AS BELLA BLOSSOMED INTO a young woman and her body fell into its improper proper places, her mini pomidori, once-sweet cherries, bloomed into bodacious beefsteaks; her lips plumped nicely; her eyes danced ferociously; and her hips bopped along like bongo drums. When she walked, she sashayed.
And she was so horny.
She was horny every night and every day.
She often found herself alone in Saint Anthony’s with her hands between her legs, thinking about fucking Jesus.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
“The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips. What are your sins?”
The voice droning on the other side of the confessional grill belonged to the shaky old monsignor from Sunday mass. The one who liked to watch the grammar school boys shower after football practice. The one who loved to hear them confess about what they did in the privacy of their water closets and on top of their stained mattresses.
“I have dreams about making love with Jesus Christ, Father.”
From the other side of the grill, the messy clatter of dropped Rosary beads.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“He comes to me almost every night, and even sometimes during the day. He flies off that painting out there and into my bed and makes holy love to me.”
“What did you just say?”
“He mounts me and fills me with His Holy Spirit and takes me all the way to Heaven with Him.”
“This is a mortal sin! You’re going straight to hell, young lady! When this happens, you should pray right away!”
“I do pray, Father! I pray every night and every day!”
Hell be damned, she prayed for her sweet savior to appear and fill her with His Holy Spirit again and again and again.