I was working on the church grounds, getting it ready for the service tomorrow. It had rained during the week, then the sun came out, so the weeds sprung up right after. I was kneeling by a flowerbed, with a weeding tool to dig them out by the roots when I heard him.
Mostly just the broom handle clacking against the wrought iron bars around the garden. I thought maybe it was some kids trying to break in, so I got up, and fixed my sun hat to investigate.
“Uh!” He just put his head back, and closed his eyes in the sun. Started breathing shallowly, and as I came around the bushes, I saw his arms. His hands holding onto his pants at the hips, the wooden handle pinned behind the bars, and his elbows looped behind that.
“What the heck are you doing?” It was just such an odd, and obviously uncomfortable position.
“Oh, Mrs. Deveraux.” The wood scraped against the wrought iron, then I realized he was struggling. At first impression, he looked somehow blissful, and exceedingly uncomfortable at the same time. Still, like the statue of a martyr, and then my eyes settled on his groin.
I covered my gasp of shock, and crossed myself. “Why, wh.” Shaking my head in confused denial, “What is this some sort of.” I looked around for other boys, or teenage girls. Someone who might have bullied him, or tricked him into this awkward position, then left him here, struggling to get free. “Trick?”
He finally managed to get an arm out, and pull the wooden shaft out from behind the other elbow.
“No, I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning.”
“For what?”
“Mass, confession. I’ve been having these disturbing thoughts, and feelings.” Embarrassing erections, and my blush of embarrassment was starting to work it’s way down to make me hot under the collar.
I was dressed for Gardening, in a big floppy straw hat that’s breathable enough for the sweat to evaporate, button up shirt, and cargo shorts that would remind some of you of Terri Irwin other than the lack of logos on the sleeves for some Australian zoo, or wildlife project. A study in khakhi, and utility.
“So, you decided to. What?” I don’t even know how to describe it, other than using wood to lock his elbows through the fence bars, and hold onto his pants, so they pulled tight over his erection, but it wasn’t just that. It was his struggles, his very real physical struggles to get out of his.
Well, there isn’t another word for it, other than Bondage. “I don’t know any other way to get though it.” Then, he started crying, which actually helped. Overcome my sudden rush of lust with empathy.
“Oh,” I took his head, and let him cry on my shoulder. “It’s all right,” patting his back.
“I just don’t want to go to hell.” He shook his head, and sniffed.
“Huh, you’re not going to burn in hell for being an adolescent. Look, I’ve been there, any adult has been there.” I’m not all that experienced in playing this role. I mean the Maternal one, it’s Ms. Deveraux, my maiden name, because I never married. “It’s just hormones.”
About all I could call on was vague memories of high school Health Class. Back in my day, they actually taught Sex Education. Lo and behold, it didn’t cause rampant debaucheries, and teenage pregnancies in high school. Now adays, it’s Abstinence Only, and I hate to say it, but Ignorance isn’t always Bliss.
However, I can’t help remembering the look on his face when I found him. The almost angelic smile, the sun shining on his face, and the happiness contrasting with that almost painful position.
“Gnoh it’s not. Snerk!” He had to let go to wipe snot off his lip, and shake it off his fingers. Then wipe his eyes, but even that. The white creamy mucus, salty with his tears sticking to the fresh cut grass like a shot of semen, or the last dribbles running down his knuckles after jacking off didn’t help my mood.
I’m an adult, approaching middle age, and I had needs. A biological clock reminding me that I only had a decade or 2 left to find a man, get married, have kids, and nurse them until they ween. I’m an old maid, a gardener, and a Catholic, but I also had a collection of erotic stories. A few choice plastic models to stand in for a husband, some of which had a battery compartment, and a motor.
“Huh, you better sit down over here, where we can talk.”
“Thank you,” he looked up, and followed me over to the benches. The sanctuary, and confessional (I’m not a priest either, obviously) locked up, I made due with 2 benches across from each other. Flanked by bushes, and a small gate for quiet contemplation, overlooked by a statuette of Saint Faustina Kowalska. “I feel better now.” He wiped his cheeks on his shoulders, and relaxed.
“Okay, you’re going through a tough time, where your body is sending signals, that your mind is disturbed by?”
“Lately, it’s been dreams, and.” He squirmed, which made me want to squirm, so I just crossed my legs. “Waking up, I think I’ve been abusing myself in my sleep.”
“So, that’s made you abuse yourself here?”
“No, I haven’t touched it!” He looked up, sincerely professing his innocense. I imagined flowers of lavender, and white, miraculously growing in rings. Even knowing that the “Miracle” was just as much magic as fairy rings of toadstools. They tend to spread out, in annular annual stages. As the parent flowers withered and died, the daughter flowers naturally spread out in rings.
I’m distracting myself, because he’s having a crisis of faith, and here I am in lust, trying to talk to a boy. A teenage boy, when I was always the wall-flower. Quiet, shy, on the fringes of the room, or the schoolyard. Watching the children play, grow up, and start to find each other. Holding hands, then each other in passionate embraces, their mouthes…
“It’s not just the nightmares, I’m starting to get daydreams.”
“About whom?”
“Oh, nobody I know, just a stranger, or somebody I made up.” Being the quiet one, I suppose one thing I learned was observation. Watching people talk to each other, lie to each other, I can’t tell the truth. It’s not a gift, I can’t read lips either, but I believed him. He doesn’t have his heart set on a particular girl.
“In the nude?” I guessed.
“No, not at first, but you know that dream where you’re called up to the front of the class, and then your pants disappear?”
“Or some variation of that.” I nodded, used to wearing Dresses. Unless I’m out pulling weeds on the church grounds, but I have all day, and this is fairly routine for me. Until I was distracted by this boy. “You don’t mind me asking, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, Sebastian.”
“Grace, nice to meet you.” I had to lean forward to offer my hand, he had to lean forward to shake mine. “And how old are you, Sebastian?”
“Fifteen.” Again, I had to search his face for sincerity. It’s just a suspiciously round number, but I have to ask myself. If he were lying, would he have rounded up, or down? To appear younger, or older, when the answer is, I can’t tell. Honestly, I’ve never had such a long conversation with a boy before, about such things especially, let alone held his hand.
So, I let go, and sat back, but I was definitely getting uncomfortably hot, and muggy in my shorts. “I knew you’d understand, being a lesbian.” At least he didn’t ask my age: Old enough to lie about being younger.
“What? No, I’m not. Well, I suppose I can understand the misunderstanding, but honestly. That’s not why I never married.”
“Oh, sorry, no offense, I just assumed.”
“To be perfectly honest, I’ve just had trouble finding a man. Especially my age, because I’m so introverted, and I suppose I could get on one of the websites like Christian Mingle in my spare time, but I haven’t.” I shook my head, and took a deep breath. “Huh, well since this appears to be the morning for confession, I have to admit that I’ve avoided it. I’m afraid of rejection, or worse just being completely ignored. Neglected, when I tell myself I prefer to live alone, and that’s true. I don’t need a man, but I still want one, and it does feel so lonely sometimes.”
“Huh, Jesus.”
“Sorry?” He looked down, shamefully, and tried to cover his face. Finally, he held it in his hands, and shook his head.
“I’ve been having nightmares, and daydreams about Him.”
“Jesus, Christ?” I crossed myself.
“Huh yeah.” He looked up, over, and pointed. “Well, his Passion, and the stained glass windows.” He pointed out. The procession of the cross on this side, normally seen backlit from within, but I’m familiar with the images of him carrying the Cross to Golgotha, being pelted by stoned, beaten with birches, stripped, and on the other side the Stations of the cross.
He put his leg up, then crossed it. I rubbed my thighs together in my shorts, and then he sighed. Put his arms back over the back of the bench. To keep his hands off. “The Crucifixion.”
“Oh, you’re.” I shook my head, realizing that I misinterpreted that comment about my sexuality, because I got defensive, and ignored the root of the problem. But I couldn’t say it, the word homosexual out loud, and a big part of the disappointment was the bitter disappointment. I just felt a connection with him, and I wanted to think that could go somewhere. I couldn’t go with a homosexual boy. (The wedding chapel, honeymoon, and bed after he’d carried me over the threshold, like a good Christian couple.)
“I guess I’m just confused,” but he relaxed. Comfortably, in that uncomfortable position, he even uncrossed his legs, but manspread like that, I could see that he was tight in the crotch again. The manly bulge in his underwear, and the possibility of him spilling his seed there, wastefully. I licked my lips.
“Huh, I suppose I can sympathize with you there.” I nodded, “I’ve found myself looking up at Him, and in that loincloth.”
“Why do they have to make him so muscular?”
“Exactly!” I laughed, “Jesus abs.” Shaking my head at the blasphemy, finally spoken out loud.
“And his chest.”
“Yes, I suppose he’s hot pecs in this one, and his arms are rather muscular as well.”
“You don’t think, whoever carved him might have been gay as well?”
There it is. The elephant in the room. “I don’t know, it’s possible that He was carved by a woman. We do woodworking as well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, clearly you’re insulted by the whole homosexual uh!”
“Huh!” I just found myself, across the end of the prayer walk. “Huh!” Holding his head, with my arms around it. Over his shoulders. His face shaking in my damp shirt, my heaving bra, and humping my crotch into his until he closed his legs.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sorry, I’m sorry.” My hat fell off. Backing away from his lap, he struggled to get his arms up from behind the bench, then gripped his crotch tightly. Grimacing, and shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”
He changed, let go, and got up. I put my hands up defensively, but he grabbed my wrists roughly, and pushed me back against the bench.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t want to say no, stop, don’t do this. I don’t want him to stop, I want this, and I feel like I deserve it for assaulting him, but it’s not as if I had a choice. I thought consciously about jumping his bone, one moment I was sitting there, looking at it, and then the next I was on his lap. Rutting against him like some animal in heat.
“No,” he let go, and backed up. His hands shaking, “I’m sorry.” He covered his face, and ran off. “God, I’m sorry!”
“I forgive you!” I ran after him, to the side gate. To the prayer walk, we technically own the woods around it as well, and I know the trails from maintaining them, but they’re not technically holy ground are they?
“Sebatian!” I grabbed the stick from behind the fence. Right next to the gate. “Stop, come back, you forgot this.” I held it up, weakly. Knowing that it might as well be a straw I was clutching at, but he did. He stooped, he looked back. He came back to me, and I backed through the gate. “Huh, you have to do this,” I ran it along the bars, like a jailer’s baton. “To control yourself?”
He nodded, swallowing, then he took a deep breath. Sighed, and turned around. Backed up to put his arms through the bars, for me to slide the pole behind his elbows. Locking them in so he could relax.
“Don’t touch yourself.” I pressed my face between the the bars, to whisper in his ear.
“Succubus.” He shook his head.
“Oh,” so I moved over to his other shoulder. “Huh, let me.” I felt through the bars, down the tight seat of his pants.
“No!”
“Huh, you can’t resist me, the temptation I know must be growing in your heart, until it feels like it’s going to explode. The pressure, the lust?”
“Uh, huh?”
“The sin, the debaucheries of sodomy. You thought you could run from it, escape it, in the light of god? You feel it on your face? That’s not the warmth of the sun, that’s the fires of hell, licking up your legs.” He squeezed them tight around my fingers, but he couldn’t stop my forcing them in deeper, harder, rubbing his nuts, until he was clamping my wrist, but I could reach up.
Feel the flap of his fly, then up the zipper to the top. Pick out the pull like a clitoris, and slowly lower it. “But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”
My favorite scripture, of course. I ran out of things to say, so I recited the Parable of the sower, from memory.
“AH AH AH AH!” I just held on, when he stopped struggling and started humping my fingers in his pants. 3 of them up against his hardness. Obscenely like the vagina dentata of his zipper’s teeth. “FUCK! Uhhh, fuck!” he relaxed, and I had to withdraw my hand, before he twisted it. Sliding down the bars to sit down. Still locked into that position that was somehow so uncomfortable, and made him feel so blissful.
Chaste, virginal, spilling his seed in his pants. “Huh!” I came around, through the gate, and squatted down. “Don’t worry about spilling your seed. I know that the youth minister teaches it’s about masturbation, and birth control, but it it isn’t.”
He looked up, eyes wide, and jaw dropped. “It isn’t?”
“No, Jesus said what it was about, in the same chapter. The seed is the Word of God, and he is the sower. Honestly, it never had anything to do with sex, and getting me pregnant.” I let out a little Freudian slip.
“So, you want to get pregnant?”
“Huh, I need a man.” I got up, and spread my legs, to clamp his between them in his lap again. “I suppose, I can settle for you, until you grow into a man. if you can handle your homosexual urges.”
“With your help, I think I can, but shouldn’t we wait until we’re married?”
“Is that a proposal?”
“I don’t know, I don’t have a ring or anything.”
“Well,” I kissed his forehead, and it was still hot, as if with a fever. “First you have to confess, and be forgiven, but that can wait until tomorrow. I’ll have to speak with your parents of course, but I’m sure I can get your father’s blessing.” If I have to suck him off to get it. “God, I’m horny.”
“Oh, can I do anything to help you with that?”
“You can try.” I got up, to unbutton my shorts. “Don’t get up, but keep struggling. You’re so sexy when your struggle.”
“Nh, like this?”
“Huh, yeah. Don’t try to fight it. You know what you want. I know what you want.” I turned around to bend over, and pull down my boxers with my gardening shorts. “Eat this, this is my body I’m giving to you. HUH!” I squirmed, and wiggled my ass, to dig his nose is deeper. “KISS MY ASS FAGGOT!” I hissed through my teeth, and spittle flew out to run down my lip like drool.
“Huh!” I sank down, and held onto my knees, but he obediently licked up, and started tonguing my butthole.
Who knows, he might get to sodomize me when he gets it up again.
I always wanted to try that…
;
Author
This is about guilt, and denial. Not necessarily Catholic Guilt, but the symbolism is at least familiar to most people. Regardless of faith, atheism, incels, internalized homophobes…
#Reluctance doesn’t really cover it, and I have to point out that #Tag was removed to make room for #Trans. Some people actually fetishize Chastities, Orgasm Denial, and Ruined Orgasms.
Sometimes, it’s to reconcile a childhood in an environment of Chasitity, Sexual Denial, and Ruining masturbation with GUILT. That’s what this is about, so all that dialog, disassociation to patterns of fairy rings, and beating around the bush were for a reason.
They’re supposed to wait until they’re married. He’s not supposed to even touch himself, and even feel guilty about the surplus semen leaking out, while he has nightmares about Jesus looking down on him. Naked, and helpless, with an embarrassing erection he dare not touch, or burn in hell.
So, their “Normal” is waiting for years, in her case Decades to touch a penis. From behind, through his underwear, and make it feel gay. (Or Lesbian to her.) When real normal people just fuck, and don’t feel guilty about it, because Jesus. Homophobia, racism, or being so vocally anti-feminist that a woman would cross the street to piss on them if they’re on fire.
#NotAllMen, but some men learn to appreciate holding it in until their balls feel like they’re about to burst. So, when it does, it feels like nothing else on Earth. In India, that’s part of Tantra. They wrote about it in the Kama Sutra for Drake to mistranslate into English.
In America, they call it “Simp,” or “Cuck,” or some other word that is meaningless to anyone other than virgins that can’t talk about anything except sex, as if experts. Don’t you believe it.
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