Op.
02
A
MAGNANIMOUS
OFFER
&
Other
Pieces
Short
Prose
Copyright
©
2011 John O'Loughlin
________________
CONTENTS
1.
A
Magnanimous Offer
2.
The
Latest Cure
3.
Between the Shelves
4.
An
Unusual Encounter
5.
The
Weekly Lesson
6.
The
Weekly Confession
________________
A
MAGNANIMOUS
OFFER
The
drawing
room of Mr Cyril
Richardson's country house in
HOST:
(Eyes
his guest's three-quarter empty glass of white wine) I
trust the wine is to your liking, Oscar?
WILDE:
Oh,
exquisite! What
is it?
HOST:
The
best.
WILDE:
(Politely
if belatedly sniffs the bouquet) I thought as
much. Vintage calibre!
Alas, the number of perfect hosts is becoming
steadily fewer these days. Perfection is
quite out-of-fashion.
HOST:
Indeed? How fortunate
for me that I'm never invited anywhere by the
imperfect ones. (He glances towards his wife, a beautiful
dark-haired
woman who has been waiting on the edge of a group of nearby
conversationalists
for the opportunity of being officially introduced to Oscar Wilde, and
indicates, by a polite gesture of his hand, that he would like her to
join
them.) Tell me, Oscar, do you believe in miracles?
WILDE:
Only
when they fail to convince me.
HOST:
Then
you must meet my wife.
She convinces no-one but herself.
WILDE:
A
regular affair!
HOST:
(To
Wilde) Allow me to introduce
you to Pamela. Pamela,
the poet Oscar Wilde.
HOSTESS:
(Extends
her hand) Delighted to meet you, Mr Wilde.
My husband has told me all about you.
WILDE:
(Kisses
her hand) Then I beg your pardon, madam. He
has
probably told you too much.
HOSTESS:
(Excitedly)
On the contrary, he rarely talks unless he's
excited, and he's rarely excited until he whets my curiosity.
HOST:
Then
don't allow me to blunt it, my dear. (He turns to
Wilde) If you'll excuse me, Oscar, I must attend to our other guests a
moment. Just let Pamela know if there's
anything you'd like. There's no shortage
of wine in the cabinet. (He points to a nearby wine cabinet and
immediately
sets off towards some other guests.)
HOSTESS:
I
trust you found your way here without too much
inconvenience, Mr Wilde?
WILDE:
Indeed
I did, madam.
For the scent of affluence sheds an irresistible attraction. One finds half of
HOSTESS:
(Scans
the crowded room) Are you familiar with any of our
other guests?
WILDE:
Too
familiar, I'm afraid.
That's the main reason why I'm alone tonight.
HOSTESS:
Oh,
really? Then I
shall keep you company, Mr Wilde. We
mustn't allow that brilliant tongue of yours to cease wagging just
because
you're temporarily or temperamentally out-of-favour with the bulk of
our
illustrious company.
WILDE:
Thank
you, madam. If
I've previously exhausted myself on a majority of the other persons
here this
evening, I have yet to exhaust myself on you.
Your company exalts me, as does your wine.
HOSTESS:
Then
have some more. (To his surprise she fetches an
uncorked bottle of Sauterne from the cabinet and pours its contents
into his
half-empty glass.) My husband was
telling me, the other day, how you recently made a valiant attempt to
abstain
from drink in the presence of Dr Hugo Fleming.
WILDE:
(Blushes)
Only an attempt, I'm
glad to say. Had I been rash enough to
succeed, I should have forfeited the ultimate pleasure of being carried
home by
that kindly old man and nursed back to drink again.
It has since become a ruse among certain
well-established dipsomaniacs to accredit me the possessor of an
unfortunately
high metabolism.
HOSTESS:
(With
a penetrating look) I find that quite credible.
WILDE:
How
discerning! But
one can't believe everything one hears nowadays, particularly where
one's health
and pleasures are concerned. One must be
content with believing only what one has to.
HOSTESS:
You
seem more of a sage than I initially took you for, Mr
Wilde. Tell me, when are you going to
get married?
WILDE:
(Lights
himself a gold-tipped and mildly-opiated
cigarette) Why, I wonder, is it only the married
women who ask me that question?
HOSTESS:
Well?
WILDE:
One
should only consider the possibility of marriage when
one can't afford it. That prevents one
from marrying when one can.
HOSTESS:
(Smiles
wryly) How paradoxical! But
perhaps you're too eligible?
WILDE:
(Blushes
afresh) There you have it! For were I a desperate man,
I shouldn't hesitate to clutch at a vulnerable twig. But, thanks or no thanks to my eligibility, I
can never see the wood for the trees.
HOSTESS:
How
disconcerting!
WILDE:
On the contrary, I find it most
provocative. The trees are the only
things worth looking at.
HOSTESS:
Then
you like my dress?
WILDE:
Such
an elegant leaf.
HOSTESS:
How
flattering! But
you may pay the price of plucking it one day.
WILDE:
(His
gaze riveted on her bosom) That's
a branch of aesthetics in which I'm well versed, I can assure you.
HOSTESS:
Perhaps. But you
aren't yet in debt to my husband.
WILDE:
True,
but only because he's in debt to me.
HOSTESS:
(Slightly
alarmed) Oh, in what way?
WILDE:
Eh,
financially.
HOSTESS:
Then
I shall ask him to settle your account.
WILDE:
(In
a subdued tone-of-voice) Personally, I'd rather you
didn't. He has become such am amiable
companion in the short time I've known him.
Besides, I prefer intrigue. It's
less wearisome.
HOSTESS:
(Smiles
in a subtly coquettish way) Then you shall have
it!
WILDE:
Allow
me to congratulate you. What will
you have to drink?
HOSTESS:
(Taken
by surprise) Whatever you
suggest.
WILDE:
(Turns
toward the wine cabinet) A
double orange juice?
HOSTESS:
(Feigns
indignation) Oscar!
WILDE:
I
mean, a double orange
juice and vodka.
HOSTESS:
I
think vodka more becoming. Perhaps a
little orange juice would suit you,
though?
WILDE:
Indeed
it would, madam, were I not
already partial to your magnificent wine and consequently disinclined
to mix
drinks. Even so, you would be none the
less attractive for a change of glass.
HOSTESS:
My
apologies for having underestimated you.
WILDE:
(Hands
her a glass of vodka) Apologies are quite
out-of-keeping with your demeanour.
HOSTESS:
As
is flattery with yours.
WILDE:
Then
we are cold-blooded?
HOSTESS:
I
prefer to think in terms of warmth.
WILDE:
Your
wish is my demand.
HOSTESS:
Granted!
WILDE:
(His
eyes reverting to her bosom) A
breast in the hand is worth two in the bodice. (Mr Richardson is seen
approaching the newly acquainted couple with two glasses of sparkling
champagne
in his hands.)
HOSTESS:
(Almost
whispering) I fear we are about to be nipped in
the bud.
WILDE:
Not
when our liaison has already blossomed, Pamela.
HOST:
(Smiles
candidly and extends one of the glasses to his
special guest) For you, Oscar!
A truly exuberant bouquet.
WILDE:
Cheers
Cyril! I
never reject a magnanimous offer.
THE
LATEST
CURE
The
small
surgery of Dr Martin Stanmore, the supreme exponent of
'Emotional Hypnosis', where a young and semi-delirious victim of
unrequited
love, a Mr James Hamilton, is endeavouring to explain certain aspects
of his
crisis to both the doctor and his female assistant, Nurse Pamela Barnes. He is seated in front of Dr Stanmore's
paper-strewn desk, while the good doctor himself - a tall, dark-bearded
man -
is slowly pacing the floor backwards and forwards behind him. Nurse Barnes, who is seated immediately to Mr
Hamilton's left, is clasping a large surgical casebook in which she has
been
taking particulars and recording general impressions with regard to the
clinical nature of the patient's psychological condition.
The scene opens towards the climax of
MR
HAMILTON:
(In a state of nervous excitement) I'll buy five
minutes of her time, four minutes, two
minutes! Just a glance then, a touch, a
word! I'll follow her everywhere,
anywhere, what
matter! I have only to set eyes on her
for a second and my heart beats like a drum, my Adam's apple rises up
to choke
me, and my concentration goes positively haywire! I
can't
even eat without thinking about her. I
get indigestion every time anyone mentions
her goddamned name, that terribly beautiful name which haunts me all
through
the night. Her gestures, voice, smile,
hair, eyes, limbs, buttocks, breasts, clothes, scents, opinions -
everything
about her completely enslaves me! For
two pins I'd get down on my knees and start worshipping her. What else can I do? She
has
only to appear in my presence for a
few seconds and I'm a nervous wreck.
DR
STANMORE:
(Aside to Nurse Barnes) He needs immediate
attention. Grade A. This
case
is already serious. His state-of-mind
may deteriorate still
further unless we apply the emergency antidote at once.
We'll have to put him under for several
hours.
MR
HAMILTON:
(Jumps to conclusions) You're
not intending to interfere with the workings of my brain, are you? I'd rather not experience anything more
painful than what I'm already suffering from, if you don't mind. A sedative is all very well, but if it's only
the start of a process that ...
NURSE
BARNES:
(Her hand on the patient's nearest arm) Now don't be
afraid, James! You won't feel a
thing. We've treated literally hundreds
of young people, both male and female, since this clinic first opened,
and the
vast majority of them have profited enormously from our service, as can
be
verified by the many letters of thanks and acknowledgement in the
cabinet to
your right. We have every confidence
that your welfare will be safeguarded with the utmost care, and that
you'll be
successfully returned to the pre-love condition without experiencing
any
psychical or physical repercussions whatsoever. Indeed,
we
even undertake to offer you a
six-month's guarantee which ensures you free service, should today's
application of hypnotic expertise by one of the world's top emotional
hypnotists prove insufficiently therapeutic; though we've had few
complaints or
rejections, I can assure you. This
emotional insanity from which you're currently suffering ... is
injurious both
to yourself, as victim, and to the community at large, which is to say
to those
whom you infect throughout the course of your daily routine - people
who
inevitably become victimized and, to a certain extent, influenced by
your
reduced efficiency, intermittent emotional aberrations, intellectual
instability, and general melancholia.
MR
HAMILTON:
(On the defensive) But I didn't mean to fall in love,
honest! I couldn't help it.
Her continuous presence gradually overwhelmed
me, despite the fact that she was attached to somebody else at the time
and
wouldn't have anything to do with me sexually.
By the time I sought to evade her, it was too damn late. I had succumbed to the malady.
DR
STANMORE:
(Extends a reassuring hand to the patient's right
shoulder) Nobody can help
falling
in
love,
my friend. It's beyond our
control, since ordained by nature. If it
happens it happens, and you must suffer the consequences, whether
positively
or, as in your case, negatively. If she
refused you, then she is to blame. You
have every right to the woman of your choice.
If she was otherwise engaged, I rather doubt that she told you
all that
much about it, not, at any rate, unless you pressed her to, since the
object of
this engagement would then have constituted a reason for her excluding
you
which, regardless of human convention, isn't in accordance with
nature's will.
MR
HAMILTON:
As a matter of fact, she
claimed to be engaged with church activities every night.
DR
STANMORE:
(Raises his brows in surprise) Then you're very
unfortunate, my young friend. For the
Church is usually in opposition to nature.
You've suffered, it seems to me, on
account of
someone's habitual bigotry. But don't
worry! The new administration is seeing
to the removal of outmoded institutions and we, for our part, will
certainly do
what we can to prevent this misfortune from incapacitating you further. It remains to be said, however, that the
final solution rests with you personally.
So you must be determined!
MR
HAMILTON:
(Frowns) But even if you do hypnotize me, or put me
under, I'll still be in love, won't I? I
mean, you can't cold turkey my emotions.
NURSE
BARNES:
(Slightly irritated, in spite of her show of good
humour) We have absolutely no intention of
"cold turkeying" you, James.
We can only hypnotize you into forgetting her.
DR
STANMORE:
(Sits at his desk and then leans forward with fingers
intertwined, his demeanour stern) Some
people call it
brainwashing. They believe it to be an
outrage against nature, another very conspicuous example of the
inhumanity of
modern science, a ruse they're constantly exploiting as a means to
furthering their
own ends which, as we've already seen, are more often against nature
than for
it! Now some individuals even go so far
as to assert that the interruption and subsequent termination of this
pestiferous ailment actually robs its victim of a meaningful and
emotionally
enriching experience. As though such a condition as unrequited love were more of
a pleasure
than a pain, and therefore shouldn't be tampered with in the name of
science! They fail to establish the
difference between the requited and the unrequited kinds of love,
thereby
regarding them as equal when, as anyone saddled with the latter will
know,
they're virtually as far apart as heaven and hell!
Indeed, I should be most surprised to
discover a person whose love had been requited duly applying for
immediate
hypnotic alleviation. As a rule, such a
person is perfectly at one with himself.
MR
HAMILTON:
(Still feels sceptical) But will I really forget all
about my emotional attachment to her? I
mean, isn't that a trifle farfetched?
NURSE
BARNES:
(Unable to restrain her impatience) Mr Hamilton, you
are
a difficult man to convince!
Anyone would think you didn't want to be cured, that you'd
rather remain
in the painful clutches of a disease which has virtually deranged your
mind! Why-on-earth did you come along to
us in the first place, if you only wanted to persist in playing hard to
get? Admittedly, many things appear a
trifle farfetched to begin with, but that's certainly no reason why
they should
be thought impossible. Whoever would
have supposed man capable of travelling to the moon, let alone flying
to
MR
HAMILTON:
Yes, but what if, in leaving here, I encounter her
within the next few days - as I'm almost bound to - and subsequently
run the
risk of falling in love with her all over again? Surely
I
won't be immune from that?
DR
STANMORE:
(Exercises his customary aplomb and paternal
encouragement) O yes you will! For we
assure you, during the course of your treatment, that she'll have
absolutely no
further emotional hold over you until such time as, given a change of
circumstances, you may specifically request otherwise.
If you shortly encounter her again, there'll
be absolutely no possibility of unrequited love. You'll
be
completely free of her. However, should
she subsequently become
accessible to your attentions through either a change in her romantic
or
possibly even ideological circumstances, then you'll be perfectly free
to
become re-acquainted with her without running any risk of falling in
love. You may even decide to return to us
in order
to be re-hypnotized into falling in
love
with
her
again; though such a decision will be entirely up to you, and
obviously
subject to the precondition that a mutually satisfactory arrangement
can be
reached next time.
NURSE
BARNES:
Unrequited love is a thing of the past, a kind of
virulent psychic disease, or insanity of the soul, from which your
parents'
generation and all the generations prior to them constantly suffered. They had absolutely no protection against it,
and consequently succumbed in their millions.
Now if venereal disease was the chief physical manifestation of
sexual
hardship, then unrequited love was its chief psychical manifestation,
against
which it was extremely difficult to prevail.
Clinics for alleviating the directly physical aspects of the
problem
were established quite some time before medical experts and politicians
got
around to taking its psychical aspects more seriously, and this
traditional
disequilibrium of attention - so often resulting in more cases of rape,
juvenile delinquency, neurosis, severe depression, chronic perversion,
and
sexual hatred, i.e. the so-called 'war of the sexes' - was partly a
consequence
of the Establishment's inability and/or disinclination to link such
social
transgressions with sexual repressions, and partly a consequence of the
prevailing misconception with regard to the nature of a healthy soul,
the
principal criterion for assessing the health of which should have been
its
social wellbeing and emotional integrity, rather than the psychological
shackles with which the anti-natural morality of the state metaphysics
chose to
enslave it! However, the recent
enlightenment schemes and re-education programmes which the new
authorities
have introduced, including a much wider and more liberal sex-education
scheme;
the possibility of regular sex in one of the many
aesthetically-advanced 'Sex
Centres', where one can privately, comfortably, and economically enjoy
access
to the most advanced films and sex gadgets/dolls; the widespread
recognition of
manic depression as the punishment inflicted by nature upon those who,
whether
through force of circumstances or in consequence of arbitrary
decisions, have
deviated from it to any appreciable extent, and the concomitant
acceptance of
the organic necessity of some form of regular sex; the systematic
elimination
of certain superstitions and anachronisms, and the establishment of the
league
against sexual puritanism, etc., coupled
to the
remarkable advances in modern technology - about which, incidentally, I
need
say no more - have entirely revolutionized the situation.
And not only by the legalization of various
theoretical antidotes to the old way of life but, more importantly, by
the
legalization of a variety of practical antidotes to it which are far
superior
to any old women's formulae or imaginable drugs, and certainly much
less
harmful. We no longer suffer from so
many physical diseases, so why should we suffer from mental or
emotional ones
instead? What would it gain you to
remain perpetually melancholic?
DR
STANMORE:
(Ironically) You're not a
writer, by any chance, are you?
MR
HAMILTON:
(Without really appreciating the doctor's subtle
irony) No, I'm not actually.
DR
STANMORE:
Well then, what have you got to lose, apart from a
humiliating obsession which you're unable to control, a situation which
is
driving you crazy, a gratuitous attachment?
The days of emotional slavery are over!
There is absolutely no need for you to follow this young woman,
this
epitome of physical vanity, around on an imaginary lead, as though you
were a
craven dog whose very survival depended upon it! Renounce
this
servility! Have done with her! Embrace your independence!
MR
HAMILTON:
(Smiles for the first time) Maybe I'll be luckier next
time, assuming there'll be a next time?
DR
STANMORE:
(In a conciliatory and overly reassuring
tone-of-voice) Of course there'll be a next time! A handsome and
smartly-dressed young chap like you?
Don't underestimate yourself! Why
waste precious time worrying yourself sick over some young prude who
foolishly
ignores you, when you can walk out of here, later today, and approach
the first
attractive girl your eyes light upon?
Now don't take me literally, but that's the possibility. Too many young men waste months and even
years in consequence of unrequited love when, given the right
opportunity,
plenty of other pretty females would ordinarily appeal to them.
NURSE
BARNES:
And that's precisely why
we're here, complete with soft lighting.
MR
HAMILTON:
(Blushes slightly) Then please get to work on me,
people. I have to walk out of here a new
man!
BETWEEN
THE
SHELVES
A
very
attractive dark-haired customer, a young woman of average
height and slightly more than average build, is busily scanning the
shelves of
a well-stocked provincial bookshop. She
takes a fancy to a paperback volume of short stories by Guy de
Maupassant and,
removing it from the shelf, proceeds to read the blurb.
Apart from an elderly man and two young shop
assistants sitting by the till near the plate-glass window, the shop is
otherwise deserted. From time to time
the customer darts a quick glance at the more handsome of the shop
assistants
who, cognizant of this, eventually absents himself from his post and
approaches
her with a faint smile on his lips.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Very politely) Good afternoon. Would
you like any assistance?
CUSTOMER:
No
thanks, I'm just looking.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Don't you mean looking for a lover? (He smiles,
and the customer coldly smiles back.) By the way, you're dripping.
CUSTOMER:
(Glances
at the floor) Where?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Draws her behind the shelves at the rear of the
shop and puts a hand up her skirt) Here.
CUSTOMER:
(Somewhat
embarrassed) Oh no, please! What
d'you think
you're doing?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Withdraws his hand) My
mistake. I just thought you could use a
helping hand.
CUSTOMER:
(Smooths
down her skirt) But aren't you a trifle
forward? I've never been treated like
that before, not by a complete stranger.
You've certainly got a nerve!
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Somewhat startled by her fierce rebuke) Forgive
me. I wasn't intending to rape you. But I noticed you glancing at me - once,
twice, three, maybe four times - while you were scanning the shelves,
so I
thought to myself: 'Either she's up to no good or she fancies me.' Well, preferring to give both you and me the
benefit of the doubt, I considered it worth my while to introduce
myself. 'Perhaps she's hard up,' I
thought, 'or tied
to a man who doesn't properly satisfy her.
Why not find out anyway, do someone a favour for once.' But I couldn't think of anything to say by
way of introducing myself that wouldn't have sounded corny or pathetic
to
me. So I said the first thing that came
into my head and hoped for the best.
CUSTOMER:
(Still
embarrassed, but cooling slightly) I see. And
you
hope to make me your girlfriend, is
that it? Well, you're certainly
original, I must say! Though I wasn't
exactly expecting to be picked up in here ...
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
You mean you only glanced at me because you felt
I'd keep my distance?
CUSTOMER:
No,
not really. I
... oh, how can I explain?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Takes the volume of Maupassant's
short stories from her hand) You evidently
had sex on
your mind when you picked this up.
CUSTOMER:
(Feigns
innocence) Did I? Actually I
haven't read his work before.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Quite an excellent reason for buying it,
then. Allow me to congratulate you for
having such good taste. Perhaps you
imagined Maupassant would be a better and livelier read than anybody
else?
CUSTOMER:
Yes,
I suppose I did in a way. But I like
French literature in general, so I
usually tend to gravitate towards the many French authors to be found
in book
shops. I studied French literature at
college, you see.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Really? How
exciting! The French have so much
literary talent, don't they? The mind
simply brims over with illustrious names.
CUSTOMER:
How
very true. So
you recommend this volume of short stories?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Flicks through the pages) It
would certainly bring you lots of intellectual pleasure. (He looks up
from the
book and fixes her with a probing eye) Wouldn't you prefer the real
thing
though, now, tonight, whenever you like?
CUSTOMER:
Thank
you, but I've already got a boyfriend. I'll
be
seeing him tonight.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Loses hope) Too
bad! I'm sorry I bothered you. (He
returns the book to her trembling hand and begins to walk away.)
CUSTOMER:
(Catches
hold of his sleeve) Don't
think I don't appreciate your interest.
If you really want me that much, why not take my name and
address now,
this very moment, before I leave?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
How do I know you're not going to trick me?
CUSTOMER:
(Smiles
faintly) You'll just
have to trust me.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Will I see you again?
CUSTOMER:
That's
not impossible.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(With a look of relief on his face) There's
a spare room out the back. I can lock the
door without drawing any
condemnatory attention upon us.
CUSTOMER:
(Follows
him into the spare room, which is in fact a
kind of coffee room, stock room, and office all rolled into one) But
won't they
miss you in the shop?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Yes, but they'll assume that I'm acquainting you
with our latest stock. Anyway, we're not
exactly over-worked today so, providing we don't stay longer than
half-an-hour here,
they'll manage perfectly well without me.
CUSTOMER:
And
what, may I ask, are you really doing?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Introducing a charming young lady to our chamber
of sensual delights, of course.
CUSTOMER:
(Quite
startled) Indeed?
So it's regular policy in this shop,
is it?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Not really.
But we allow each other enough freedom to chat-up the occasional
customer who might appeal to one or other of us, if the opportunity
were to
present itself. The owner of the shop,
although too old to be an efficient lover, is an authority on sex
education
who, providing we assistants remain fairly discreet and don't overdo
it, is
prepared to turn a blind eye to any socio-sexual activities which my
colleague
and I may choose to embark on, and all in the hope that we'll thereby
come to a
fuller appreciation of his own books.
CUSTOMER:
(Visibly
amused) How very convenient!
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
It's only natural.
After all, being a book salesman in what is, by provincial
standards, a fairly
small shop on such a quiet day as this can become rather boring, you
know. (He
locks the door behind them and then offers her a seat on a convertible
settee
situated against one of the walls.)
CUSTOMER:
(Looks
around the room) So this
is where the socio-sexual activities take place, is it?
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Only with women who are pretty enough, intelligent
enough, and compliant enough to permit it.
CUSTOMER:
Well,
now that you've got me ...
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
(Draws himself up alongside her on the settee)
I'll get to know you on a more intimate basis.
What's your name, by the way?
CUSTOMER:
Dawn.
SHOP
ASSISTANT:
Well now, this is certainly the first time I've
been granted the opportunity of carnal intimacy with a Dawn in the
middle of
the afternoon!
CUSTOMER:
(Smiles
to herself and simultaneously drops the volume
of Maupassant into her shoulder-bag without his noticing it) Then don't
spoil
it, you persuasive man!
AN
UNUSUAL
ENCOUNTER
A
small
suburban park in
YOUNG
MAN:
(Turns towards her) Is that an
interesting book you're reading?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Slightly startled) What...?
Oh, yes.
Quite interesting.
YOUNG
MAN:
You wouldn't be interested in some conversation, by any
chance?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Blushes slightly) No, not really.
YOUNG
MAN:
I just thought you might like to talk to someone.
To put it bluntly, you appeal to me.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Thinks to herself, "God, he's forward, isn't
he? Fancy telling me that!
He might as well have asked me to make it
with him. I'd better be careful.")
Sorry, I'm waiting for someone.
YOUNG
MAN:
(Coolly impertinent) You're
not wearing red panties under that skirt, are you?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Somewhat startled) Pardon?
YOUNG
MAN:
(Smiles) I bet you're wearing red knickers.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Starts to get up from the bench) Sorry, but I don't
want to answer that!
YOUNG
MAN:
(Catches her by the arm) Just a minute! I'm
not
intending to rape you, if that's what
you're thinking. I'm essentially very
civilized: in fact, too damn civilized!
Sit down a moment, let's talk together.
Are you really waiting for someone?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Reluctantly sits down again) Why should I lie?
YOUNG
MAN:
To keep me at a distance, of
course.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Laughs nervously) I needn't lie to do that!
Besides, even if I were, what business would
it be of yours? (She closes her book and
is about to get up again when he puts a restraining hand on her arm. She begins to look frightened.)
YOUNG
MAN:
You're very beautiful.
That's the main reason why I must speak to you.
A man like me could spend years looking for
someone like you, someone who corresponds to his tastes.
In a sense, you're very fortunate to be so
beautiful. Probably more than 90% of the
young women I encounter in this area make either no impression on me at
all or
only a rather unfavourable one. Very few
of them actually appeal to me, the loner of loners.
But I won't go into details. Normally
I'm
quite incapable of getting
worked-up about strangers. I have to get
to know people first, to find out more about the person in whom I
happen to be
taking a physical interest, just to be on the safe side.
But you pleased me from the moment I set eyes
on you, and that's very unusual. Look, I
don't really know why I'm telling you all this, spilling the beans to a
complete stranger ... but, well, I haven't spoken to anyone like you
for ages
and, since you look intelligent, I'm making a fool of myself for your
benefit. You see, I need someone who'll
listen to me
with a sympathetic ear because, whatever you may think, I'm no monster
but a
human being in need of a little love and understanding every once in
awhile,
just like a lot of other poor buggers who are daily coerced into
maintaining a
false, pernicious, and self-defeating persona without necessarily
realizing
it! Believe me, I'm not homosexual or
stupid or poxed or mad or dangerous or
commonplace or
... believe me, I'm a damn sight more caring and considerate than most
of the
men in this world! Maybe you wouldn't understand ...
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Shows signs of interest, in spite of her misgivings)
Go on.
YOUNG
MAN:
Well, for a time I thought I was homosexual, not having
a woman and not particularly going out of my way to get one. But slowly, gradually, it dawned on me that I
wasn't really homosexual at all but simply choosy.
I mean (He sighs, as from a realization of
the complexity of what he is trying to convey and the odds against his
conveying even a fraction of it convincingly), I had to have someone
whom I
felt it would be possible for me to admire, to talk to, to love, to
worship
even - yes, don't laugh! I mean it! But poor and solitary as I was, I never
encountered anyone who sufficiently inspired such noble intentions in
me. In fact, I rarely encountered anyone
at all,
even casually. So
things just drifted: weeks, months, years, a face here and there, the
occasional disappointments, blunt refusals, hypocritical excuses, etc. I didn't go to university and I left all my
school friends behind in
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Begins to show concern) But haven't you tried
computer dating?
YOUNG
MAN:
(Faintly smiles and nods) Yes, I was desperate enough
to give it a go. And d'you
know what happened? (He hesitates to choke
back rage
and resentment) I wasted my money! Most
of the bitches the firms informed me about didn't even have the
courtesy to
reply to my letters, quite apart from the fact that those who did took
ages
doing so. Some of the firms even had to
be reminded about my application virtually every-other-month! And when they eventually got around to
replying, it seemed as though they'd taken a lucky dip and, to pass
muster,
sent me whatever came up, irrespective of my preferences.
Anyway, the few women I eventually got around
to meeting were plain, to say the least!
They'd have humiliated me on the street and exasperated me in
the
bedroom. As far as the likelihood of
my
being able to kindle any genuine desire for them was concerned, it
would have
been tantamount to flogging a dead horse!
In fact, they might as well have been cows or sheep, for all the
passion
I felt towards them! No, I regret to say
that computer dating didn't work for me.
You never know exactly what you're getting and, besides, I found
the
whole idea too degrading. I had to take
one girl back to the station after barely an hour of her company,
because she
was so damned incompatible. She hadn't
even read one
of the several hundred books in my possession at the
time. Not one!
And that was after I'd categorically
stipulated a preference for someone literate.
But if that was bad enough, I thought it even
worse that
she hadn't even heard of, let alone heard, any of the albums in my
record
collection. And they call that
compatibility? Well, I soon got rid of
her, as well as most of the others they inflicted upon me, too! Of course, a majority of people always end-up
doing what they imagine everyone else is doing at the time. Climb on the bandwagon, let others think for
you, and wait for the lucky number! For
if, by any chance, a man with an ounce of self-determination approaches
an
attractive female in the park, on the street, or in any other public
context
with the intention of acquiring her, the spirit of technological
progress will
declare him to be either an anachronistic idiot or a potentially
dangerous
maniac who should learn to live with the times instead of wilfully
following
his personal inclinations, obeying the voice of his desire in his own
sweet
fashion, and taking the law into his own hands irrespective of the
consequences! As though men were still
capable of self-determination in an age like this, when the sheep-like collectivity counts for everything and the lone
individual,
especially the self-willed creative individual, next to nothing! Thus speaks the spirit of technological
progress.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Raises her brows in apparent concern) I see!
But what makes you so sure that I
may
be
able
to assist you?
YOUNG
MAN:
Simply the fact that you appeal to me. I
mean, I wouldn't mind being seen in your
company. You're very beautiful and, from
what I can gather, intelligent as well.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Smiles) Flattery will get you nowhere. Anyway,
I'm
waiting for my boyfriend, as I
think I told you.
YOUNG
MAN:
(Frowns) So what's he like:
strong, tall, handsome?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
Oh, good-looking,
hard-working, intelligent, loyal, generous, considerate, able. A good all-round sort
really.
YOUNG
MAN:
And how long have you known him?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Obliged to scan her memory a moment) Just over a
year actually.
YOUNG
MAN:
And you had other boyfriends before him?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
Yes, a few. (She becomes puzzled) Why d'you
have to ask so many questions?
YOUNG
MAN:
(Unable to restrain himself from shouting) Because
I haven't so much as kissed a woman in nearly ten
years!
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Becomes indignant) Is that
my
fault?
I'm sorry, we all have our problems, you know.
YOUNG
MAN:
Yes, and some of us more than others! (In desperation)
Can't you drop him?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
Are you out of your mind?
YOUNG
MAN:
(Frowns and sighs in exasperation) Why should that
bastard take all my share of loving?
Haven't I as much right to love as him, as you, as anyone? Or is that merely presumptuous of me, a gross
delusion, a mode of self-deception engendered by the sight and sound of
so much
commercial propaganda pertaining to sex?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(On the verge of tears) But it isn't his fault.
He's as entitled to choose a woman as anyone
else, isn't he? It isn't his fault if he
happened to be in the right place at the right time and you, through no
particular fault of your own, weren't.
YOUNG
MAN:
No, it's life's fault!
Life is always to blame. That's
why some people get everything whilst others get next to nothing. Fate!
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Unable to hold back her tears) Oh, don't make such a
damn fuss! There are plenty of people
worse off than you. Look, if everyone
went about spilling their problems over people the way you do, we'd
have a
civil war on our hands. At least you're
still young.
YOUNG
MAN:
Yes, and that's precisely what riles me! Young
and
bitter! My God, it sickens me to see
so many blatant
half-wits, so many ugly, uncouth, depraved men with good-looking women
just
because they happened to be in the right place at the right time. I might as well have been born crippled,
considering what use I make of the advantages I possess!
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Dries her eyes) Haven't you
ever had sex with a prostitute?
YOUNG
MAN:
No, I haven't!
For one thing, I can't afford to.
And, for another, I distrust them.
Besides, they're not the kind of women who appeal to me, as a
rule. So for anything approaching sexual
satisfaction, I'm mostly dependent on the occasional wet dream. Actually, I used to be a bit of a wanker at one time.
However, these days masturbation would only arouse my
self-contempt, so
I tend to avoid it.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
Masturbation's puerile.
YOUNG
MAN:
Fortunately I didn't succumb to it all that often, just once or twice
a month in order to clean the works out, as it were, and reassure
myself that I
hadn't become impotent. After a while I
loathed the self-degradation involved with the use of sex magazines,
the models
of which I rarely found stimulating. So
I'd resort to my imagination instead, fantasize myself into a climax
and hope
that I wouldn't become irredeemably perverted or the victim of a
cerebral
haemorrhage. Nowadays I don't fantasize
as persistently or regularly as I used to; I stop myself going beyond a
certain
low-key point and limit myself to one or two a day.... Frankly, I
believe the
fact that I was born in
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Smiles through her nose) I wouldn't particularly
blame him. After all, one doesn't
normally ask strangers those sorts of questions. In
fact,
one doesn't normally approach
strangers at all, at least not in
YOUNG
MAN:
I suppose I was
being a
bit silly then but, well, one sometimes feels the urge to do or say
something
unusual, if only to prove to oneself that one is still capable of
self-determination
and isn't utterly predictable.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
But having it off with a prostitute, or just about
anyone, presumably isn't one of those urges in your case?
YOUNG
MAN:
No, I guess not, since the thought doesn't hold any
great attraction for me. With a man of
my sort it has to be all or nothing. I'd
willingly continue to remain celibate until death, if only to keep away
from
half-measures, or anything which only served to compromise and
humiliate
me. I've seen too many half-measures in
life to be particularly impressed by them.
God knows what would become of me if I had to settle for someone
I
secretly despised! I'd probably become
bad-tempered, jealous, cruel, cynical: any
number of
disreputable things!
YOUNG
WOMAN:
But aren't you most of those things already?
YOUNG
MAN:
(Sighs dejectedly) Well, at least I'm suffering on my
own terms at present, which is some consolation. There's
always
the possibility of my meeting
someone who'll really matter to me. I
wasn't born for charity, that's all.
I've seen too much of the negative side of it, its detrimental
consequences.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Smiles gently and edges closer to him) So
you think I may be able to provide you with the
companionship you lack at present?
YOUNG
MAN:
(Visibly surprised) Eh?
But aren't you waiting for someone?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
No, not any longer.
YOUNG
MAN:
You mean someone else is going to suffer on account of
me, then?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
Not necessarily.
Anyway, you've been alone long enough already, haven't you?
YOUNG
MAN:
Yes, I suppose you're right. But I
may take some getting used to.
YOUNG
WOMAN:
(Smiles encouragingly) Don't
worry! I'm a fairly patient person.
YOUNG
MAN:
Yes, you are, aren't you? (He squeezes her hand
thankfully) By the way, my name's Stephen Kelly. What's
yours?
YOUNG
WOMAN:
Susan Connors.
And I'm not wearing red knickers.
YOUNG
MAN:
You're not? (Blushes profusely) Oh damn! I
was just teasing you. Please accept my
sincere apology. (They
embrace each other and, following a tentative exchange of kisses, the
scene
ends with the young couple slowly walking away from the bench
hand-in-hand.)
THE
WEEKLY
LESSON
I
had
just removed her brassiere and was in the preliminary stages
of fondling her quite copious breasts when, to my profound
consternation, the damn
telephone rang. "Now who-the-devil
can that be?" I asked myself as, reluctantly extricating myself from Sharla's grip, I hurried out into the hall,
snatched up the
receiver, and straightaway heard a gruff voice asking: "Hello,
is my daughter there?"
"She is
indeed!" I impulsively replied.
"Ah, could I speak
to her a moment?"
"Er, certainly.
Just a sec." I
turned
towards the piano room, the door to
which was still slightly ajar. "Sharla!" I called.
"Yes?"
"Your, er,
father
wants to speak to you."
"Oh,
damn him!" she groaned, automatically putting on her vest. "What-on-earth can he want?"
It wasn't a question I
could answer there and then, so I patiently held the receiver to my
chest
until, arriving breathlessly in the hall, she was able to take it from
me and
say: "Hi dad!"
Fearing that my presence
beside her wouldn't help any, I ambled back into the piano room, where
her bag,
coat, shoes, miniskirt and underclothes lay strewn across the floor,
and her
perfume permeated the air with its delightfully sweet scent. Indeed, everything about her was delightfully
sweet. Even the room itself, ordinarily
so drab and formal, seemed to have taken on a romantic dimension which
lent the
furniture a mysterious poignancy, as though it had acquired the
semblance of
life and was now a silent witness to this evening's amorous events. Fortunately for me, however, Sharla's high intelligence permitted her the
equivalent of
two lessons in the space of one, so I never had to fear that her
musical
education would lag behind or be seriously undermined in consequence of
my
weekly devotions to her sexuality. In my
view she was potentially a distinction candidate, the next and final
examination grade almost bound to lead her to studying piano at one of
the
country's principal music colleges.
"Okay," her
voice came from the hall, "but I won't be late home in any case. Yes, thanks for letting me know.
Okay, bye then." She replaced the
receiver with a peremptory
slam and swiftly tiptoed back to where I lay, ruminating on the couch.
"Well, is anything
amiss?" I tersely asked while fixing her with a searching look.
"He wanted to know
if everything's okay, she drawled, still a little under the influence
of our
bottle of medium-sweet wine.
"What a silly
question!" I asseverated, my hands instinctively groping under her vest
for the milk-laden globes which were now generously advancing towards
me,
compliments of Sharla's graceful return to
the
couch. "What did he really
say?"
Her long spidery fingers
crawled nimbly over my stomach and up my chest.
"A friend of the family has invited my parents over to dinner at
the last moment, so they'll be out when I get back.
Which means that my father
has hidden the front-door key in one of the two small lanterns affixed
to the
wall either side of our front door."
"But don't you have
a key of your own?" I asked, astounded.
"They still won't
entrust me with one," she sighed.
"How
silly!" I exclaimed.
"Why, you're almost eighteen."
"And old enough to
be my piano teacher's favourite pupil," she enthused.
I smiled impulsively, as
much from relief as from genuine amusement.
"Yes, but at least I'm a private teacher and not a
schoolmaster."
"What difference
does that
make?" she cried.
"Less
scandalous, of course."
"The hell it is!"
I had to smile in spite
of my attempt at seriousness.
"Look, this is a perfectly natural state-of-affairs actually. Let's just say that both of us are pupils in
the art of making love."
"But you're always
teaching me," Sharla protested, clearly no
easy
girl to convince.
I sighed faintly and
said: "Not as much as you may imagine, sweetie."
"Well, that's not
the impression I
get,"
she
smilingly retorted.
"Frankly, you're a
very precocious young lady who knows, as well as anybody, that the
recently-perfected transition from the keyboard to the couch
considerably
enhances your enjoyment of these piano lessons," I averred,
"particularly when you can spend part of your fees on the quiet and
boast
to various classmates at school of having intimate connections with a
handsome
music teacher nearly ten years your senior."
"I don't
boast!" Sharla retorted incredulously. "Whoever told you that?"
"Now, now, don't
blush, baby!"
"I'm not
b-blushing," she stammered. "I
never tell other girls anything about you."
"Ah, but they tell
me," I smiled, teasing her.
"What d'you
mean?" she exclaimed. "No other girls ..."
"Alright, I was
only joking," I admitted, the back of my hand caressing her cheek in a pacificatory manner.
"But you do tell a few friends."
She lowered her large
plum-like eyes in apparent shame.
"Okay, only my closest friends," she confessed blushingly.
I smiled but said
nothing as we lay motionless together on the couch, basking in the
gentle
warmth of each other's bodies. I ran a
hand through her black wiry hair and then ever so tenderly kissed her
on the
lips a few times. Eventually she
responded in kind and our kissing became more intense.
"The time always
goes too quickly when I come here," she at length sighed, coming-up for
air.
"Indeed it
does," I agreed sympathetically.
"It's a pity you don't come here more often."
"Humph!
I might be able to if you weren't always so
busy giving piano lessons to other girls every night," she
complained. "Don't you ever take an
evening off?"
"I don't teach at
the weekend," I replied obliquely.
"Then why can't we
arrange to see each other on Saturdays or Sundays as well?" she asked a
touch petulantly.
"That might be
possible," I conceded.
Smiling, she drew
herself up closer to my face and brought her big dark eyes directly
into focus
with mine, or so it appeared from the way I saw her pupils
contract so rapidly. "Do you have
other girls like me?" she asked with a directness that momentarily
embarrassed me.
"Unfortunately not,
Sharla," I confessed in what was probably
an
overly frank sort of way. "The
others are mostly too young, too plain, or too thin.
Besides, I couldn't afford to let that many
people keep a part of their piano fees in recompense, since I'm not
exactly rolling
in money, you know."
"But you do have a
girlfriend besides me, don't you?" she asked in a tone of voice and
with a
facial expression which suggested she already knew the answer. So, to save myself extra complications, I
gently replied in the affirmative.
"And you see her at the weekends?" she went on.
Again I replied in the affirmative. "Humph!
That
explains it," she
solemnly concluded.
"Explains what, Sharla?"
"Why you won't see
me then."
"Not
entirely," I responded half-smilingly.
"Then
what?" - She seemed on the verge of tears.
"Don't upset yourself," I gently chided her and, sliding my
hands
down her back and over her rump, proceeded to comfort her as best I
could.
"What time is
it?" she at length wanted to know, looking a trifle concerned.
"My goodness, it's
nearly 8.50!" I exclaimed, glancing at the watch and scrambling to my
feet. "I've another pupil at
nine."
"What a drag,"
she drawled.
"What, having
another pupil?"
"No,
getting dressed!"
I smiled as, reaching
for our respective clothes, the pair of us sought to cover our
nakedness as
quickly as possible.
That done, we briefly
returned to the piano and to the Schumann piece which still stood, as
though to
attention, on the stand where it had been abandoned some time before. If it had presented her with a few minor
problems it was mainly because her legato technique was still
insufficiently pianistic, depending too
much on the sustain pedal. I therefore
suggested that she spend some of
the following week practising scales in order to make her fingers work
harder,
since they were still rather too lazy and stiff for comfort (in marked
contrast, I reflected, to the way they behaved on the couch). "In actual fact it would be better if,
for the time being, you ignored the pedal markings altogether," I
continued, growing in confidence.
"For the pedal is fast becoming a crutch,
and not exactly the most helpful one either!"
Thus after a few
amendments to her Schumann technique, a brief display of scales, and a
couple
of aural tests, I set her free, saying: "And don't be late next
week!" as a final piece of advice which, however innocently intended,
was
bound to sound ironic to Sharla.
"Oh, don't you
worry about that!" she smilingly retorted and, much to my delight,
planted
a firm farewell kiss on my lips before regretfully taking her leave of
me.
THE
WEEKLY
CONFESSION
When
she
arrived at the church there was nobody to be seen.
The building was almost deserted. Apart
from
some barely audible mumbling from
the confessional, there was nobody to be heard either.
It was all very quiet.
Glancing down at her
wristwatch, she saw that it was exactly 2.30pm, the time she was
usually
expected. The priest would be quite
disappointed with her if she arrived late, as experience had recently
shown,
and might even decline to absolve her.
It was one thing to arrive a sinner, but to depart the church an
even
bigger one was quite another! She so
hated to repeat her confessions.
Sharon Conroy had just
turned eighteen. With a shapely figure,
a pretty face, a pleasant manner, good taste, and a few additional
charms
besides, she possessed virtually all the personal advantages for which
a young
woman of moderate means could reasonably hope.
From a very early stage in her church-going career she had built
up a
considerable trust in Father James' confidence, in his congenially
unpretentious manner of first absorbing and then absolving sins. Now that she had blossomed into a highly
attractive not to say intelligent person, this confidence seemed even
more
important to her than previously, and notably as a means of securing
his
profoundest concern for her sexual welfare.
It was he, after all, who had one day assured her that he always
took
her interests directly to heart.
She sat down on the end
of the pew nearest the confessional and, bowing her head, respectfully
closed
her eyes. It was so still in the church
that, excited as she was, she could hear her heart beating. The slightest movement on her part would have
seemed like a sudden violence. A few
tiny beads of sweat rolled slowly down her back and were absorbed by
her
underclothes. The deathly coolness of
the place was so apparent on warm days like today ... it was a wonder
to her
that she didn't catch a chill, as she had often feared doing, from
these sudden
violent changes of temperature. Father
James could at least have taken the trouble to warm the place up a bit!
Slowly opening her eyes
she glanced towards the confessional, from whence the steady mumbling,
now more
audible than before, behind its thick curtain indicated that the priest
was
engaged in absolving an old man, probably the old fellow who had been
there at
a similar time the previous week; though what it was, exactly, that
such an
elderly person could be held guilty of ... she didn't have the foggiest
idea! Perhaps he gambled or drank
immoderately, assuming he had the money?
Well, whatever he did, he was evidently a sinner and, as such,
Father
James would know how to deal with him, to keep him on reasonably good
terms
with the Almighty. One had to admit that
it didn't pay to underestimate the power of redemption, especially
where such
an experienced emissary of God as this erudite priest was concerned!
After a few minutes had
elapsed, the curtain behind which the elderly sinner had been hiding
was
carefully drawn back by a shrivelled hand, and a stooped figure,
scarcely
recognizable in the semi-darkness, slowly emerged from his part of the
confessional with what may well have been a relieved expression on his
ugly
face, and straightaway shuffled off down the aisle, seemingly well on
his way
to eternity. The confessional would
probably reek of pipe tobacco and spirits, but what matter! Father James was awaiting, whether in
trepidation
or stoical perseverance, his next sinner.
Her part of the box was empty.
Nothing could possibly undermine the favourable effect her
perfume was
bound to create. Absolution would soon
adjust to that!
Gently rising from her
pew she briskly walked into the confessional, pulled the heavy curtain
across
behind her, knelt down before the latticed partition dividing sinner from absolver, straightened her long hair,
undid a couple of buttons on her blouse, and softly greeted the balding priest's squat figure, now seemingly reposed
behind a mask of inscrutable receptivity.
The ceremony had begun!
As usual, in keeping
with the solemn tone of these proceedings, she had donned black
externals:
satin skirt, cotton blouse, nylon stockings, and leather shoes. Her underclothes, however, were bright
red. But this deviation from formal
solemnity, though never overtly remarked upon by the priest, was
nonetheless
silently accepted by him in view of the Devil's alleged persistence in
tempting
young women to wear such items of clothing as encouraged lustful sin,
in Father
James' vocational opinion: "That deadly poison eating away at our inner
life like a cancer of the soul, and consequently rendering
introspective
analysis imperative as a means to exorcising its demon."
So it was, then, that
the confession proceeded according to plan, with all due decorum and
little or
no allusion to certain previous events.
Father James' reassuring intonation, cast in the most exquisite
Christian humility, always managed to get around Sharon's innate
distrust of
authority, especially the omniscient authority which he claimed to
represent,
and almost invariably made possible a fairly candid reciprocity of
exchanges
between them. Thus after the opening
formalities had paved the way for the young woman's temporary
redemption, he
continued, quite unaffectedly, to question her morality, alternating,
with her
responses, between passive receptivity and gentle innuendoes, nodding
his
sagacious head in confirmation of her disclosures and even occasionally
shaking
it from side-to-side whenever one of her confessions, more plausible
than the
last, happened to confirm his deepest suspicions. To
be
sure, the proceedings were never so
confidential as when Father James proffered signs of
being genuinely involved with them. For
he was known throughout the parish for his fundamental indifference to
commonplace occurrences, being temperamentally more disposed to the
miraculous
and otherworldly, so that anyone who commanded his sympathies in such
matters
had good reason to consider herself privileged.
As
always,
following the introductory
recitations, verbal confessions, and general absolution, the
partition's small
centrally-positioned secret door swung back towards the priest and a
hand, slightly
clammy but not ungraceful, extended its fingers in the general
direction of
"And your virginity
is still intact,
"Yes, Father."
"Let me see, my
child." At which point his fingers
begin to explore farther afield. "Ah yes now, there it is."
His explorations cause
her to smile a little in spite of herself, but, as on other such
occasions, she
manages to restrain her emotion and pretend to treat this little
physical examination
seriously, as though pretence, and pretence alone, could secure its
continued
efficacy, and thereby avoid compromising the old priest's moral
sensibilities. However, at this point
she changes her position, so that the kneeling becomes a squat and her
legs
instinctively open to assist the movement of his fingers.
Her vagina is warm, moist, relaxed, and his
fingers play delicately over its outer parts, around her groin, and
through to
the contours of her amply seductive buttocks.
Then he extends the torch in his other hand and begins to
investigate
her underclothes, the seductive implications of which are compared or,
rather,
contrasted with the innocence of her sex: the 'protagonist', as he
likes to
call it.
"Your protagonist
is in order,
This command applies to
her displaced panties. The little door
swings back towards the mad priest and, without a moment's hesitation,
he gives
her his dubious blessings.
"Thank you,
Father."
"My pleasure,"
he impulsively replies, quite forgetting himself. "Same time next
week."
"Of course,
Father."
Outside the
confessional, the church is empty as
