandruff. He killed a man in California – “Frisco,” he called it – pushing this Other into oncoming traffic with one worn boot heel to the ass. Blood and pedestrian vomit flowed downhill in iconic cable car tracks. The end.

Then we slept. For 100 hours, waking unshaven and ravenous at the heart of a bio-siege. Through the bedroom window: a legion of cornstalks crept towards us with sun-touched hand grenades rather than ears. Erect ranks of plants smothered the Kentucky Blue lawn and overran your childhood’s patio furniture –dingy white plastic fractured to splinters. I hope the corn lets your mother and me go before winter embraces us all for months, trapped in the farmhouse where your memory still pitter-patters down the halls. Bare little footsies.

Sunday morning hymns echo faintly through the empty church, even on a Tuesday morning. I'm kneeling on the floor at the alter. My head is bowed, though not in prayer.

When I'm startled, a hand suddenly palms my skull as fingers are tangling in my hair. I'm pulled backward and upright until I'm standing on my knees. Then another hand snakes into my shirt, rough against my smooth belly, cupping my breasts with a hard grip. Then he's rolling my nipple between his fingers, and pinching. I gasp as he's ripping my shirt open from the inside, buttons jumping off the fabric and diving headlong to the hard, marble floor like tiny, pearl kamikazes.

His open mouth is against my throat, I can feel his breath, heavy and hot. I can feel the solid length of his erection pressed uninvited against my ass. He's dragging his mouth across my neck, his hand still holding me prone by my hair, while his other hand is pulling up my skirt. It's bunched up around my waist -and I have the insane, fleeting thought about how I'd spent 20 minutes ironing. But then his hand finds me, and his rough fingers are gently probing, tantalizing, toying with me expertly. And I'm wet

Then I'm being yanked by my hair again, pulled to my feet as he rises. He's using my hair like a choke chain, forcing me forward, over the alter where I'd just been kneeling. There, underneath the Holy Cross, he pushes me to a bench -And I have the insane, fleeting thought that this is where the guest speakers sit before they're introduced by the pastor. His hand releases my hair and he's undoing his belt. I look up, my eyes are locked on his when he shoves his cock in my mouth. I open obligingly and take his length into me, while watching his eyes above me.

He's moving in and out of my mouth and I'm taking it without protest, without a sound. His hand has found its way back into my hair. Holding my head still while he moves faster, and deeper, and still my eyes don't leave his, which are glowing electric blue. Now both hands are in my hair and he's using my hair as handles when he cups my ears and begins face fucking me in earnest.

And still eye contact is never broken, my eyes are challenging him and he's pounding his hard cock into my throat when he suddenly pulls out. At last I can breathe, I'm gasping for air and spit is falling from my mouth, hanging from my lips in long strings that drop onto my exposed chest and belly. He's leering and gasping for breath and then suddenly my head is yanked back again and he's in my face, whispering cruelly. "You dirty little slut. Fucking whore. You suck cock without choking, you take that dick like a pro, you got lots of practice?"

His free hand is slapping my breasts while he taunts me, each smack growing progressively stronger than the last one. I finally cry out and am rewarded as at last he moves his mouth and takes a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue all around, soothing the sensitive skin he's been slapping moments before.

He yanks me to my feet again, and bends me over the bench. He lifts one leg and places the short heel of my MaryJane onto the piano bench next to us. And I'm standing on one leg as his fingers begin toying with me, my hands on the guest bench holding me steady. Then his hands are replaced with the smooth head of his dick, which is probing, seeking, until it also finds the prize.

And then he's moving inside, slowly, stretching me, opening me up one inch at a time. My eyes are shut, I realize I'm holding my breath when he's finally buried inside me to the hilt, and I exhale in a rush of shame and desire. "Oh you like that big cock, do you? Filthy little whore, you like that in your pussy?" He's chuckling behind me as he says this, holding my hips firm in his strong hands, still moving slowly, tortuously slow.

And I'm rocking backwards then, thrusting my ass against him, relishing the sensation of his length deep in me. The sound of his balls slapping against my clit seem to urge me to move faster, and I do. I can feel my ass rippling like ocean waves with every movement, they are building momentum and I can feel his appreciation as he slaps my ass hard. I cry out, the sting of the slap hurts in thatyummy, wrong way the Bible never mentions. Then he's taking control and I shift my body a bit to accommodate his and I realize that I am getting fucked directly beneath the cross where Jesus died for my sins. Died so that I may live. And I have the insane, fleeting thought that even Jesus himself would have to appreciate some unplanned, raunchy sexcapades, even if it was in church.

Maybe the realization of my surroundings was what did it. I'm holding onto the pulpit when the remainder of Pastor Bill's last sermon comes fluttering to the floor, knocked ajar by the disruption of my movements as I get drilled against it. "That's it," he's growling behind me, smacking my ass again as it bounces against his lap with every thrust. "You gonna cum you little slut, cum for me whore, let me feel your pussy cum on this big cock." And then I am... The force of my orgasm here in the House of the Lord is magnetized and I'm screaming, and then creaming all over him and I'm riding the waves of euphoria as my orgasm rolls into another and another and then I'm squirting and he's encouraging me, grunting his approval. At last, the quivering spasms stop and I have the insane, fleeting thought that a Magic Eraser will probably remove Pussy Juice from a church bench.

Before the thought is complete, he's pulling out and I'm being forced to my knees again. I look up at his face, his eyes are intent, and I smile and lick my lips, and then he's ejaculating onto my face, telling me what a naughty little cumslut I am. I lick the edge of my lips, drawing a drop of his cum into my mouth, proving his accusations were spot on. He shakes off the last of his spunk and smacks my mouth again with his shaft. I stick my tongue out and give it a final kiss as he withdraws.

Then he's gone and I'm alone on the floor near the alter. I realize I'm cold when I realize I'm trembling. My shirt is unsalvageable, but my skirt and panties are straightened and smoothed when he reappears.

He's got a white shirt in his hand as he approaches. His hair is combed and there's a much different look in his eyes as he hands me the new shirt, identical to the one he ripped off me just a few minutes before. I cock my head as I study him, unsure what to make of his attitude change. He puts his hands in pockets as he's rocking back and forth and I realize he's nervous!

"Well, probably need to be getting back to class now," he says awkwardly. I'm buttoning up, looking up at him when his instruction echoes loudly in the large empty room."

"Yes, sir!" I say with a laugh and a salute. I don't much feel like heading to my 11th grade English lit class after the dick down I just received, but that's life. As I go towards the double doors that release to a hallway where the rest of the school can be found, I hand him my torn shirt and press my lips against his. "Take care of this for me, would ya?" He nods, suddenly quiet and awkward again. It's like Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde, I'm thinking, and not the first time, the difference in how this man acts when he's fucking versus when he's not. I giggle out loud like 16 year olds do, glancing at him one last time over my shoulder. "Have a good week, Pastor Jim. See ya Sunday!"