by Chris Pina

I tell this tale not to shock your sensibilities or to invite your pity, but rather to clear my head of its own sordid ills. I confess this is my cathartic journey steeped in an almost palpable regret… And I also thought a dramatic opening like this would sound really good.

I shall illuminate forthrightly, and after what I did, with deep-seated guilt tell you that my days on this Earth are numbered… And only by a stroke of luck, they’re in succession.

Oh sweet, punitive Catholicism. I attempted to follow your laws, but I was a horny, 12-year-old. I committed a soul-crunching offense that will haunt me well after this Thanksgiving. I had devotedly served God - and I must sincerely admit here - He served me up as His main course, complete with all the trimmings. My guilt is God’s joke…

Anyone reared in Catholicism feels a deep, puncturing pain that will not heal.

I most respectively ask for your sober and compassionate judgment for I’m thinking the unthinkable – suicide. Yes, suicide – Oh, not mine - but someone who doesn’t want to live anymore.

My convulsed dilemma was a collision of innocence, curiosity and a vast amount of hormones springing forth from my body…

What unfathomable consequences for having sexual thoughts of my teacher will I face?…

If my family, friends, church and community had learned of such fantasies – they’d turn against me as if I had shot Lassie.

Yes, I feel your piercing, judgmental eyes sizing me up even before I confess this most horrid, yet seductively exhilarating act of abandon, and I take full responsibility for it…Yet, such acts can be written off to youthful indiscretion… Still it was wrong…But was it so wrong to feel affection for a woman?… Yes, it was… But, it takes two to tango… Still, it was bad what I did… Though, not as bad as what O.J did…Yes, but it’s still very bad…

Let us go back to a time when alter boys were ripe, nuns were hard and priests were harder.

Everyday at school, she came to me like a vision, not like the image of the Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese sandwich, but rather a strikingly beautiful, confident woman who instructed us with skill, nuance and humor. She was my teacher, spiritual counselor and silent temptress who attired herself solely in black with a splash of white. YES, SHE WAS A NUN! I told you I was wicked and evil!!! And you thought I only fantasized about a regular teacher! No. No. No. It was a nun who just happened to be a teacher!…But, I’m still not as bad as O.J…

She was a woman so lovely that when I first saw her spank a student for talking in class, I imagined it was me, getting tanned on my pert hiney like a naughty little burro.

Her name was Sister Angela Marie, but in my head, her porn name was “Deep Habit”. Deep Habit was twenty-six with blue eyes and a stride that made her rosary beads syncopate in percussive time to her swiveling hips. Sadly, she was betrothed to Jesus and yet she had time to teach… Never understood that… Now, Christ was thrown into the equation. How does one compete for a woman’s affections when she’s hitched to the King of Kings?

Should I have knelt, confessed and atoned for my sinful fantasies before God or should I have become a free-wheeling Wicken and prostrated myself before the warm, embracing sun, comforted from the cold dogma of Catholicism? I would have gladly taken the guilty pleasure of abandonment from my hellish scenario and made the sun and Wickeness the center of my universe, but unfortunately, I chaffe - so I fell to my knees, wept like a school girl and prayed for mercy. My prayer for redemption crashed against the clouds. A whimper would have been a hopeful response, but no, I heard no “word of God”, no oral redemption. And even if I had received “oral redemption”, I heard it’s a felony in this state. Still, I searched for an answer. I wanted to release myself from the very hell that I created or - go to a town hall meeting and blame other people for my hell.

Will my dark sin stain my soul for many, many of Shirley McClain’s lifetimes? God was testing me. I believe I must share my indiscretions or sacrifice something dear to me to be atoned.

Well, I am doing that now – sharing my indiscretion of having sexually yearned for a nun - and my sacrifice is - my tortured time here on Earth.

It was a crisp Saturday morning in winter and the lawn’s frost crackled under my cordovons as I made my way to the front door of the convent. I was delivering the proceeds from the Good Shepherd’s Bake Sale as “Deep Habit” had instructed.

I rang the doorbell as my toes curled in anticipation. This would be the first time that I would see my teacher outside of school or church.

I heard the sound of naked feet approaching the front door. I straightened my appearance as the door opened. It was a woman in a white terrycloth robe with a white towel swiveled and tied on her head.

“Hello, Christopher.”

“Is Sister Angela Marie in, ma’am?” I inquired.

“It’s me, Christopher.”…

I took two steps backwards, awed by her. Her eyes shined and she invitingly snickered, “Come into the study, there’s a fire on”.

Deep Habit walked to the Bible study room where the shelves were lined with hundreds of books on Jesus, God and the collected works of Henry Miller.

What was happening to me? My nun, my teacher, my mentor had suddenly become Lana Turner from “The Postman Always Rings Twice” and was luring me into her cougar-nun den.

“Where are the rest of the nuns?” I asked.

“They’re on a sabbatical at the polar cap co-habituating with penguins”.

I gulped as I stood motionless in the jamb of the door. She whispered, “Don’t just stand there, come in the room… I won’t hurt you”. That didn’t make sense because hurting was all nuns did in general.

“Do you really think I’d spank you now, here?”

“God, I hope so, Sister”, I imagined.

Seductively, she offered, “Sit here by the fire as I look over the bake sale proceeds”… A few seconds passed and she said, “This accounting is so boring, Christopher”.

She removed the towel from her head and shook, spraying water from her long, wet, sweeping chestnut-colored hair into my face.

I didn’t care about the inconvenience ‘cause this was truly every Catholic boy’s “money shot”. I sat there taking it, a courageous bukaki victim.

“Pour us a glass of holy wine, won’t you, Christopher?”, she pouted. I crossed to the wet bar where I found a precocious bottle of “Papal Griego”. I poured us each glass as I attempted to re-adjust my juvenile erection to a less noticeable position. I handed her the wine and she turned to me and stated soberly, “Sometimes I skip around the convent in the nude, tempting Jesus…

After a spit take, I answered, “You don’t say?”

Then, she went into a dance with all the fervor of Sarah Bernhardt, I warned her, “Watch out, Jesus can see you!”

“Christopher, I’m married to Jesus, but He just wants to be friends!… I think He’s gay… I need you now, Christopher!”

Clearly, Sister Angela Marie was desperate and divorced from reality.

“STOP!” I pleaded.

Ignoring my request, she dropped her towel that covered her slinky, silky, Albino-white body and pressed her soft flesh against my face. I was covered in pure nunic virginity - graced with age and inexperience.

“CONTINUE!”, I ordered.

We made passionate love and love and more love until my pants fell down… It’s amazing that seconds can seem almost like minutes… Afterwards, she had the nerve to grade me based on the curve of other classmates she had imagined in bed. She gave me an “incomplete”. In the full sense of the whole situation, I truly received a “mercy fuck”. If Jesus caught us doing this – we’d be exiled from normal society and left to preach Rapture crap to idiots in a big tent!

THEN, THE CONVENT’S DOOR OPENED – I WAS BACK IN REAL TIME – MY FANTASY DISAPPEARED. SISTER MARIE STOOD SMILING, DRESSED IN HER USUAL BLACK AND WHITE MOTIF – I snapped back to reality and I focused on my teacher’s kind eyes and suddenly felt like a disgraced politician. Like I was caught not really hiking on the Appalacian Trail… I handed her the bake sale proceeds, she thanked me and closed the door. Any further fantasies about Deep Habit ceased there – on her doorstep.

So there is my story. Ravaged with sin, sex, sorrow, servitude, selfishness, saffron…Wait, no saffron… Sin, sex, sorrow, servitude, selfishness and salvation… Salvation? Will I truly be saved from God’s wrath by confessing my thoughts to you? Are there are no consequences for me? Will I be punished and banished to serve my afterlife in the flames of Hell? Well, my Lord?…


Well then, I guess I’m good to go… See ya all later! (whistles off)…