In the tradition of…

the Scarlet Pimpernal, comes America’s newest superhero: the Mauve Flamer! Mild mannered florist by day… until a call for help–get away from me you cretone bully! Into a nearby closet and out emerges the Mauve Flamer protector of those who can’t fend for themselves… for fear of ruining their manicure. Hurling mauve balls o’ fire, the Flamer rushes to the aid of those who needs AID… not AIDS but aid… and… um…

Jillybean

Jillybean had always been my favorite in the neighborhood. She was part of the second wave of kids on our block: primarily girls about five years younger than the first wave and she stood out amongst them.



Mischief always seemed to accompany her. The flash of an unruly mop of red hair bobbing in the background usually announced her arrival. Freckles and a perpetually skinned knee were the badges she wore proclaiming her membership into our otherwise male only world. Anytime there were butterflies to chase or a new species of bug to inspect Jill could be found darting through my mom’s rose bed, swinging her white net wildly, or crawling on her hands and knees coaxing some uncatalogued insect into a glass jar.



The summer I received Mexican jumping beans, from a visiting aunt, Jill got her nickname. The endless movement of the small brown nuggets reminded me of Jill and her tireless blur of motion. The first time I called her Jillybean she let a funny smile spread across her face, before she punched me in the thigh and sprinted through a hole in the fence just large enough for her slender body. That same summer she took to calling me Spike. I never could figure out how she turned Sean into Spike but if anyone else called me Spike I would hold them down and punch them in the shoulder until they howled “Mother Mary berry,” the neighborhood equivalent of “uncle.”



When the other girls began to comb their hair straight and ‘dress for boys’ Jill was more interested in climbing trees and riding her bike through the nearby woods. 

Being the resident tomboy was sometimes difficult for the active redhead. When we boys–that made up the first wave of kids in our neighborhood–were sprinting through the woods clad only in loin-cloths salvaged from a rag barrel and shooting at squirrels with homemade bows and arrows, Jill was either ignored or she became the lost heroine tied to a tree by ‘the renegades’ only to be forgotten. She would cheerfully endure this treatment in order to be accepted as one of us. I was nice to her because she tried so hard to be accepted and, in fact, could run the woodland trails better than Matt, the husky kid from the next block over who suffered from asthma.



When I started high school, ecology became my all-consuming interest. The forest behind my parent’s house was a tangle of ivy, blackberries, laurel, and other assorted introduced species that had run amok in this new environment. I set about clearing the invasive greenery and replanting the native species. Every weekend and most afternoons after school, for almost four years, I could be found crashing around the dense woodlands nearby. At some point, Jill showed up and offered to assist me in my quest to rid the forest of all things foreign.



When friends my age came to help they usually saw the skinny little girl in pigtails as a pest, with her incessant questions and discoveries of ‘ancient artifacts’ that were mostly junk discarded decades earlier by the local farmers. One day she found a piece of worn glass with a hole in it. I laced a piece of broken shoestring through it and told her it was precious ambergris as I placed it around her neck. She smiled broadly and pressed the new found treasure to her chest.

Rain or shine I could count on Jill to show up. 

One afternoon she burst through the ferns at a dead run and tumbled down a slippery slope only to land in a pile at my feet. Rubbing her head gingerly she shrugged and told me she had ‘planned that.’ She was one tough kid.

But, by the time high school ended, girls had replaced ecology as my all-consuming interest, and I saw little of Jillybean after that.



I attended a college halfway across the country in hopes of escaping my small-town USA roots.



Pushing myself hard I graduated with a Master’s of Civil Engineering in five years and then decided home looked more inviting than I remembered. Back I went. Returning home I was disappointed to see heavy equipment nearby scratching at the earth, leaving angry red scars in the native clay.



My first Saturday home I trekked into my familiar woods to assess the recent damage. I pushed through the ferns and brush only to find, to my surprise, few of the foreign plants had made a resurgence. Thinking I had accomplished a major feat of removal, I bent over to pluck a stray piece of ivy.



“Hey! These are my woods. Don’t you dare pick anything!”



I stood up. A sibilant female voice echoed from the thicket of Indian plum by the creek. I squinted but couldn’t make out the form in the darkness of the woods.



“Shut up! I live here!” I barked back.



”That doesn’t give you the right to come in here and…” 

A figure burst out of the thicket and headed straight towards me quickly before tripping over a downed tree.



“Shit!”



Laughing hard I ambled towards the muddy prostrate body. I thrust my hand out to help the female figure to her feet.



“Go on! I don’t need your help!” She swatted at my outstretched hand.



Shaking her head vigorously her baseball cap plopped onto the muddy banks of the creek allowing a cascade of thick red hair to fall across her face. When I tugged at her arm the girl let loose with a string of profanities and punched me hard in the thigh. I lurched forward and grabbed my leg. The girl shook her hair away from her face and stood over me fuming with her fists clinched.



”I told you I didn’t need your help, damn it!”



“Jillybean?” I asked as I squinted up at her.



She froze. Her creamy white face turned crimson. The little freckled-faced tomboy I remembered had transformed into a beautiful young woman. 

It took her a moment before she cocked her head and gulped, “Spike? When did you get home?”



I bounded forward and tackled her. “That hurt, you little insect!”



She squealed as we tumbled down the bank and into the creek. We splashed around in the water for several moments before I picked her up and dropped her into the deepest pocket in the creek. She shrieked and grabbed my knee causing me to collapse backwards. When I came up she pounced on my head to hold me under.

”

Say ‘Mother Mary berry,'” she screamed. “Say it, or I’ll drown you!”



”Mother…” I swallowed a mouthful water. “Mother Mary berry,” I coughed out.

Suddenly, she was gone. I stood up sputtering. Then I spotted her running up the opposite bank towards the giant maple tree where she had so often been held captive. I ran after her, her giggles making it easy to follow her.



When I finally got to the top of bank I saw her standing beside the tree staring at the heavy equipment that waited patiently to continue its destructive path come Monday morning.



”Hey, you ragamuffin…” I started.



She turned to look me in the eye solemnly.



“I tried to get the city to save this little strip of woods as a park but they said it wasn’t big enough to worry about.”



”Yeah?” I puffed as I tried to shift gears to adult behavior again. “It’s still in good shape, though.”



“It ought to be. I came out here almost every day to work on it. I was an ecology major, too. And this was my ‘Senior Project.'”



I stood with my jaw slack. Jillybean had taken care of the forest while I was away. It was her forest, now. I shook my head and pulled my wet shirt off. 

Jill laughed out loud when water splashed onto the ground from the flannel material of my shirt as I wrung it out. I grimaced at her and hung it on a low hanging branch before I took off my shoes and socks. Jill sat down next to me and removed her shoes and socks too.



“I really missed you.”

I smiled at her comment.

“I kept your necklace.” She fished the piece of glass, now tied to a long strip of leather with a metal clasp, from inside her tee shirt.



”That’s not really ambergris, you know.”



“Duh. I kept it because…” she turned her gaze from mine, “…you gave it to me. I had quite a crush on you, then. You were the only boy who was ever nice to me.”



”Well, I thought you were an okay kid.” I didn’t like the way that came out. “I mean you were… I mean you are… um…” My gaze wandered over her burgeoning female physique.



Turning back towards me, her eyes grew wide and she bobbed her head to help me find the right words. They still escaped me. At last, she giggled and finished for me.



”How about ‘stacked?'” She grabbed the front of her tee shirt with both hands. “These showed up a couple of years ago and they just keep getting bigger.”



“Well, some people consider those a good thing… uh, things.” I shook my head and smirked.



“Then you carry ’em around.”



I held out my hands as an offer. She laughed and then looked uncomfortable. Haltingly, she put her hand on my thigh where she had punched me earlier.



“Sorry, I didn’t mean to punch you so hard.”



”It’s okay.” The words caught in my throat while the heat from her palm dug at my insides. “Ahem… So what’s going on over there?” I asked pointing to the exposed soil in attempt to change the subject.



”Condos for the elderly. Can you believe it? I begged the city to save this strip but it’s not gonna happen.”



“You’ve done a great job with it.”



She blushed deeply. “Thanks, I just… finished what you started.”



”Why did you pick ecology as your major?”



She plucked at several long green strands of grass growing near the tree. “Bear grass, Xerophyllum tenax. I was in class one day and realized I knew more about these native plants than the teacher.” The now attractive woman I remember from my youth as a skinny little pest shrugged. “You gave me a head start.”



We sat together for several hours talking about the things that had happened to us over the past five years. She confessed she had not found a steady boyfriend but was no longer a virgin, had done well in ecology at high school, and her parents had divorced. Because of the divorce, she had spent most of her free time out here in the woods to avoid the unpleasantness at home. We found we had many of the same teachers, at the local high school, and we laughed about the quirks of some and the silliness of the academic world in general.



I admitted that I had not found any women at college who could hold my attention for more than a weekend. The Civil Engineering program was not replete with female enrollees so I was not in close contact with many.

My degree sounded like treason to her. She bleated that I would be destroying other sacred strips of forest in somebody else’s backyard. I assured her that was not my intent but ecology and this tiny strip of forest seemed so far away now.



It was small talk, mostly, but I could feel a heat between us that was not brought on by the June weather. A lump in my throat kept threatening to choke off my words. Every time she laughed she leaned forward and the temperature increased. It threatened to burn me. This girl was only 18 years old but was fast becoming a woman who cared about the world around her instead of living to grab all that she could horde.



Her soft green eyes and sparkling red hair were all I could think about that night as I lay in my bed. The summer heat kept me on top of the sheets while my hand roamed down to my erection. I stroked it thinking of Jill’s metamorphosis. Like those butterflies she chased so often in our yard, she had become a flash of beauty seen from afar: difficult to capture without crushing the wings that held it aloft.

That red hair of hers had sparkled in the sun light, changing–shifting hues–each time she moved. As I approached an orgasm I imagined her under me responding to my urgent thrusts and returning each one of them while her red hair shimmered with our movements. I fell asleep with my softening flesh in my hands.



Sunday morning I lounged in bed until nine AM. A knock came at my bedroom door and I pulled the sheet around my waist.



“Come in.”



Jill burst through the door.



”Come on, Spike. You can help get some hawthorn out of the creek today…” She was almost breathless in her excitement.



“What makes you think I want to help you, ya rug rat. Look what you did to my leg.”



I peeled back the sheet and pointed to a bruise on my thigh.



”Oh, did I hurt da’ widdle baby?” Jill said mockingly in baby talk.



I flew out of the bed, pounced on her, and wrestled her to the floor, secretly hoping that my sheet would ‘accidentally’ fall from my hips. It stubbornly clung to my body.



“Say it!” I yelled.



Between giggles and her gasps, squeezed from her body by my weight, she managed to say the words.

”Mother Mary berry.”



I let her go but could not stand because I realized I had an erection. I had a king-sized woody that was not going away anytime soon. I think Jill noticed but she did not seem to be in a hurry to leave my room.



“Okay, I’ll help.” I raised my eyebrows. “But, can I have some privacy while I get dressed?”



”Have you got something I haven’t seen?” She cocked her head as she quizzed me.



I pointed to the door. “Get out!”



She rolled her eyes, shrugged, and went downstairs.



I managed to stuff my erection into my pants, where it finally began to subside.



“Sean, did you know Jill was in the same classes you took?” my mother asked in an insinuating tone as I hit the bottom of the stairs

.

“Yeah, Ma. I know.”



My mom smiled and looked at me in a way that said, “She’s nice. I like her. When are you going to go out with her instead of those trollops you see at college?”



I smiled back to say, “Ma, mind your own business.”



Jill and I stomped into the woods and attacked a copse of hawthorn that grew along the creek. We worked for hours clearing, cutting, and pulling the stubborn plants out of the ground. 

At last, exhausted, we sat down next to the creek.



Jill leaned in close to me and I turned my head to watch her. She sniffed at my clothes and let out a heavy sigh.



“Pee-you! You smell!”



She shoved me into the water and sprinted for the other side of the creek laughing. I caught her halfway up the bank and pulled her back down into the water. We wrestled in the water but I was determined not to get caught by surprise today. She suddenly stood up and put her fingers to her eye as though she had something in it.



“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I stopped my attack briefly.



I leaned forward to look closer. She let loose with a fountain of water from her mouth that hit me directly in the face. 

She shrieked wildly and bolted up the bank.



“Oh, that’s sick! That water’s awful.”



I let her get halfway up the bank before I set off after her. I caught up to her at our tree and I threw my arms around her so she could not escape. Her ragged breathing on my chest caused my stomach to twist in knots. Slowly, she tilted her chin towards mine and closed her eyes.



Our parted lips met. My heart was pounding as I gently sucked her tongue into my mouth and felt her body melt against mine. Her arms snaked around my neck as she tugged my head towards hers. Then, I felt her grind her hips against mine. She broke our kiss long enough to whisper in my ear.



”We need to dry out these clothes.”



She let go of me and I fell back onto the ground. Kicking off her shoes she then tugged at her socks. Standing in front of me, with an impish grin on her face, she toyed with the bottom hem of her tee shirt while her gaze held mine captive.



Slowly, very slowly, she pulled the hem up to her ribs before then turned away as she flipped the shirt over her head. Eying me over her shoulder she undid the clasp of her bra and let it fall to her feet. The buttons on her shorts popped open and her pants fell to her ankles in a pile. She stepped boldly out of the wet fabric.



I felt a lump in my throat and a bigger lump in my pants. Slim-hipped with peaches and cream skin, Jillybean turned slowly to face me. Ample pale breasts pointed towards me riding high on her ribcage.



She stuck her thumbs into the waistband of her simple white cotton panties and pushed them past her knees where they slid to the ground at her ankles. Youthful beauty opened itself to my gaze. Stepping out of her panties she faced me, her chin held high and her hands flat against her hips, staring into the distance. Staring at what? I could not tell but it seemed her body was playing her cards faster than her mind. I watched her swallow hard and the erratic rise and fall of her ribs as her passion rose within her chest.



Jillybean stood before me, naked as a newborn babe except for the necklace, I had given her so many years before. She stood against the tree–that stood in contrast to her long slow curves–the tree she had been willing to hold as the ‘damsel in distress’ awaiting some rescue by the ‘pony soldiers’ or some handsome man wearing a white hat astride a nervous palomino.



I drank in her smooth contours and round breasts: breasts that would not give in to the forces of gravity for many years to come. There was a soft crease between her breasts and her ribs: each rib standing prouder than the one above it until my attention fell to her soft pale belly. The expanse of buttery skin was interrupted by her belly button, that sat higher than I expected, and a small pink birthmark between her hip and a narrow patch of wispy auburn hair: this dainty spot of pink, the sole wayward traveler across her smooth skin.



At last, she turned her face towards me. Her face was different now, her eyes wide and inviting while her breathing was labored. Sparkling green eyes glinted through the dappled forest light flashing back the fire of the sun multiplied by a sum of her beauty. Her nostrils flared slightly as she drew a deep breath and her chest heaved gently.



She sucked in her bottom lip as she focused her eyes on me now and leaning forward she absent-mindedly ran her middle finger below her collar bone, tracing a line of sensation that ended circling her delicate pink nipple, causing it to stand high atop her breast begging for my attention.

Mouth parted, she tilted her chin towards my face and let her eyes close slowly.



I stood quickly and gently pulled her willing body to mine, her soft curves forming to my angular male physique. I slid my hand along her hips towards the soft swell of her belly and dipped my fingers into her warm slippery sex. She shivered at my touch and panted into my open mouth. I tapped lightly at the center of her auburn-fringed well which caused her to bite the cloth of my shirt while she her nails dug into my arm. When I touched the nubbin that controlled her pleasure her knees buckled slightly and I pulled her body tight against mine so she would not fall.



Jillybean’s hand searched blindly for my hard flesh: eager for her touch. Massaging my erection through the fabric of my jeans her body weighed on mine and I felt the entrance to her body yield as my finger broke through the sticky resistance between the swollen lips of her sex. A sigh escaped her lips and was captured in my flannel shirt while her grip on my erection slipped. Jillybean was lost in her pleasure now.



Eyes screwed shut, her face, in fact, her entire body slid down mine and I had to pull her back up to keep my busy fingers, between her quivering thighs. Staccato breaths from her open mouth warmed my skin and I felt, for a moment, that I was holding her with nothing more than my fingerips: fingers that were being pulled inside her hungry sex, milking them for whatever pleasure they possessed. The veins on her neck strained against her skin as she approached a satisfaction of body and spirit.



Her body quivered then twisted violently in my grasp and her mouth clamped shut as she whined quietly. It was the sweet whine of a young woman on the cusp of adult passion. Then she hit her apex and tilted her chin towards mine, she clutched the back of my head pulling my lips to hers roughly. A series of a squeaks came from deep inside her throat and her entire body shivered as her climax overtook her. The breath left her body in a rush and then her passion subsided leaving her to whimper softly against my chest.



At last, she was able to speak.



”I dreamt of this moment a million times, Sean. Please, say something,” she muttered sleepily.

I felt tears welling up in the corners of my eyes as I spoke.



”No one…” I choked. “No one has ever offered me something as beautiful or as special as this. I want you more than the breath of life. But not here. Please, put on your clothes. This will be our beginning and I want it to be something very special.”



She sucked in her bottom lip, nodded, and then I heard her sniffle as I watched a tear skid down her cheek.



”I love you, Sean.” She quickly threw her hand over her mouth. “Oops… I’m sorry. I mean… uh…” She cried quietly as she searched for the right words.



I kissed her lips shut. Then I trailed a string of kisses across her eyes, her neck, and then back to her lips again.



”Mother Mary berry,” I whispered. “Jillybean, I’m yours.”

She wept openly in my arms.

I saw you

I saw you.



It was yesterday…that I saw you.



It was in a dream yesterday that I saw you.



Between us, a crowd gathered and grew but still I saw you.



As I reached out, the crowd whirled like leaves in a fall tempest yet you remained in perfect focus and I saw you.



Miles sprang up between us, the crowd spun in tightening circles, keeping my body from the completion that only yours can give but still I saw you.



A roar in my ears recalled the moment when our passions were whole and I accepted your male power into my being and clouds became my bed when first I saw you.



Hours of passion, your eyes pierced the simple fabric that disguised my desires, tearing at my mask you devoured me leaving an empty shell of a girl as womanhood bloomed inside me, when I saw you.



Passion became want, then a need that your body filled to my depths and breadth leaving thin crimson trails down your perfect back. Your strong shoulder bore the purple details of my teeth as blinding sheets of pleasure filled my vision. I bucked the center of my open body against yours, clinging while you carried me down the path of ecstasy; til I opened my eyes again and I saw you.



I feel you in me, now. The reflection in the mirror contains two faces. Each footstep is weighted by yours and each thought is, of when I saw you.



A second is one that exists to bridge both time and space between us while every day closes it. Until again I whisper, I saw you.



It was in a dream yesterday that I saw you.



It was yesterday… that I saw you.



That’s when,

I saw you.

Hot Crossed Nuns

A petite naked figure pulled a nun’s habit over her fresh-scrubbed flesh, shrugging her narrow shoulders to accommodate the starched coarse black fabric. She cocked her head so the stiff outer layer would open, allowing her short straw colored hair to emerge as though she were being reborn into this austere life each morning anew. Rummaging through the top drawer of her simple furnishings she pulled out a white wad of silk. The fishnet stockings felt lighter than ether in her hands as she opened them up to the light. A beam of sunshine shot through the wide-knit threads to bounce off the bristle-scratched wooden floor and caromed, from the mirror in the 20-year-old novice’s room, to dance on the wall above her simple cot.

 

A spider’s spun web of sensual threads tugged at her bellybutton when she unfurled the diaphanous fabric embracing and kneading her recently shaved legs. She knew banishment from the order would be immediate if her secret were discovered. The danger of it tickled at the damp spot between her legs, a spot that grew more damp each time she took a new risk. What would the Mother Superior look like wearing these? she pondered as she measured the wide-spaced threads atop her shiny legs.

 

For that moment Sylvia was back “on the block” where she grew up, before she was rushed into the conventual discipline. She was a young silly girl who fell in love with a married man, who offered her corporeal indulgence on an erudite platter. His world came replete with orgasms and pillow talk: two realms the married man was well versed in. Sylvia cried the night she lost her virginity, not because it hurt or that she felt short-changed but because this man did everything in his power to please her. She had discovered self-gratification at the age of fourteen but this older, masterful man was able to coax supreme physical delight from her body at his whim. Not just a simple orgasm but a sheet-clenching, pillow-biting climax that made her weep when the blue sheets of pleasure consumed her vision. The center of her lust would then wrap her in his arms and pull her close to his body while whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Little did she know that his whispers were mere nothings and that his promises held less weight than the stockings she now secreted under her nun’s habit. With her emotional stability trashed by the older man she fell directly into the orbit of one of the twin priests from the local parish.

 

The two identical brothers joined the seminary together after twelve years of Catholic education within the neighborhood diocese: Our Lady of Sorrows on the Bay Shore Business Loop Turnpike. The twins began their denominational life as a celebrated pair. Each proclaimed their devotion to a life in the service of God at an early age and, though more handsome and athletic than almost all of their peers, they were never observed in teenage sinful indiscretions. Legions of young females had plied their feminine wiles in an attempt to sway the pair’s faith, to no avail. Sylvia had, within the period of one short month, sullied the reputation of the oldest twin—a full fifteen minutes older—and might have brought about his ultimate downfall if she had not grabbed the wrong twin’s cassock directly below the sash knot in a moment of childish ardor.

 

With the secret out, Sylvia was labeled a Jezebel, packaged as the same, and offered few options for her penance. One of those choices included a gold band on her ring finger as a visible indication of a nuptial commitment to the Jesus Christ of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. 

Many a bony digit from the diocese pointed towards the nunnery as the only just atonement for this temptress of the fabled twin priests. She agreed to this rather than the alternative, a nursing assistant in a leper colony stationed on Prince Edward Island: a flyspeck on the map some 400 miles off the coast of South Africa. It was an island deemed ideal for a colony of this sort being far from civilization and yet marginally livable. Sylvia felt a nun’s habit was preferable to an island where penguins outnumbered humans 3000 to one during the summer months. 


 

 

The silk fabric of the stockings gliding along her smooth thighs brought a lump up into her throat. Unfurling the filmy white fabric to the top of her thighs, her thumb nudged her pubic mound and a sticky thread of fluid tethered her digit to its wetness, seeping out from between the warm folds of her body. A shudder coursed through her flesh bringing her nipples to attention, threatening to give away her secret arousal to any who might glance in her direction. A hard twist of her nipple, between her thumb and forefinger, only accentuated the problem rather than relieve it and it shot a current of sexual electricity deep into her belly. “Shit,” she whispered, only to suck her lips into her mouth in an attempt to swallow the words already in a balloon hovering above her head.

 

After six months in the nunnery she still felt as awkward as a ham sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah but her illicit pleasures built a nest for nervous butterflies in her stomach each time she broke the rules. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands before she walked slowly to the door. Each step brought a tingle in the young woman’s sexual depths as the fishnet alternatively clinched and released the silky smooth skin of her legs. By the time she reached the end of the hall, she was nearing an orgasm. Staggering slightly, Sylvia made her way out into the garden through a side door and sat on a gnarled bench that contained several raised knots on the wooden seat. One of these knots had become Sylvia’s favorite. She rocked herself to a climax, strangling a rosary between her sweaty palms hoping that no one would notice her exceptional devotion to this early morning ritual. With a shudder, she was finished. She paused for several minutes to regain her breath and with a sigh—both of emptiness and physical satisfaction—rose to take her place at the convent’s breakfast table.

 

“You look flush and rosy, this morning,” the Mother Superior chirped when Sylvia scurried into the room, late as usual. Sylvia shot a weak smile at the head of the convent and sidled to her chair with her head held low, hoping to disguise her body’s lingering response to her recent climax.

 

The day she smuggled the stockings into the convent stood out in her memory. Before a weekly trip to buy groceries and necessary “feminine supplies” for her cloistered sisters, Sylvia telephoned a merchant—Randie’s Trampy Fashions and Lingerie Shop—near one of their usual stops to put in an order. Breaking away from the habit-clad gaggle, Sylvia slipped in a side entrance of Randie’s to spirit away her purchase. To the raised eyebrows of the proprietor, she prevaricated that she was a call girl who had a “special client” in town that begged for a certain look, which included Sylvia’s present clerical garb. The store was out of the black fishnet but still had one pair of white in her size. Sylvia took them knowing she would not be able to come back when the black ones were due in. She needed to don the stockings to hide them from her sisters’ prying gaze and in the fitting room; Sylvia had to masturbate twice in order to control her trembling. A quick lie about getting lost and no one suspected her surreptitious absence.

 

The buzz around the convent that week was about the twin priests. One of them had decided to leave the priesthood. No one was quite sure, at first, which priest because they were identical but eventually the truth came to light. The twin that had been tempted by the pretty Sylvia had found himself questioning his commitment to the service of God and had gone missing from a leper colony south of the equator that was sponsored by the church. A consensus of the cloistered women put Sylvia at the eye of the ecclesiastical hurricane. Their distaste for her grew rapidly and Sylvia was inconsolable. Even her daily “tickle-my-Elmo” sessions couldn’t bring her the ease her heart ache.

 

One bright summer morning as she sat brushing her hair the window to her cell squeaked as it tipped open rousing her from a lusty daydream involving creatures from an 18th-century Flemish painting representing hell and punish for sins of the flesh. She spun to face the intruder that clamored through her window. It was none other than the wayward twin priest. He smiled at her and she felt herself melting under his gaze. He shook his head sadly before he spoke.

 

“I took the assignment on Prince Edward Island, but was miserable there. Every penguin I saw, reminded me of you in miniature… wearing a habit, of course… and without breasts… or blond hair… and um…” He paused to gather himself: feeling like a small indecisive boy before her overwhelming beauty. “And I realized I didn’t really want to be a priest. I did it because my brother did it, that’s all.

 

“I wanted you. I’ve wanted you since the eighth grade. Remember when your fifth-grade class visited ours to reenact the flight from Sodom and Gomorrah? You were one of Lot’s daughters and I secretly wished that I had played Lot, instead of God, so that you would’ve offered yourself to me in that cave.” The former priest sighed heavily and fought back the tears filling the corners of his eyes. Sylvia’s stomach twisted into a knot. This man was everything she ever wanted: handsome, thoughtful, and desirable beyond simple words. His confession tugged at her heart and an overwhelming sense of desire filled the young woman’s entire being.

 

“I…” Sylvia choked on her words. “I love you more than anything.” She squeaked out her proclamation before she fell to weeping against his chest. His hands roamed up to her shoulders, down to her waist and back up again as he tried to soothe her trembling body. Gently, he kissed the top of her head while pressing her body flush against his. She sniffled quietly before she pushed him away stating softly, “I don’t want to sully these holy garments.”

 

She crossed her arms in front of her slim body and balled up the fabric in her tiny fists near her hips. In one smooth motion she pulled the vestments that separated her from the physical completion she craved over her head and free from her slender form. She wore only her white fishnet stockings under her habit.

 

The former priest drank in her delicate curves, his gaze lingering on the portions of Sylvia that made her a female and at last came to rest on the tops of her stockings a mere inches from the entrance to her womb.

 

“Daddy, likes.” He whispered.

 

“Good…” she whimpered before she pressed his hand to the wetness between her thighs. His fingers pulled the sticky lips of her labia apart while a clear fluid from deep within her fought to keep them closed. A tickle from his middle finger at her clitoris caused her to moan aloud and paw at his shirt with her free hand.

 

“…’cause from now on daddy’s gonna wear his baby like aftershave,” she finished, weeping.

Why hasn’t somebody come up with this before?

Newest coffee table book—”Ships That Pass in the Night: The Role of the Human Thumb in American Photography.”

 

One on One: The Ultimate History of  Sex

 

A new hit comedy based on the 1960’s television show, “My Mother The Car” and the recent smash comedy, “How I Met Your Mother,” combined with the recent glut of ‘reality’ shows: get ready America for, “How I Met Your Grandmother’s Uterus”

OR

If the 1960’s television program “My Mother the Car” was remade now it could star Will Farrell and would revolve around a down-on-his-luck NASCAR driver. This summer be sure to see: “Edselus Rex” or alternative title, “110 Octane Antigonne.”

more junk

She had a V6 brain stuck in a V8 body…

 

My neighborhood was tough… The cockroaches were either Crips or Bloods

 

If time is money, my sex life is small change

sign we are winning in Afghanistan

Kabul WalMart is now selling spandex burkhas. Film at 11…

new tee-shirt…

My boyfriend went to Thailand…And all I got was herpes.

More stupid stuff

I got a ticket the other day. I went to court and got it reduced. I pled guilty to ‘aggravated failure to yield.’

 

I wanted to do an Ice-capades version of the play that was featured in “The Producers.” Remember the play they did was titled “Springtime For Hitler.” It was a great concept but I couldn’t find 6,000,000 Jews that could ice skate.

 

NASCAR has a new sponsored car from AARP. Terrific, huh? Everybody gets to watch a car drive 400 miles with its left turn signal on.

 

… the boxer eyed his target: the canvas.

 

Brittany Spears–back in papers… I saw one tabloid, the headline read “I Don’t Want My Children Back!” What makes her think they would give her children back? Jesus, they’d stand a better chance if they were released into the wild and raised by wolves. Maybe Yellowstone NP has a suitable place for them…

 

Why does AMC (American Movie Channel) suggest other movie to watch… i.e. If you’re enjoying “When Harry Met Sally” you’ll love “Taxi Driver.”

 

… she had 400 pubic inches of sexual displacement.

 

Was Superman faster than a speeding bullet in bed?

FlavorFlav roast: the ones that got away

Lisa Lampanelli – she loves to wear those low cut blouses, she just keeps pushing her flesh up… and out the top. And this is not a small girl. She hasn’t seen her feet since… well, the last time she saw her feet some black guy was trying to shove ’em behind her head.

 

Snoop dogg and his parole officer made it tonight. After the show he’ll talk to members of the audience, but if he leaves the stage it’ll set off the alarm on his ankle bracelet. Snoop our representative to the American Green Party… In Bob Marley We Trust, Mon. He’s gotta trust in somebody, he’s too fucking high to drive.

 

Jimmy Kimmel – everybody who pairs up with him goes down in flames. He killed Adam Corolla’s career, then his own son… now he’s working on Sarah Silverman’s. This guy has killed more careers than NAFTA on a month long crack binge.

 

Flav and Brigette Nielson must have been a funny pairing. Flav making love to her must have been like banging a pool cue around inside a garbage can. He’s a skinny shit. This woman has had bigger things inside her vagina than you… and didn’t even know it.

 

And then we have Nestea… sorry Ice T, I apologize to the makers of Nestea. He’s been acting a great deal, on a channel that needed to offset the high costs of their real ‘bread and butter’…info-mercials. The black rappers always the great nicknames, Flavor-flav, Snoop Doggy Dogg, Ice Tea… what do the white folks get? Vanilla Ice or Carrot Top. What a gyp.

 

Carrot Top – Look at that face. It reminds me of ‘A Portrait of Dorian Gray.’ Somewhere in a dark corner of a dusty attic is a painting of Carrot Top… that looks really good

 

Patten Oswald — He did a voice over for a rat in a cartoon. Here’s a guy whose physical appearance was too creepy to play a rat. He’ll have to wait for someone to do a TV series about the Lord of the Rings, then he’s a lock for the cast. Third annoying hobbit– played by…

 

Jeff… – Do you have a regular job or is this the extent of Hollywood legacy. He’s becoming the Foster Brooks of the new millennia. Come on, even Joey Bishop did a talk show. Watching him is like watching a third rerun of the Brady Bunch.

 

Katt Williams — This is a little guy. Ron Jeremy’s dick is bigger than this guy. Hell, China’s dick is bigger than this guy.

 

Flavor-flav– always talking about ‘his kids’, Christ, he’s got more than Jerry Lewis. He brought the… ‘girls’ from his TV ‘reality’ show. Reality… only in America would an otherwise attractive young woman demean herself by competing… competing mind you, to have some skinny black guy with glasses, wearing a suit fuck ’em and then forget about ’em. Jesus, that show should have been titled selected chapters from the Sammie Davis Jr story.’ (If hooted for that joke then) It was either Sammy Davis Jr. or Prince, but Prince wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a suit like Flavor-flav’s. Prince’s flamboyant, not homeless.

And these ‘girls’ from his show… they have the moral standards of the Japanese Occupation Army in Nanking. (Flipped off by ‘girls’ :The newest gang sign from the first street whores.

What’s with the clock around your neck? It’s like some Muslim pickpocket… it’s only got one hand… Why is that one hand always up? Do you have a question or something? That is not a sundial. This one is much bigger than the first one you wore. You get much older and they’re just going to chain you up to Big Ben.