Tamed (10 page)

Still stroking the base, she covers the tip with her lips, sucking gently and flicking it with her tongue. I lean more weight against the door—my knees going weak. She removes her mouth, peels the foreskin back, and takes me fully in.

And I can’t help but moan. “Fuuuck.”

Her mouth is hot and wet and so tight, bright dots appear in the darkness of my closed lids. Slowly she increases the suction of her mouth, the speed of her rubbing palm—my hand buries in her hair and tightens.

Dee hums around me, and I beg, “Faster . . .” She grants my request and her head bobs quicker, dragging me closer with every pass of her mouth. I pant. “Dee . . . yes . . . gonna come . . .” She sucks me even tighter, and then I’m coming, groaning raggedly, gripping her hair in my fist—trying not to pull. As soon as she releases me, I sink all the way to the floor, breathing like I completed the New York marathon.

I reach for Delores—pull her up against my chest. I kiss her nose, both cheeks, and finally her mouth, thoroughly. “I’ll remember that for a long, long time.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

I take my helmet off and lock it onto my motorcycle. “No, I’m serious.”

Dee hasn’t gotten off the bike. “I’ll wait out here, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Come on—it’s halfway over already—I just have to drop off my envelope.”

“Have you never heard the saying, ‘As nervous as a whore in Church’?”

“
Knock it off with the self-deprecating comments. If that’s the standard, I should be sweating bullets. Let’s go.”

“Do I have to drink blood?”

“Only if you’re baptized.”

If you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re at St. Mary’s church. It’s Sunday—and on Sunday, I go to church, even if it’s only for the tail-end of the mass. I have a deeply held belief that something terrible will happen if I don’t.

Twelve years of Catholic school will do that to you.

I drag Dee into the vestibule. She steps carefully, like she’s walking into a haunted house.

A suited, gray-haired gentleman comes through the double doors carrying a brimming collection basket.
Perfect timing.
I slip my envelope in and bow my head as the priest’s voice echoes through the speakers from the main chamber, working up to the final blessing. Dee watches, copying my stance as she stands beside me. Before the priest is finished, a commotion of clattering feet coming up the stairs from the basement draws my attention. Through the side door, Sister Beatrice Dugan steps into the antechamber with a dozen Sunday school students in two lines behind her.

Sister B was my first sexual experience. Well . . . my first self-sexual experience. She was all of our firsts—the closest Drew and I have ever come to a three-way.

Wait, that last part is gross, forget I said that.

Anyway, puberty is a confusing time for a boy. Having a fuck-hot teacher who happens to be a nun made it more confusing. I got carried away when I first discovered the joys of masturbation. Unfortunately, I didn’t just “choke the chicken”—I literally strangled the sucker. That’s how, at thirteen years old, I ended up
diagnosed with CPS—Chafed Penis Syndrome. I don’t need to elaborate on that do I?

My mother may have bought into the doctor’s explanation that my CPS was caused by keeping a wet bathing suit on too long, but my father sure as hell didn’t. In one of our more tender conversations, he told me spanking the monkey was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was like electricity—God wouldn’t have given it to us if he didn’t want us to use it. But, like all things, moderation was key. I calmed down after that chat, and was able to engage in regular self-pleasure, without inflicting injury.

Sister B quiets the giggling kids with a look. Then with an Irish lilt that time hasn’t diminished, she says, “Matthew—how are you, m’boy?”

“Right as rain, Sister B.”

“Right as rain and yet still late for Mass? Tsk-tsk.”

I shrug. “Better late than never.”

She smiles. “I suppose you’re right, though offering a few Our Fathers as you pray for punctuality may be in order. I saw your parents at the early mass; they’re looking grand as always.”

I nod. Then I turn to Dee and say, “Delores, this is Sister Beatrice, my grade school teacher. Sister B, this is Delores Warren.”

Sister B greets her. “Pleased to meet you.”

Dee waves. “Hi.”

Sister Beatrice’s brow wrinkles. “You look uncomfortable, m’dear. Why is that?”

Dee fidgets. “I just . . . I’m not Catholic. Not even a little.”

Sister B pats her shoulder, and in a hushed voice tells her, “That’s quite all right. Neither was Jesus.”

When we get to Central Park, I take out my camera and get a few great shots of Dee by the fountain. I take some more nature-themed pictures of the leaves as they’re blowing down from the trees. Then Delores and I lay next to each other on a blanket, on a grassy patch, heated by the warm sun of the fall afternoon. And we trade questions—the random, inappropriate kind that are always fun and a great way to get to know a person.

“Have you ever been arrested?” Dee asks me as she plays with the buttons on my flannel shirt.

“Not yet. You?”

She smiles. “Arrested, but never convicted.” Then she tells me about the time she, her cousin, and Kate got caught breaking into their local roller-skating rink after hours and had to be brought home by the town sheriff. Her mother wasn’t thrilled.

“Have you ever had sex in a public place?” I ask, partially because I’m curious . . . and partially for future reference.

“Mmm . . . public place, yes—but I don’t think anyone actually saw us.”

I run my fingers through her hair, the sunlight accentuating the red highlights, making it more fiery than golden.

“Have you ever had sex on your motorcycle?” she asks. And I hope that’s for future reference too.

“Yes. It’s not as easy as you’d think. But, it’s something everybody should try at least once.” Then I ask, “What’s your favorite color? And how do you take your coffee?”

“I don’t have a favorite color—it changes, depending on my mood. And I don’t drink coffee. I try and stay away from caffeine, it’s bad for your skin.”

Dee is a foodie. She mentioned going to the farmers’ market in Brooklyn later, to stock up on fennel and lemongrass and some other shit I’ve only heard of in gourmet restaurants where
presentation is more important than taste. That’s not my idea of a great meal. But she swears her homemade granola doesn’t taste anything like rabbit food.

“Is everyone in your family devout Catholics?”

I chuckle. “Devout is kind of a strong word, but we all go to church.” I think about it a little more, then say, “Well, all of us except Drew. Besides weddings and baptisms, he hasn’t willingly stepped inside a church since we were kids.”

She turns on her stomach, resting her chin on my chest. “What made him the black sheep? Did he find a six-six-six tattoo on his scalp or something?”

I smile, because I’m sure several of our ordained teachers held that very same opinion about him.

“No. Drew and God had a falling out when we were about ten years old. That was the year Steven’s mother, Janey, was diagnosed with breast cancer. The parents sat us all down, told us she was sick, that she’d be getting treatment from the doctors, and that we had to pray as hard as we could that the treatment would work.

“Drew didn’t take the news well. He couldn’t understand why, with all the dickheads in the world, God had to afflict someone as nice as Janey with a terminal illness. Anyway, she did chemo and eventually went into remission. But when we were in high school, the cancer came back hard and she was gone within a few months. She was the first person I knew who died. By the time I was born, my grandparents were long gone. My aunts and uncles are still around, but Janey went at age thirty-nine, which, even as a kid, seemed young to me.”

Delores’s mouth turns down in sympathy.

“But the real kicker came at her funeral. Steven’s father, George, was just wrecked. And, unfortunately, useless. That left all the heavy lifting to Steven. He made the big decisions, he played host to the
guests at the three-day wake. He was sixteen years old—Alexandra and he had started dating a few months before Janey passed.”

I watch a flock of three sparrows, flying with precise synchronization as I continue the trek down memory lane.

“So, on the day of the funeral and burial, there’s an early viewing—just for immediate family. Steven wanted to be there first, to have some private time with his mom. Drew and I went with him for moral support. And the priest at St. Mary’s at the time was Father Gerald—he was a real old-school, arrogant, prick of a priest, you know? He comes in where the three of us are sitting, and he tells Steven his mother died because she wasn’t pure. That if she had been holier, God would have saved her. Then he said her death was also a sign of our lack of faith. That if we had believed more, God would have answered our prayers.”

Dee’s mouth falls open. “That’s terrible. What did Steven say?”

“Nothing. He was too shocked, too grief-stricken to say anything. Drew, on the other hand, has always been quick with a comeback. So he gets up, gets right in Father Gerald’s ugly face and says, ‘Fuck you, Father, and the donkey you rode in on. Isn’t there an altar boy somewhere you should be trying to ply with sacrificial wine, so you can get laid?’ ”

The corners of Dee’s mouth turn up. “The more I hear about this Drew guy, the more I’m starting to like him.”

I nod. “Father Gerald turns, like, frigging purple and is just about ready to smack Drew a good one when John, Anne, George, and my parents come in. So Gerald holds off, only to try and get Drew booted out of school the next day. He said if he didn’t apologize, he’d have him expelled. Although John didn’t like what the priest had said, he leaned on Drew to apologize for being disrespectful. But he wouldn’t give—refused to say sorry to such ‘an evil fuck.’

“And then, Anne started to cry. She sobbed about how if
Drew got expelled it would ruin his life, and where did she go wrong. That’s when Drew caved—’cause he just couldn’t handle making his mother cry.

“He wrote a letter of apology to Father Gerald and jumped through every hoop the old bastard gave him for penance. That’s why Drew can quote the Bible—word for word—because Gerald made him copy it, down to the last punctuation mark, every day after school. Anyway, by the time his punishment was lifted, Drew was convinced Catholicism was just a racket and that God doesn’t give a shit about any of us.”

Dee tilts her head and regards me thoughtfully. Then she asks, “But you don’t believe that?”

“No, I don’t. I asked Sister Beatrice if what Father Gerald had said was true. That if we had had more faith, would God have answered our prayers.”

“What did she say?” Dee asks.

In my best Irish accent, I reply, “She said, ‘Matthew, m’boy, the Lord answers every prayer . . . but sometimes, the answer is no.’ ”

Dee thinks that over for a moment. Then she says, “Well . . . that kind of sucks.”

I grin. “That’s what I said too.”

Then I wonder aloud, “What about you? Did you grow up religious?”

“Yeah, you could say that. My mother’s always been a spiritual grazer. A taste of Mormonism here, a scrap of Protestant there, but nothing ever stuck. She was interested in Kabala way before Madonna made it all the rage. These days she’s into Buddhism—worked out well for Tina Turner.”