Hush was speaking to me in the Old Shack. Now, the Old Shack is a run-down strip club that we go to think. I know that sounds kind of crazy, but it’s not much of a strip club, come to think of it. They needed strippers so bad that they even hired Mikey, our town crossdresser, to play a woman.
The internet, though I love it, really destroyed the local stripper economy and made our local lives a lot less stimulating. I started to think that maybe leaving was not so bad. After all, here I was tipping my last dollar to an old man playing a woman that appeared to be pregnant.
In fact, that was his theme, Hot Pregnant Lolli will Lick Your Day Away. That was so wrong in so many ways that I stripped my dollar from him, not knowing if I felt double-crossed or offended.
“Now I know you love Licking Lolli here, but are you listening to me?” Said Hush with peanuts spewing from his moth.
“I would if you didn’t look like a rabid squirrel.”
Ignoring me, Hush continued, “Seriously, I heard that crossdressers are not gay.”
“Oh, shit, Mickey is not gay. He was hitting on widow Humperdick every morning, remember?”
Hush looked up to the heavens and seemed to get some kind of message from God, though I doubt it. Then he spitted out what seemed to be wisdom, “Yes, yeah, you are right. Old dick humper would do her gardening every day … I forgot about that.”
“Oh, would you stop with the fucking peanuts. They stink. You are spitting them everywhere.”
Hush stared at me as if processing some kind of math problem. I continued, “I think he was more interested in the flowery dress she was wearing though, so maybe he was not hitting on her.”
From my understanding, that is how the story went. Every day, Humperdick would wear these large dresses. Now, I am not against large women but to say Humperdick was large is like asking the President to tell the truth. She was so huge that she would wear one of the beepers, the ones they put on trucks and bulldozers, so that when she backed up, you knew what was coming. I think it was to discourage her goat from hitting her phat ass. He has an ass-hitting fetish of some kind, so he got the name, Ass Terminator.
Now, I am not kidding. She is a proud, large woman, and she is fine being a “fat dyke” as she put it. She sees her largeness as a statement, she says, a statement that women can be just as “big” as men. The beeper is a reminder of her power or, what is it? I think some shit about her empowerment over men. I think she is weird, but who am I to talk? I am sitting here watching a crossdressing dude get naked.
I continued, “He would go and fetch dresses from her, and she liked him. But I think she likes him because he is a dude that dresses like a lady. He likes her because he gets ladies clothes that fit him.”
“Yeah, and she has the little tea cup poodle, um, Puddles, remember, that she sticks between her tits when she goes around.” Hush said.
“She D-I-D once,” I said looking at him somber.
This time, Hush got my message. For someone that is about as smart as a goat mid-smacking someone’s ass, he had moments of quick wittedness.
“Oh, no. It died!”
“Yes,” I said as if I lost a good friend.
“How?” I loved that little guy!
“It suffocated. From what Mickey told me, and the old farmer confirmed it. She put the little guy between her tits and forgot about it. She had the “goat crisis” that day. I think her goat got out and was terrorizing the Benson kids. They were doing some water challenge at the pool in bikinis and that was too much for Ass Terminator.
“You mean those little bratty twin girls that always stick their tongues out?”
“Yeah, them. Well, they are sweet to me. That’s because you are gross, always throwing up peanuts and blowing your nose without tissue.”
We call this blowing your nose redneck style. While walking, you tilt your head forward and to the side, close one nostril with a finger, and blow out like hell. The boogers fly out.
I am beginning to think that redneck style is really environment friendly. If rednecks were smarter, we could make a fortune and save the environment at the same time. Instead of being the flyover people, people would want to be like us.
Now, as I understand it, the two little girls were walking by Hush. We had a tail wind or what we call and ass wind that day, so two huge gobs of snot smacked the ladies in their faces. From that day forward, Hush was the enemy. The flailing tongues were the serpent’s warning, “We are cute but stay away.”
“They were just boogers. I said I was sorry.”
“This is why you are single. Only you like your own boogers. It’s kind of smelling your fart when you think of it.”
I leaned forward and peered at Hush. “Remember these words of wisdom, whatever guys like to do, girls hate, whether it’s blowing noses, farting, or dating. Do what makes you miserable and they will be happy.”
“What about the dog?” Hush said, ignoring my statement.
“Well, it was running around trying to hit the girls in the ass. Humperdick had to call animal control. They took two hours getting there. The goat even got inside the Benson house.”
“Oh, cool, get those little brats!”
“Cut it out, Hush, they are just kids. They must have been scared. Goats can be quite intimidating. Anyway, the girls ran in and forgot to close the door all the way. The good news was that Ass Terminator lost interest in hitting asses and decided to lick the wedding cake that Mrs. and Mr. Benson were making for a wedding the next day.
And so the story goes, by day’s end, the police, animal control, Mickey, dressed as Licking Lolli, along with Humperdick converged on the scene.”
The police, confused, arrested Mickey because they thought he was the pervert chasing the kids in his Licking Lolli costume. Luckily, I was there the whole time and explained that if Mickey was a pervert, he was a really nice pervert. He wasn’t into young girls, only large women’s clothes. They realized that they could not arrest a goat with an ass-hitting fetish and left. But they did give Humperdick a citation. Humperdick and Ass Terminator were disturbing the peace.”
“What about Puddles, damnit?”
“I am getting to it. See that is why I will miss this place. It’s so, well, fucked up, and I like fucked up. Humperdick was so exhausted that she went home and fell asleep. Puddles died in what was a big puddle, a tsunami of mammoth breasts.”
Hush, looking like he was going to cry, “That is horrible.”
“Wait, it gets worse” or more interesting depending on how you look at it. “She forgot where she put the dog, so remember, she put out posters everywhere. See” I pointed to the wall next to where Mickey was twerking in a G-String.
“Yeah, I remember, we even did the search, all of us, for that dog.”
“Honestly, you got to lay off the peanuts, Hush. How can you forget? So after a week, she noticed that she did not smell very good, so she went to the ER.”
Now, poor Hush looked as if he was going to vomit and cry.
“Stop it! It was not the dog they found, right?”
“No, they found a pile of shit between her breasts. Apparently, the dog wiggled out at some point and ended up in Pennsylvania with a blind black dude that thinks he’s a white supremacist. You cannot blame the poor guy. He is around a bunch of assholes, I guess, they played a trick on him all these years. Come to think of it, that is worse that the ‘Puddles’ Story’ and the ‘Goat Crisis’ put together.”
“So the dog is living there now? You asshole,” Hush hits me. “Why doesn’t Humperdick get it back?”
“Well, it turns out that the dude had a real awakening. He was trained as a seeing-eye dog.”
“You mean the guy?” Said Hush stupidly.
“No, you idiot. The dog! I said, dog. It’s a long story, but he figured out that he is black and now is a much better person. Humperdick did not have the heart to take Puddles back. Humperdick is a good woman. She has a heart as big as her ass.”
Hush grew more excited and looked at me first perplexed and then as if I was the damn Easter bunny.
“There is a moral in this, don’t you see? He said. “You, Frank, have to escape the tits. You have to shit on them, and run away, free yourself from their warm, succulent but deadly caress.”
I could not figure out if Hush was serious or psychotic but thought that if he grew up with smart and rich parents, he could have been a college professor and not a shit scraper.
The next thing he said changed everything.
“I want to go with you. Let’s have this adventure together.”
I never thought of that. Why not look at this as an adventure with my best friend.
Suddenly, I did not feel sad. I could always come back here. What the fuck was I afraid of? I had my best friend, even if we run into a black white supremacist, white supremacists, a nasty goat, or a brother that I am afraid to meet.
I looked over at my best friend, put out my hand and said, “You have a deal. Let’s do this together.”
To be continued in Series E
Please follow the story as I write it here. Please comment and give advice; I will write according to suggestions and comments.
The Cult of Virginity has three primary sources: The early Christian Church, birth control, and the transference of property.
1: The Early Christian Church
My long-standing theory about human sexuality—and the Church’s erroneous teachings about it–has now been proven valid.
I was reading some theology today that dovetailed with my theory about human sexuality and God. This is my theory: We best know God through interaction with others. This idea originates from a sociology course I took in college, which taught that how others respond to us shapes our identity, our very sense of self. So I take that idea one step further and assert that we know God best–come closest to Him–through interaction with others, be it through family, or everyday contact, or at church, work, etc. Even monks and nuns, who are devoted to the religious life, live in communities. Our very lives are prayers.
Now if my theory holds true, then we also know God, come closer to Him, through physical intimacy with a partner, or even oneself. I turned to the Church fathers for theology on asceticism (i.e., practicing strict self-denial, including an abstinence from all sex) and celibacy (literally, the state of not being married).
A 4th Century monk by the name of Jovinianus argued that virginity–meaning never having had full sexual intercourse—and celibacy were not superior to marriage, which early Christian ascetics rejected as, at best, a pagan ideal, and, at worst, a distraction.
Specifically, the idea that asceticism and celibacy were preferable to marriage—and certainly fornication–arose from early Christians (followers of The Way) who reacted against the Ancient Roman, pagan notion that the individual was of no consequence, that one lived to serve society and only society and that marriage was in high service to society because one had offspring, which contributed to society itself. This was one’s fate, and this social ideal came from the Ancient Greeks, particularly Socrates.
These early Christians went in the opposite direction and renounced marriage and sex, asserting the primacy of the individual, as taught by the Hebrews in Jewish scripture.
Jovinianus reasserted the notion that one need not be literally solitary and individualistic to best know God; rather, one could marry and have children and worldly cares and still be close to God. One could even indulge in luxuries–be they food, wine, or nice clothing–since these gifts came from God. St. Jerome freaked out. He called Jovinianus a heretic. Notably, to prove Jovinianus wrong, St. Jerome transposed two key passages of Hebrew scripture when translating it into the Vulgate Bible. He placed marriage as an institution ordained by God after The Fall. In reality, marriage and sexual contact occurred between Adam and Eve before The Fall according to Hebrew scripture. Jovinianus was excommunicated and Saint Jerome’s teachings became Church orthodoxy. Interesting how that happened.
What’s the point? All of this means that, as argued, when we root experience in the flesh–which is one of its primary purposes–we know God through others, even through sex, either alone or with a partner. Sex is, therefore, not wrong, dirty, disordered, or intrinsically evil, as long as it is done between two mutually consenting adults. After all, it feels good. Really good. That’s why people have sex. If sex were excruciatingly painful, the human race would be greatly diminished in number.
2: Birth Control
Now on to the second principle origin of the Cult of Virginity: birth control. Until quite recently, birth control was unavailable. The best way to avoid getting pregnant was not to have sex. The earliest form of birth control, aside from plant abortives, was the condom, which was fashioned out of a sheep’s intestine. Supposedly, the condom was invented in France, hence its name, the “Frenchy.” These early condoms were unreliable and expensive. Thus, the best way not to get pregnant was not to have sex. (People did anyway, lots of it.)
3: Transference of Property
Money dictated a need for true physical virginity. According to traditional English law, all property went to the next male heir. Preferably, that heir was a male son. Were there no male heir, the property went to the next closest male relative, like a brother or cousin. Women could not inherit property. Period. A wealthy man’s worst nightmare was to marry a young woman and, eighteen years later, have his wife’s bastard son knock on the door and demand part or all of his mother’s husband’s property. Victorian English literature is full of this kind of thing. I know: I read a great deal of it in college. The bastard-son idiom was more than prevalent in English novels, as were impoverished widows and ineligible daughters. So we see that the third main contributing factor to the Cult of Virginity was money.
Thus, the Cult of Virginity is not only bogus but entirely based on man-made (literally) moral code, practicality, and greed.
 Interestingly, Jesus never uttered a single word condemning sexuality, even at the well at Bethesda, where He merely observed that none of the woman’s male partners were her husbands.
 Cf. Elaine Pagels’s Adam and Eve and the Serpent: Sex and Politics in Early Christianity, Chapter 4
 English erotic Victorian literature often makes reference to the Frenchy.
 Jane Austen heavily favored this narrative, whereby poor daughter’s of widows made good marriages based on their virtue.
I met you there, or was it here—on my screen? Your eyes fight through the façade of a painted face, yet the brushed-on exaggerations make you more vivid, more real, and a momentary inspiration for a lost and wandering mind.
You smile at me or is it the camera that you smile at? No. It’s easier to smile at the hidden world through a lens that is there because you let it be so close to you. You own it, but in using it, the world owns you. Though it does not judge you, it’s the gateway to a world that will do so in haste, for a laugh or for the many obscenities that trolls will lavish upon you.
Maybe you will get a compliment? Anything really meaningful; I think I must have hit pause by mistake in a somehow virtual binding struggle to freeze time and make your moment mine –to make you part of me. You are on my screen anyway, remember? You are now an artifact to be downloaded and uploaded for our personal viewing pleasure forever.
We often paint our faces to look older when we are young, and then we paint them to look younger when we are old. But everyone is on time-lapse here. You are there for a moment; your whole life in a database, on a screen, in a fantasy, it’s all in-between … the fact that you must have existed once on a thumb drive only to be deleted by the very finger that uploaded you a brief moment ago.
Though you seem so real, dancing in my office, on my bed, in the coffee shop and forever in my head, you are as if an angel, or maybe a devil, too. Intel and even AMD are not into playing moral favorites that human drama brings.
But never fear, a hacker may be able to resurrect your virtual self after finding your dead world in a recycling pile. He will surely upload you when you were most original but only if you look older when younger or look younger when older. You wanted to be ageless, so whether an angel or devil, he gets to play God. You get a kind of IT immortality. I’d take it even if naked.
When we are young, we wear less clothing to look older, and when we are older we wear more clothing to look young. We are always hiding “me” in the midst of searching for thee. We are caught in a search engine with the term “who am I?”
I asked Siri that question, and she told me my name and then said that “since we are friends,” she “gets to call me Jimmy.” She took it upon herself to name me a name she has heard before. Jimmy is 8, and, I, 48, but it makes no difference to a computer confused with only the order zeros and ones bring. Whether I am a man or a boy makes little difference to the genderless, ageless, sexless, and emotionless “girl” I have somehow befriended. Yet she is a constant in my life; I find her on every device beckoning me with her intelligent-less hyperbole.
But I think I just described a writer, a dancer, a producer, a photographer, and, yes, even a hacker. There is a kind of determined persistence in showing what is most horrible and beautiful in this world, so much so that the mundane has an ever-present feeling of security to it, an artful appeal.
Now this whole incident had me really shook up as I headed toward my job on the farm. It did not help that the old Fartster, a pet name I called my truck, was fuming me to death in the cab, and I sure the hell did not feel like crawling on the ground and using muffler tape over the long-gone exhaust.
How could I just leave on some trip looking for my damn brother? Shit! This is all bullshit.
I guess it was fitting that I would be working in bullshit come to think of it. Maybe that summed up my life. Why do I care? I thought. I work on a shitty farm, have a shitty truck, and what girl is going to date me like this? I had to face it. I pulled the truck to the side of the barn and peered at the fucked up guy in the rearview mirror. He peered back at me, and though it was my own reflection, I always felt a bit nervous looking at myself.
You sir, are a loser. Damn it! You hear me! The image shook as if heartbroken by my revelation. I felt bad saying it but was interrupted by Hush who was yelling at me from the barn.
“Hey Frank, come on. You got to help Star get lucky today. It’s his big day.”
Oh shit, I thought. Today was the day I had to help inseminate Starlett with Star’s sperm.
“Yeah, I am coming hold on.” I began walking toward Hush with a rather humiliating frown on my face. Who wants this damn job, I thought.
“What’s up with the drama Frank? Why so glum? You get to shoot a porno today,” said Hush taunting.
“Shut up Hush. I am not in the mood. I really have to talk to you today about what happened at the rectory.”
Hush laughed. He was never one to be serious unless he had a good business idea. “Nothing good happens to a hetero guy at the “rectum” or rectory as you call it. There is a reason they call it that. They don’t get any help with insemination down there.”
“Not today, Hush. Don’t be so fucking sacrilegious.”
Soon the familiar scent of hay, shit and piss filled my lungs, and for the first time, I thought how I would miss that smell if I were to leave.
Then I blurted out, “She wants me to leave, Hush. Can you believe it? My mom wants me to find brother?”
“Shit, really? How does the rectum fit into this?”
“Father Chirpkins told me, and now I have to speak with mother.”
“Chirpkins?” Hush laughed, “Birds in someone’s rectum pecking at shit is always uncomfortable.”
“Please stop it Hush! This is serious.”
Hush forced a straight face. “Okay, sorry but are they serious? Your mom wants you to leave?”
“Yeah!” I said shaking my head much more than needed. “That’s what I am saying.”
We were interrupted by the neighing of an over-excited horse. There was Star in all his glory, jumping around and prancing. He was waiting to get out where Starlett was.
“Suddenly, Hush grew very serious and pointed at Star. “Hey, look Frank, now that is what I call the fifth leg, huh? He’s packing thirty inches and you get to give him a modified hand job.” Hush giggled uncontrollably.”
“Hush, damn it! This is not funny. I am dead serious. Of course it has a big dick. It’s a horse! And I don’t need this shit right now.”
Hush put up his hands like a traffic cop, “Frank! Frank! Please, okay, okay, I understand. We will settle all of this after we shoot our horsy porno okay? After work, we will get a drink. You don’t have to do anything, right? Don’t overreact. Let’s talk about it, but seriously if you don’t concentrate, we could get hurt with this two-thousand pound horse. It may bang us.” Hush looked at Frank with a serious look while thrusting his hips and neighing.
Despite my own mood, he made me lighten up. Yeah, I don’t have to do anything. I can think about it with my best friend. I grinned at him. “Now that’s why you are my best friend even if you are a pervert.”
Hush seemed to pay no attention continuing to prance around the barn thrusting his hips like an excited stallion.
Unknown to both of us, Hush’s thrusting motions and neighing seemed to turn on our Star here. The feisty stallion forgot all about Starlett and zeroed in on Hush, his new love. Soon Star began to follow behind Hush, prancing in a similar motion.
Now, I have never been all that religious, but maybe this was God’s way to screw over Hush for being so sacreligious. But I noticed and got the shit scared out of me. The look on my face was not missed by my perverted friend. Simultaneously, just as I let out an “Aw, oh my God Hush!” Hush yelled, “Oh, fuck!” And went to run.
Sadly for Hush, he managed to slip on some shit and fell down. Maybe this was his lucky day, more than one way. Because he was lying down, Star could only tower over him and could not get his hooves around Hush’s body. Star just stood over a fallen Hush, thrusting.
As for the “fifth leg,” let me not even go there. Let’s just say that the leg got some much-needed traction, and though Hush was saved from too much traction, being dry humped by a horse can be pretty humiliating.
Now, I managed to calm Star down in part because let’s say he was already spent. I guess I learned something new about male horses that I did not think about much before. They can be just as quick as guys can be.
I know it’s cruel, but I wish I was more quick-witted and recorded the whole thing with my phone. After the danger of it was over, the damn incident was hilarious. I am sure I could have made a fortune on YouTube before the Safety-Moderator-Family-No-Fun-At-All-People pulled it down.
Between getting covered in shit and horse seamen, Hush had to shower and get changed. Besides, now we would have to wait a while before Star was recharged.
The minute I saw Hush returning, I could not help it. I burst out laughing.
“Now, you see, all my problems with money could have been solved if I just remembered to record the Hush-Star incident …”
“Oh, shut up. I could have been killed!
I could only laugh. I guess, as my past friend told me, if it’s not cruel, it’s not funny. I just could not help but laugh at his expense.
Soon, he too, started to laugh. That is what I like about Hush. He can laugh at himself, even when being hosed by a stallion’s fifth leg.
After an hour, Star had no problem performing for Starlett, and she did not seem to mind either. I guess all males are the same way, whether we have fur, hooves, or giant fifth legs.
I think I learned something today while leaving the farm and preparing to meet Hush to discuss Mom. You got to find the humor in life, even at your expense.
Maybe I am a kind of loser. Maybe that is true, but I have a good friend that makes me laugh. I guess that’s more than what some people have, but I did have the video after all. The good farmer had a camera in the barn to record the whole insemination thing.
I kept that recording because I wouldn’t want the old farmer to see what happened. You never know how such a recording can come back to haunt you.
Besides, I have more serious things to think about.
To be continued in Series D
Please follow the story as I write it here. Please comment and give advice; I will write according to suggestions and comments.
Normally, I am not awoken by my mother pounding on my door, but she was sobbing,
“It’s not worth it …”
“Oh mom!” I yelled but with a son’s tenderness, “I fell asleep! What time is it?”
I opened the door to see my crying mother. This was uncomfortable for me. She was not the overly crying type. Usually, her over obsession toward things she loved would temper her sobbing.
“What is the matter with you?” I said.
“Dear, I want you to meet Father Chirpins. We talked, and you know he is a social worker . . .”
I interrupted, “Why? Is this … is this about what happened earlier? I … Jesus mother, what do you think? I don’t want to see a shrink in priest’s cloths. That’s the worst kind.”
“He is knowledgeable and kind …”
“He tweets like a bird. Hence ‘father Chirpins.’ Besides I cannot keep from laughing at him. And what should we talk about?”
Mom stood with her mouth tight. Her eyes looked larger than usual through the panes of her glasses. For the first time, I could see that her eyes were scared and her mouth concerned. She always did that before confessing. Usually, she was not the one to be quite for long. This time, she stayed quite.
“What is it mother?”
“I want you to go. I spoke with him.” She was tearing up now.
I felt anger and embarrassment, “About me … masturbating?”
“Oh stop it, Frank Julius,” her mind in too much thought to finish my name. She went on, “You know how I feel about THAT and our faith, but we can talk tomorrow.”
Before I could respond, she cut me off and waived me to dinner and then to bed in one cumbersome sentence, “You will have dinner and go to meet him at 8:00 am. I told him my feelings, my plan for you but felt it best coming from him. Yes …” looking at her hand as if it were her other son, “It’s better if he tells you.” And she walked away.
I laid on my bed and could not sleep much. I knew Mom was serious. I knew she meant business and something told me to play the good son. Okay, as embarrassing and humiliating as it is, I will go and see Big Bird Chirpins, I thought.
Before I knew it my legs were walking towards the familiar childhood Church. Just behind the modest house of God hid the rectory, as if something secret, and I could not help feel, as blasphemous as it was, that I was going in to get some illegal or nasty porn while in mid-daylight. I looked around, as guilty as hell and told myself, Frank, just get through this and go to the farm.
There I sat at the rectory office table waiting for the familiar priest to come in. I stared at the shelf full of good books and the many, many Bibles of all ages. Just above the dark mahogany bookshelf, were the Lord’s Ten Commandments, all in a straight line, as if sin happened in an orderly fashion.
Just as I got to “Though Shall Not Commit Adultery,”something huge and wet started caressing my right ear and the side of my face. I jump up and turned toward the mammoth-licking object only to find myself face to face with an enormous Great Dane.
“Ah!!!” I yelled and this scared the normally mundane and gentle-spirited animal into combat mode.
The tongue retreated but the fangs rushed forward. The sweet whimpering of the loving beast became the growl of a ferocious loin. I was a little girl again, if I were ever one. I cried a girly screech and bolted to the nearest door only to find that I shut myself in a small room, maybe the entrance to Hell, and locked the door. I was saved, but I heard the beast’s breathing on the other side.
“Oh, thank you Mother Mary Jesus!”
I then became aware that I wasn’t alone. I heard a commotion behind me, and the combination of that and the breathing at the door made me freeze and, I sniffed … shit my pants? I stood still until whatever was behind me spoke.
“Dear son,” came chirping but godly voice behind me, almost intimate, “What scares you so about this place, this world?”
I fell on my knees, “Oh God, it licked me and scared the life out of me. It’s so huge, like the devil I swear.”
“What … licking … are you talking about, what Evil, son?”
I started to get my wits about me as I knelt on the floor. Still I was too afraid and shaken to look at the Godly entity. This God had a familiar chirping sound, and I thought, Hey, God, you sound just like Father Chirpins.
Then it came to me that it was Father Chirpins. I was not in heaven or Hell but rather in his bathroom, and I did not shit my pants; he took a crap on the toilet. I must have rushed into his toilet during mid-defecation.
I tried to gain my composure. “Oh, gosh Father I am sorry. I felt a bit of urgency coming on, and I rushed in, but your dog scared me.”
I turned around to face him but kept my eyes on the ground. I was as red as a Red Delicious apple.
Father put his hand on my shoulder and my eyes did not have to move up that much to see the half man, half bird examining me with a tilted head and with humor enough to put me at ease.
He looked at me with such interest that I started to fear I was a worm and he was making the decision whether or not to devour me.
If he did devour me, I would have accepted it at that moment. Instead, I found myself sitting back in his office chair while my ear was being randomly French kissed by his girl dog “Lickins” as he called her.
Father reassured me that Lickins was harmless, that is if I let her lick my ear and didn’t “yell” at her. But the whole event was awkward. There was a sinless man, a good judge eyeing me and a large beast licking my ear. What could I do but tolerate all of it.
“My son,” said Father, “your mother was here yesterday and was quite distraught. We spent much time talking.”
Between the chirping at each “S” and “H” and the occasional and overpowering lapping sound in my right ear, I interpreted that mother was upset.
I rushed in, “Father, I am not into sex with cookie-loving puppet monsters or any child-loving puppets whatsoever. I … I…was looking at something else …”
There was that curious look again from Chirpins. He attentively eyed my soul as Lickins tried to wrestle it from me. I was starting to get this. It was a kind of enhanced interrogation that involved licking and chirping. I really wanted to run out of the place.
“Son, let’s not talk about less important sin. Puppet love does not even make the top 1000. We have to deal with the larger half, you see. Your mother … has a mission for you, and I want you, Frank, to take me very seriously. She has asked me to tell you to leave home.”
I jumped forward in shock, “Why?” I mean how will she live?”
“As she has for all these years. We will see to her. Her journey will concern us. She wants you to leave the nest.”
How would mother get on? What about my job? I didn’t make enough to support myself? I was angry.
I got up, pointing my finger at him. “Father, am I being turned out? Are you, a man of God throwing me away? Is she?”
Chirpins looked at me patiently. He was not the stern type. He continued to examine me. He pecked at my soul searching for vulnerability.
He then asked, “What you should want in this life is to furnish the next. There is no throwing away of a human soul.”
He paused. I got the message and sat back down.
“Frank. Listen. I want you to listen to me. For one moment, I want you to want me to be your Father. No words, just listen.”
“Okay, Father. I will listen.”
“As is with God and with life, I cannot reveal all. Some I know and cannot tell and some things I don’t know. But your mother has given me a mission and God has given me the other end of that mission. You are to leave the house and go and find your brother. You noted this to your mother.”
I nodded with my hands in my face.
“She said that you would not seek your father, out of anger, but we will address that later. You are to seek the closest part of you.
For you, brother means your sibling; for me it means the bond of love between people. To you, father means Dad, and to me Dad means God. Things sway differently depending on how the light presents it.”
I protested, “But how … the money?”
“Frank!” Said father loudly but with tenderness. “Remember? You are to listen. You lived your life your way, but are you happy?”
“Yeah! Very happy.”
Then something odd happened. The good Father looked at the sky, said a brief prayer, stared me down as if we were two cocks in a fight, and said,
“Father!” I said startled.
“Bullshit!” He said again trembling as if it was the first time he sinned in forty years. He continued,
“I am not as naïve as you think I am. I know what you did in that room, and it’s not about the sex act or the masturbation. Maybe you like cookie-loving puppet monsters? Maybe you like dogs licking your ears? “He smiles and pauses,” but you are lost and lost sheep can beckon to wolves.
You are a man. I know that. You think I have no sexuality? You think it’s easy for me to keep vows? Oh, how we ignore the crosses others carry! It is not, and sometimes I fail, but do you know why I am here? Is it the love of Jesus on the cross?”
I stay silent and peer at him thougtfully. Here he confesses, is nervous, and seems to be apologetic to God.
“No, I am here because I have a passion to help people, not the Church. The Church is the vehicle toward my selfish acts: to help people. But it’s a better kind of selfish. I am happy when you are happy. You are not.”
Still stunned, I ask, “What do you want me to do?”
“Your mother has been studious in her faith, and it’s not about her or anyone else being hypocritical. It’s about commitment. She is committed to God and to you. You see, you and God are on the same plain, at this moment. You give me the wrong answer now. It’s not what I want you to do.”
“But Father you just said …”
“I know what I said. Let me repeat this, “hypocritical.” I have given you the first direction, and it is up to you to complete it. You are expected to leave next week Friday. Go see to your mother, and I will be back to bid you farewell.”
To be continued in Series C
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