Copyright (c) 1997   BillyG.   ALL Rights Reserved.

		  This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit
		  without the written permission of the author.  This story
		  may be freely distributed with this notice attached.  The
		  author may be contacted through hayden@mindless.com



						  SISTER MARY JOSEPH 

										by BillyG


			   How is it that seemingly unlikely people end up in
		  unanticipated sexual intimacy?  I mean, what are the forces,
		  the precipitating factors that contribute to this improbable
		  union?  For instance, how does it happen that an older woman
		  and a younger man - the friend of her son perhaps - end up
		  entangled?  Or in-laws?  Or, in my case, with a nun?

			   I suppose that some of the necessary predilection would
		  at least include the right temperament.  But that's one of
		  those true-but-trivial positions. Necessary, to be sure, but
		  hardly sufficient.  Think about it: the mere presence of an
		  erection for example, coupled with a horny disposition
		  hardly insures much of anything happening.  As a case in
		  point, I spent several years of my young life hanging out in
		  that uncomfortable space, constantly armed and ready with
		  nowhere to go.

			   No, desire by itself isn't enough.  More's needed.  A
		  physical connection coupled with a temporal connection might
		  add to the stew of spontaneous generation.  Yes, there
		  *have* been those times when, by good fortune and presence,
		  the barriers of improbability have been breached.  It had
		  happened to me a time or two, but not as often as I might
		  have wished.  No, *that's* not enough.  There's a huge
		  difference between conventional, voluntary proximity and
		  reluctant, involuntary closeness.

			   So, given the mix of sufficient predisposing
		  personalities, however hidden, coupled with a serendipitous,
		  forced physical proximity, unexpected shifts might occur.
		  At least, that's the way it happened with me.

			   I wasn't thinking of any of this at the time I was
		  thrown together with a nun.  I didn't even have a secret
		  letch for nuns; they were far down on my list of
		  masturbation fantasies.  Oh, in the seventh grade I had an
		  attractive young nun who'd taken a kindly interest in my
		  reading skills and I'd briefly wondered what she looked like
		  under those long, black robes.  But it hadn't been planted
		  in my libido as a major jack-off fantasy.  So when I'd
		  accepted a two-day charter to deliver a 35-foot sloop to the
		  British Virgins, I hardly blinked when I was unexpectedly
		  asked if I'd take along a Sister Mary Joseph as a passenger.

			   I wondered briefly if all nuns were called Sister Mary
		  Joseph?  I vaguely recalled having a Latin teacher by that
		  name.  But I remember about as much of that teacher as I did
		  the Latin that was force fed into my reluctant adolescent
		  mind.

			   "Sure.  Be glad for the company," I replied to the
		  charter manager. He rarely asked for favors. I thought he
		  was a straight shooter and besides, I owed him.

			   An hour later, as I was finishing stowing my gear and
		  provisions for the two-day sail, Mike, the guy who'd
		  arranged this ferry job, pulled up in his jeep with the
		  gaily-colored canvas top and tooted his horn.  A black-robed
		  woman in traditional, I mean old-fashioned, nun's attire
		  climbed out.  I saw a flash of black-stockinged calf as she
		  lighted.  Shading her eyes with her hand, she surveyed the
		  length of the small sloop, her eyes ending with me.  I
		  smiled and waved to come aboard.  She waved back, turned and
		  said something to Mike who in turn, waved good-by and spun
		  off.

			   She picked up a small black bag and walked to the
		  gangplank where I stood ready to assist her.  What little I
		  could see of her face, I guessed she was about my age,
		  middle thirties or so.  As I extended my hand to help her
		  step aboard, I smiled at our contrast, she covered
		  head-to-toe in black and me, wearing nothing more than a
		  faded pair of ancient Pusser's sailing shorts.

			   Even though there was a slight cooling breeze, she was
		  perspiring, not surprising given the intensity of the August
		  sun in the Caribbean. And it was early morning.  It was
		  going to get a lot warmer, I knew.

			   "Thanks for giving me a lift," she said, extending a
		  warm, firm hand and shaking mine.  Her eyes were grey-green,
		  level and intelligent. Strong eyes, I thought.

			   As I touched her elbow to steer her aft, I said,
		  "Normally, I try to sail straight through doing these
		  deliveries.  But the weather's been a bit unsettled and I'd
		  prefer to lay over at night.  How much of a hurry you in?"

			   She laughed, wiping the sweat from her brow.
		  "Actually, I'm way ahead of schedule.  I don't have to be at
		  the school until September. So please, do whatever is
		  comfortable for you.  I want to be a good ... uh, shipmate?"

			   "Good, we'll just poke along then.  I've done too many
		  of these day-and-night sails, and I can use the rest."

			   "Sounds good to me.  Where shall I put my things?" she
		  asked, holding up her small bag.

			   "Tooth brush?" I asked.

			   "Hardly more.  All my materials and clothes were
		  shipped ahead.  I suspect they're waiting there for me."

			   "Sister," I said, "it'll be a bit cooler as soon as we
		  get underway, for there's a fairly constant wind out of the
		  northeast, but I have to warn you, it's going to get a lot
		  hotter before the sun goes down."

			   "Oh, darn!  Really?  I'm suffocating already in this
			   Batman outfit."

			   Her description of her habit was so unexpected, I
		  guffawed and then almost choked, trying to muffle it.
		  "Sorry," I gasped.

			   "Don't think a thing of it.  The Church has already
		  changed their stance on nun's clothes.  They're becoming
		  much more liberal, thank goodness. But I had a brief
		  interview with the Bishop and, apprehensive as I was in the
		  presence of such an...ah...exalted person, I wore these
		  traditional robes, I guess to try to impress him."  She
		  looked away and added in a softer voice, "I don't think it
		  did."  Then speaking to me again, she added, "But my
		  "real-live clothes" have gone ahead."

			   Leading her into the galley, I said, "If it's permitted
		  and you're comfortable, you can wear some of mine.  I have
		  some extra, but they're all men's sailing clothes ..."
		  Finishing lamely, I added, "Shorts, T-shirts, things like
		  that."

			   "Oh, would you?  I'd be so appreciative.  This all
		  happened so fast, getting a ride with you I mean, I didn't
		  have a chance to plan a thing.  God provided, I thought, and
		  I just jumped at it."

			   I pulled a Coke from the ice chest and holding it up,
		  raised my eyebrows in a universal query?

			   "Yes, please.  That'd be wonderful."

			   "There's a very small cabin here that you can use.
		  There's only one head right here; we'll both have to use it.
		  The pump for the toilet takes some getting used to.  Okay?"

			   She smiled and nodded.  I find it's much better to get
		  the ground rules out front.  If there's a problem or an
		  objection, it's better to know about it in advance.  I knew
		  I carried all sorts of misconceptions about religious orders
		  and nuns.  That, coupled with a 'mild' problem I had with
		  authority figures, might set me up to misunderstand.

			   Digging into my duffel, I pulled out another pair of
		  shorts and a T-shirt. Then remembering, I dug into a locker
		  and found a baseball cap. "Well, that's about it.  Not very
		  clerical, but certainly cooler and more practical."

			   "Can I change right away, before we get underway?"

			   "Sure.  I'm going above to cast off.  We'll motor in
		  the channel. Come up when you're ready."

			   I put ashore the small gang plank and cast off the
		  stern and bow lines before jumping back aboard.  It's always
		  easier to sail with more than one person, but from long
		  experience, I knew how to do it with an economy of motion.
		  I didn't have to think about the mechanics of boats and
		  sailing. It was just something I did, freeing my mind for
		  other things.  Like thinking about Sister Mary Joseph.
		  Geez, what a handle! I wondered if she'd mind if I shortened
		  it?

			   "What can I do to help?" she asked.

			   Surprised, my head snapped around.  She was standing on
		  the aft deck wearing my clothes.  She was almost comical.
		  The shorts and the shirt were both too large.  The bunched
		  bottom of the T-shirt was belted into the sailing shorts.
		  They, in turn, were staying up only by the grace of a
		  cinched, built-in pull belt.  She looked like a little girl
		  wearing her daddy's clothes.

			   "You're laughing at me!" she protested with a smile.

			   I looked ashore as if to form an answer and looked back
		  at her, secure in the knowledge that the sun at my back
		  prevented her from seeing my eyes as I looked her over.
		  Christ, she had breasts!  And shapely ones too, made more
		  prominent by her tiny waist.

			   "Sorry again.  Don't mean to laugh.  It's the contrast,
		  you see. One minute you were my seventh grade teacher and
		  the next minute you're ... Well, certainly not that!  You
		  look good!  I mean, it's...it's more, uh, fitting."

			   "Thanks.  And I mean it.  What can I do to help?  I'm a
		  strong woman and I'd like to learn something about sailing.
		  I'll be your uh, first mate. That okay?"

			   Mate?  Suddenly, that term carried a vastly different
			   meaning.

			   "All right, mate.  You take the helm.  See that red
		  buoy ahead of us? Steer a course to the right of it and I'll
		  handle the main."

			   I'd done this a hundred times alone, but I thought it'd
		  be better to give her something to do.  I knew there'd be
		  times later when her help would be welcome.  After several
		  minutes' busy work, we were heeled over a little and sailing
		  at a comfortable five knots.  I shut off the diesel and sat
		  back, watching her.

			   Her hair was auburn, wavy and longer than I thought
		  nuns wore it. Shows how much I knew about nuns. Next to
		  nothing.  Curling around her ears, it framed her face
		  nicely.   Her arms and her legs were firm and nicely
		  rounded; they were not pale as I'd anticipated.   Actually,
		  she had an olive complexion with a good base tan.  She also
		  had an athletic build and she looked strong.  I told her so.

			   "It's the racquetball," she explained.  I'd rather play
		  tennis, but in the winter's cold, I'm glad for the exercise.
		  You play?"

			   "Both," I nodded, and then to be honest, added, "But
		  not in the last while."

			   The day's warmth and humidity was taking it's toll in
		  perspiration and despite the capacious of the borrowed
		  T-shirt, it began to cling to her, mostly to her rounded
		  breasts.  Her bra was clearly evident.  I naturally noticed
		  things like that, but in this case, it carried an extra
		  charge.  I was enjoying looking at this nun's body, at least
		  as much as I could see.

			   "Sister Mary Joseph?" I asked.

			   "Yes?"

			   "Would you mind if I called you something shorter?
		  Maybe MJ, or something like that?"

			   She laughed and answered, "No one's ever called me "MJ"
		  before. Actually my baptismal name is Mary, but sure, call
		  me MJ if you like."

			   "Thanks, that'll feel better."  Reaching into a small
		  top-side storage, I pulled out a tube of sun block left
		  there by a previous passenger and passing it to her, said,
		  "You'd better put this on ... everywhere that's
		  exposed...the sun'll fry you in an hour, even if you've got
		  a fair tan already."

			   "I'm used to tanning well.  It's the Mediterranean
		  blood I think, but you're right.  I'd better be careful."

			   I put the autopilot on our course and then watched as
		  she covered her arms and legs.  As she lifted one foot to
		  cover her calves, I noticed one leg of the baggy shorts gap
		  well open, affording me a view almost up to her crotch. I
		  caught a flash of white panties.

			   I'd put on sunglasses as I always do, for the bright
		  sunlight hurts my eyes.  I have a slight impairment of my
		  pupillary constrictor muscles and can only constrict about
		  halfway.  Still, I didn't turn my head away and when she
		  suddenly looked up, she saw me looking between her legs.

			   She flushed and lowered her leg, but kept on chatting.
		  I hardly heard what she was saying, so taken was I with her
		  obvious healthy good looks and innate sexiness.  And why, I
		  wondered, was there an added charge because she was a nun?
		  Was it the unavailability?  Or did I simply enjoy the
		  kinkiness of it?  Probably both.

			   A strong gust healed us to starboard and unprepared,
		  she lost her balance.  Instinctively, she threw an arm and a
		  leg out as she fell back and then hung there, over-balanced,
		  on her behind, unable to come upright again. And this time,
		  the pant leg of the baggy shorts fell completely open,
		  exposing an entire thigh to her panties and crotch.  It was
		  broad daylight and I stared at the darker gusset of her
		  white panties and the dark pubic hair curling out of her
		  panty crotch.  The view lasted seconds, no more, but it was
		  imprinted in my mind. I was looking at a nun's white
		  panties, right at her crotch.  God, what a jolt!

			   MJ regained her balance with a good-natured laugh and
		  asked, "Does that happen often?"

			   "Infrequently on relatively calm days like this, but
		  when it kicks up ..." and I let it finish itself.

			   Sitting back against a floatation cushion again, she
		  asked, "So tell me, why'd you become a sailor?"

			   I thought a moment before answering, "I didn't."

			   "I don't understand."

			   "I don't think of myself as a sailor.  Yes, I sail, but
		  that's not what I do. That's not who I am."

			   "I understand that you're not what you do, but how do
		  *you* mean it?" she asked, persistent.

			   "I've driven a truck, but I don't think of myself as a
		  truck driver.  And once I learned about electronics and
		  could fix a television set, but I don't think of myself as
		  an electronics technician."

			   "But I think of myself as a nun."

			   "Yes, there's that.  And I can understand it, for
		  you've given your life to it, haven't you?  To God?
		  Something like that?"

			   "That's certainly part of it.  There's commitment, to
		  be sure.  If you were to ask me, 'Who are you?' I'd see
		  myself as someone in a black robe; I'd see myself as a nun.
		  What do you see?"

			   "About myself?"

			   "None other, Cap'n."

			   "Well, it's not what I do.  It's what I AM."

			   "And that is?"

			   "I'll tell you something about me.  It's no secret.
			   Secrets'll kill you."

			   "My!"

			   "I'm a guy who used to drink too much.  I don't do that
		  any more. That's the central organizing fact in my life,
		  Sister."

			   She looked at me, one eyebrow elevated.  I'd seen that
			   look before.

			   "Really?"

			   "Yes, really.  Now, I don't drink.  Not at all.
		  Haven't in a long time, but I used to.  I was...no, I *am*
		  an alcoholic.  It's important for me to recognize that I'll
		  *always* be an alcoholic and in that recognition, I don't
		  have to drink."

			   "I've heard about that.  AA, I think.  One of our
		  priests had a problem and he ..."

			   I interrupted; I'd heard those stories hundreds of
		  times from pros. I didn't want to listen to a second-hand
		  report.  "So you see, Sister, when I think of myself, it's
		  not what schools I've gone to, what degrees I have or what
		  I've done, but rather, it's who I *am*.  Simple, huh?"

			   "Hardly...but I think I do understand a little.  And
		  what happened to 'MJ'?  I was beginning to like the sound of
		  it."

			   "Yeah, I retreat to formality when I'm apprehensive,
			   MJ."

			   "You thought I'd judge you, didn't you?"

			   I shrugged.  "Many folks do."

			   "I've my own history.  I wasn't always a nun, you know.
		  I'm quite aware of humanness.  No, I try not judge people.
		  I try to accept them just as they are and hope they'll
		  accept me as I am."

			   "And how's that?" I asked, curious.  This was no
		  ordinary nun, I thought and then smiled.  I didn't know any
		  nuns at all.  How would I know ordinary?

			   "Most days I'd like to think that I'm a daughter of
		  God, that I've given my life over to his care, but the fact
		  is, quite often my ego gets in the way. And my humanness."

			   Laughing, I said, "I know about ego, but what do *you*
		  mean about humanness?"

			   "Goodness, how'd I get into this?"

			   "You don't have to talk about anything that's
			   uncomfortable."

			   "Yes, I know, but strange as it sounds, I think I'd
		  like to.  I need to be honest.  Perhaps I need to be honest
		  with myself...honest outside of the confessional.  Somehow
		  that doesn't seem to count - the confessional I mean. The
		  anonymity serves to protect me from the bare truth."

			   "You on the lam or somthin', MJ?  You know, church
		  collections or somthin' like that?"

			   "Oh, you!"

			   "I know, I know.  I often try to hide behind repartee.
		  Don't let me sidetrack you."

			   She pulled both knees up and leaning forward, wrapped
		  her forearms around her legs as she gazed off into some
		  unfocused middle distance.  I looked at the undersides of
		  her thighs.

			   "It's just that I'm not sure ..." and she trailed off.

			   "Of what?"

			   "I'm not even sure of what.  My faith perhaps.  Or, as
		  scary,  if I'm really cut out to be a nun.  I mean, I'm not
		  completely happy ... I have these...uh, thoughts...these
		  desires.  They're unsettling.  Do you know what I mean?"

			   "Maybe.  Not sure."  Then, taking a big chance, I
			   asked, "Sex?"

			   For a moment, she looked pained.  "Yes!  That's it."
		  She looked aside, perhaps in thought or perhaps in
		  embarrassment.  "That's what's bothering me and there's no
		  one I can talk to.  Father Weston always tells me the same
		  thing."  Then, dropping her voice, she mimicked the Father:
		  'Just pray, Sister.  Pray to God.'"

			   "It work?"

			   "Sometimes.  A little.  But mostly, I'm left uncertain,
		  agitated, almost jittery."

			   Not knowing anything about her and less about the
		  chaste life of the religious, I didn't know what to say, but
		  trying to keep the topic alive, I asked, "MJ, were you
		  inexperienced...I mean, were you a virgin when you became a
		  nun?"

			   I felt my face become warm when I suddenly realized
		  that I'd spoken of her virginity as if it were in the past
		  tense.

			   "Uh...I didn't mean ..." I started to say, but she just
			   laughed.

			   "Not even close!  I became sexually active when I was a
		  teenager and I loved it.  Actually, I continued to love it
		  right up until I made the decision to enter the convent in
		  my mid twenties, somewhat later than most."  She gave me a
		  shy smile and added, "I suppose I thought that when I became
		  a nun, it'd cease to be a problem."

			   I nodded, thinking she knew what I was feeling when she
		  caught me looking between her legs.  I glanced away, feeling
		  guilty and then looked back, making eye contact again.  She
		  had a very soft smile.

			   "That's the problem.  It'd be easier if I'd never
		  tasted the fruit, but I did and I'm bedeviled with the
		  memory and the urges.  My body seems to have an agenda
		  separate from my mind."

			   "Get horny?"

			   She laughed again and said, "I haven't heard that word
		  in years, but yes, that's the feeling."

			   "Humanness then."

			   "Yes, I suppose that's another word for horny?"  She
		  gave it an interrogatory inflection and looked at me as if
		  for confirmation.

			   "Well, I stayed chaste one time.  For a year.  Actually
		  for a year and ten days, but who was counting?  But I must
		  confess that I didn't think of my *humanness* as I grew
		  twitchy!"

			   "A year?  But why?  I mean, if you didn't *have* to
			   ..."

			   I shrugged.  I didn't know what to say.

			   "Character building?" she asked with a gentle smile.

			   "Whadaya' think?  Did it work?"

			   She stared at me with an appraising look and said, "I
		  suspect you already had lots of character.  Were you in
		  jail?"

			   I glanced at her, ready to protest and then felt silly
		  when I saw her smile and the twinkle in her eyes.  Two could
		  pay this game.  Still, my face felt warm.

			   Shaking my head, I replied, "Just a confinement of my
			   own making,"

			   "Yes, I know about *those* jails."

			   Checking the wind direction and my heading, I
		  interrupted, "I'm gonna make a starboard tack, wanna help?"

			   Jumping up, MJ said, "Sure.  Tell me what to do."

			   Pointing to a line, I said, "When I come about, the
		  boom'll swing way over to this side.  Help me pull in the
		  line, but be careful.  Watch where you're standing," and I
		  pointed to a spot, "... so you're not hit by the boom when
		  it swings over.  Okay?"

			   "Aye, aye, skipper."

			   Noting that she was standing where I'd indicated, I
		  turned my attention to the busy work that would occupy me
		  for the next few seconds as the boat's forward momentum
		  carried it across the wind.  As the boom was whipping across
		  the deck, MJ stepped forward for some reason and catching
		  her movement, I yelled, "Back!"

			   The boom just brushed by her, knocking her off balance
		  and she toppled right over a stay wire into the water.  In
		  moments she was bobbing astern and as I turned directly into
		  the wind again, I looked back to see her waving an okay to
		  me.  Fortunately she was directly astern and the wind
		  drifted the boat back to her without having to come around.

			   With the main flapping in the breeze, I ran to the
		  stern and lowered a small ladder.  MJ appeared to be a
		  strong swimmer and came right up to the hanging ladder the
		  first time and with little help, scampering back aboard. She
		  was laughing but there was a trace of fear in her eyes as
		  she grabbed my hand and said, "Thanks.  Does this mean that
		  you're now responsible for my life?"

			   "Yes.  But only for the next few days.  After that,
		  it's God's turn again." I stared at her, soaking wet, the
		  thin T-shirt clinging to her bra-covered tits, nipples full
		  and prominent.  I thought I'd love to 'take care' of her.

			   "Guess I'll have to change again," she observed,
		  wringing out the tail of the T-shirt, exposing a good
		  portion of her midriff.

			   "MJ, I've got lots of shirts, but those are my only
		  extra shorts. There's a Tobago Cays shirt at the bottom of
		  my bag that someone gave me.  It's XXL and is way too large
		  for me, but it'll work as a night shirt for you."

			   Sweeping her short hair out of her eyes, she laughed
		  again and looking at me shyly said, "Any port in a storm."

				I approved of her steady, non-hysterical response to
		  the sudden dunking.

			   Using the hatch cover as a handhold, I swung down into
		  the main cabin and turned to lend her a hand stepping down
		  the ladder.  Her legs appeared longer to me, in part because
		  the shorts were jammed up between her thighs.  I seemed not
		  to be able to help myself, for I continued staring at her
		  legs and her crotch all the way down the ladder and it
		  wasn't until she said my name that I looked up into her
		  eyes.

			   "You're staring," she said in a soft, mater-of-fact,
		  non-accusatory tone.

			   "Uh, sorry," I replied.  My face felt warm.

			   "That's okay.  I understand," she murmured and then
		  stood for a moment, looking at me before saying, "The
		  shirt?"

			   "Oh yeah, the shirt...it's right here somewhere ..." I
		  was mumbling to myself as I rummaged in the bottom of my
		  bag.  "Here ... this is it," and handed it to her.  All I
		  could see were her nipples. She'd gotten a bit chilled and
		  her nipples had become even more prominent.  The wet shirt
		  clung to her pebbled areolae, making dark, bumpy circles
		  plainly visible through the shirt and bra.

			   Seeing the direction of my gaze, she glanced down at
		  her shirt front and said, "Oh!  Goodness.  I didn't know.
		  Sorry."

			   Mimicking her, I said, "That's okay, I understand."

			   Hearing her own words, she broke into a bright smile
		  and said, "I hope so."

			   There were no other boats on the horizon when I'd last
		  looked and I knew we were well away from any shallow reefs.
		  Still I felt it imperative to check things out topside.
		  More, I wanted to remove myself from the hole I was digging
		  with such persistent alacrity.

			   The breeze had died off a little so it was easy to
		  catch the wind and return to the new heading.  After putting
		  the boat on autopilot, I sat back with my feet braced and
		  contemplated the horizon, a more compelling sight than my
		  navel.  She'd had panties on under my shorts; I'd seen them
		  briefly. Now they were wet but would she wear 'em anyway? Or
		  - my mind ran with this one - would she have on only my
		  large T-shirt?  If so, I might get a look at...and her voice
		  nudged me out of my reverie, "If I fall over board one more
		  time, I'll be in big trouble, huh?"

			   She came up on deck, pinning her hair back, her arms
		  up, raising the hem of the shirt.  I looked her up and down,
		  admiring her lithe lines and shapely legs.

			   "MJ, you are the best looking nun I know."

			   "I'm probably the *only* nun you know," she retorted,
		  sitting opposite me, gathering the hem of the long shirt
		  under her thighs.

			   "Well, there is that," I agreed, "but when I was in
		  grade school at St. Columbia ..." and tailed off.

			   "You're kidding!" she said, looking surprised, pushing
		  the shirt down between her thighs, still holding her knees
		  up but together.  The shirt fell away from the back of her
		  thighs affording me a glimpse of her legs.

			   "Once, in seventh grade I think, at recess I was
		  showing a photography magazine to a younger nun who'd been
		  kind to me and while I was paging through it, looking for a
		  particular picture I'd wanted to share with her, a black and
		  white picture of a nude woman suddenly popped up.  In my
		  confusion and embarrassment, I fumbled and before I could go
		  on, she placed her hand on the open magazine and commented
		  on the non-nude picture on the facing page.  Can you see
		  this tableau, MJ?"

			   "Sure.  What happened?"

			   "Well, nothing *happened* but I always wondered what
		  she thought. I mean, she had to have seen the naked woman
		  and she had to have known how embarrassed I was."

			   "I'm sure she did, on both counts.  She probably took
		  some vicarious pleasure in pretending to look at the other
		  picture."

			   "You think so?"

			   "I would have.  But then, that's part of my problem:
		  these earthly thoughts."

			   We looked at each other, me wearing only an old pair of
		  shorts and she wearing only a large T-shirt.  I was acutely
		  aware of her, not just as a nun, but as an attractive woman
		  who was nude under my shirt.  Or was she?

			   "MJ," I asked, "you wearing anything under that shirt?"

			   She looked down a moment and then into my eyes.  "No,"
		  she answered, "Why?"

			   I considered for a minute telling her some lie, some
		  bullshit that would have aimed at making me look good, but
		  without thinking about it very much, I knew that wouldn't
		  work for me.  I'd have to tell her the truth, but how best
		  to word it?  And what was the truth, anyway?  That I was
		  just being open and honest with her?  Maybe a little. But
		  more, I suspect, that I wanted to get in her pants.  Except
		  at the moment she wasn't wearing any.

			   "Why?  Because you're an attractive woman.  More
		  actually.  Because you're a sexy woman."  Jesus, I thought,
		  what the hell was I doing?  I wasn't sure *what* I was
		  doing, but I wanted to follow this thread, so I continued,
		  "You think of yourself as a nun.  I don't, at least not
		  entirely.  I think of you as more - as a woman.  Seeing you
		  like this is pleasing and it's exciting."

			   She just stared at me, wide eyed.

			   "Am I offending you, MJ?  I don't mean to be
		  discourteous, but I've this unsettling habit of being frank.
		  I say what I'm thinking ... most of the time anyway...and
		  further, I tend to ask for what I want."

			   She leaned forward a little and still looking at me
		  with that same quizzical expression, she asked, "And do you
		  get what you want ... most of the time?"

			   "Seldom," I laughed, "but I try not to make up other
		  people's minds for them.  I let them decide for themselves.
		  I've been told to ask for 100 percent of what I want, 100
		  percent of the time, and then be willing to negotiate a
		  win-win compromise.  So tell me, am I offending you with
		  this line of questions?"

				 She sat and stared at me for a long time; I didn't
		  think she was going to answer.  Then she passed her hand in
		  front of her in a kind of a chopping motion, apparently to
		  add emphasis to her words, and said, "I must confess that in
		  most social situations I've been in since taking the vows, I
		  *would* have been offended. I don't understand it, but for
		  some reason I'm not.  It's refreshing.  Your honesty, I
		  mean.  No, I don't feel offended - that surprises me a
		  little - and there's some part of me that finds this whole
		  situation just a little thrilling.  Perhaps I'm being
		  tested.  Do you think?"

			   "It's been said that nothing happens in God's world by
		  mistake. Perhaps we're both being tested.  What do you
		  suppose the message is?"

			   She smiled and countered, "You're answering a question
		  with a question, but that's all right.  You've been frank.
		  I shall as well. Is that okay with you?"

			   "The truth shall set you free," I quoted.

			   "But first, it'll piss you off," she appended.

			   "They teach you that in the nunnery?"

			   "Yes, but not exactly in those words.  I got that
		  rendition from my father."

			   "A wise man?"

			   "More than I knew back then.  But I don't want to talk
		  about my father. I'm much too selfish right now.  I want to
		  talk about me. Actually, I think I NEED to talk about me.
		  Will you keep a confidence?"

			   Making a small adjustment in the sail, I observed, "We
		  certainly have the time to talk and I've never had a need to
		  share a confidence. Whatever you tell me, MJ will stay with
		  me."

			   "You're sure?"

			   Nodding, "You can take that to the bank."

			   Again she studied me for a long moment and then seeming
		  to make a decision, she leaned back and said, "I hardly know
		  you, but I feel that I can trust you.  Heaven knows, I need
		  someone to talk with.  Someone outside the Church, that is."

			   The breeze caused the mainsail to snap and at the same
		  time, it rustled the bottom of her long T-shirt.  I caught a
		  flash of her thighs again, still well below crotch level.  I
		  couldn't tell if she saw me looking.

			   "I'm a good listener and I'll tell you my truth if you
		  want it. Still, it's been my experience that many people
		  just want to be heard. They don't want to be fixed, just
		  heard.  And some don't even *want* the truth."

			   "Yes, I do want to be heard, but I think in addition I
		  need some reality testing, some feedback.  Let me just start
		  and we'll see where things go."

			   "Okay, let's start with the truth.  Not any truth.
		  Your truth. You know, the one that'll piss you off?"

			   She wrapped her arms about her knees and looked up at
		  the mainsail for a moment before starting.  "It's always
		  been true for me, that I don't like to hear unflattering
		  things about myself.  Since becoming a nun, in some ways it
		  has gotten worse."

			   "Expectations set you up?" I asked.

			   "Of course.  I think I *should* be this or I *should*
		  think that. I'm never as good as I think I should be."

			   "Good as in holy?" I asked.

			   "Yes, that's it!  Not just a good person.  More than
		  that, I think I should be at least spiritual, if not totally
		  holy.  At times I expect that I should have attained some
		  spiritual peak unattainable by Jesus Christ!"

			   "You're your own toughest critic, aren't you?"  My
		  pants were binding and I pulled the crotch away.  I saw her
		  eyes fall.  "Is my fly open?"  I asked with a frown.

			   She laughed and said, "Please, don't make me look
			   there!"

			   "You're fun and I like that.  It's okay with me, but
		  you know, you're beating around the bush, don't you?"

			   "Yes, I am.  It's difficult for me.  It's as though
		  I've got to tiptoe around this for a while."

			   "Want me to just listen or to prompt you a little?

			   She slid her foot back and forth, making wet marks on
		  the teak deck with her toes.  "Uh...both, I guess.  What I
		  mean to say...well, I'd like you to listen, but there are
		  times I need a little help."  She cocked her head and asked,
		  "Does that make sense?"

			   Nodding my head, I said, "Yeah."  Then adding the prod,
		  I suggested, "It was about keeping a confidence, remember?
		  You asked me if I could keep a confidence."

			   "It's not likely that I'd forget.  I'm edging toward
			   very thin ice."

			   I waited.  She knew what was bothering her.  I didn't
		  have to remind her of that, but she had to take her own time
		  about it.  It had started, I thought, when I told her I
		  found her attractive.  That was new for her, or at least,
		  the first time in a long time.  Too, this was probably the
		  first time in as long that she'd been sitting with a man
		  wearing no more than a thin T-shirt.  A T-shirt with nothing
		  under it. The cat was clearly out of the bag.  Would we
		  chase it?

			   She surprised me.

			   "You said you'd been chaste for a year?"

			   I nodded.  Where was she going with this?  I thought
		  this was about *her*.

			   "What did you do after that, if I may ask?"

			   I smiled at the memory.  "Became a rabbit."

			   "As in making love like one?"

			   "'Making love' is one expression.  Rutting's another."

			   "Renewed vigor?"

			   "An understatement.  Renewed interest, awareness, drive
		  and, oh yes, pleasure.  That's some of it.  I'd come to
		  enjoy a new freedom, a 'freedom from the bondage of self' -
		  some people say."

			   "Would you call it excess energy?  Sexual energy?" she
			   asked.

			   Still not seeing where she was going with this, I
		  nodded my confirmation.

			   "Well then, you might be able to understand what has
		  been happening to me."  She paused.  I waited.  "I was
		  sexually active and then sublimated all my energies.  I
		  attempted to substitute my religion and my work for my
		  passion.  I was naive.  I really thought it'd be no
		  problem."  She fell silent again, looking out across the
		  sea, but not seeing.  I recognized her process.

			   After a bit, I commented, "And it didn't work.  It was
		  still a problem."

			   She glanced back at me.  "Was...and is."

			   "Horny," I said.  It wasn't a question.

			   She nodded and then smiled, "But I tried to think of it
		  in other terms."

			   "Yeah, same thing."

			   "Same thing.  That's as good a term as any.  Actually,
		  better than most. Horny...doesn't beat around the bush, does
		  it?"

			   "So, what do you do?  Pray or masturbate?"

			   Her head snapped back to me, her eyes momentarily dark
		  in anger, then she softened.  "Prayer, yes.  It helped at
		  first, but less so later.  And yes...this is difficult to
		  say - I mean right here, in front of you, looking at you -
		  but yes, I did uh, relieve myself."  She looked down and
		  then rushed on, "I HAD to.  I'd have gone crazy.  You don't
		  know what it was like ..."

			   "You're right, of course, MJ, I don't know - couldn't
		  know - what it was like.  I'm not a woman and I'm certainly
		  not a nun.  But I do know about the body's physiologic
		  needs, about desire, about horniness. My body simply has its
		  own agenda and it's independent of my philosophic beliefs or
		  my spiritual state.  I suspect - but I don't know for sure -
		  that your agenda isn't a lot different."

			   She reached over and touched my knee.  "I'm sorry.
		  That was condescending of me.  You're absolutely right.  At
		  base, we're all the same, we're all human.  I'm sorry I was
		  patronizing of you."

			   I made a dismissive gesture with my hand and said,
		  "Thanks, but don't give it a thought.  I didn't.  If we're
		  going to be honest with each other, let's not walk on egg
		  shells.  Say what you're thinking. And you were thinking
		  about masturbation...or whatever you called it."

			   She seemed to brace her shoulders.  Did nice things
		  with the front of her T-shirt.  "My dad used to tell me to
		  call a spade a spade."

			   "And not a excavating appliance?"

			   That earned a flash of white, even teeth.  "Yes.  It's
		  not like I've been so sheltered that I don't know the
		  language including its idioms.  Remember, I used to be a uh,
		  horny chick?"  And she laughed at her own description.  I
		  hoped she still was.  I harbored few illusions about myself.

			   "So you got horny and prayer didn't always work and you
		  couldn't sleep at night and you became restless and
		  irritable and then, in some moment of weakness or
		  desperation, you'd break down and masturbate and then suffer
		  the guilt of the damned?"

			   "Whew!  Have you been listening in on my confessions?"

			   "No, my own.  A long time ago."

			   "Are you still feeling guilty?"

			   "Not even close."

			   "Why?  I mean, how?..."

			   "MJ, this may sound strange to your ears, for it's
		  leagues away from the Church's position, but I've fired the
		  God of my childhood and I've hired a new one.  My God
		  rejoices in me.  He/she/it rejoices in my humanness and in
		  my sexuality."

			   Her tone betrayed her surprise and her confusion.  "I'm
		  surprised. I know I shouldn't be, but I am.  Do *you* really
		  believe in God?"

			   "No, not *your* God, MJ.  My God.  There's a huge
		  difference.  I used to be afraid of your God.  I suppose I
		  thought of him as a cross between a white-bearded Charlton
		  Heston and Attila the Hun, a stern, unsmiling, cosmic
		  scorekeeper who knew what a worthless sack of shit I really
		  was and my only reward was going to be the warm place."

			   She looked at me with wide-eyed wonder.  I half
		  expected her to put her fingers over her open mouth or to
		  glance upward in fearful expectation.

			   I continued, "I once asked a guy if he believed in God
		  and he said no, that he considered himself a 'Christian
		  atheist'.  When I asked him what the devil that was he
		  replied, 'I don't believe in God, but I'm still afraid of
		  him.'"

			   She pointed out the obvious: "But you must believe in
		  something if you're afraid of it."

			   I shrugged, then asked, "MJ, what'd you do with your
			   wet clothes?"

			   "What?"

			   "Your wet clothes.  If you left them say, on the floor,
		  they'll never dry. Even hanging up below decks, it'll take a
		  while.  Up here, they'll dry out in less than an hour."

			   "Oh.  Yes, of course.  Shall I get them?"

			   "I'm not your mother superior, MJ.  Your call."

			   As she was getting up she commented, "Isn't it amazing
		  how I defer to authority?"  She smoothed the shirt over her
		  hips, which pulled it tight across her breasts.  I looked at
		  her tits.

			   "Uh...I'll get them," she said and went below.

			   I checked the wind and the direction.  No change.
		  There seldom was in these latitudes.  Sitting back, I
		  wondered to myself, 'What do you think you're doing?  Sure
		  she's attractive, sexy even and sure, you'd love to get into
		  her pants, but you don't have the right to fuck with her
		  head.  She's trusting, uncertain, even a little troubled and
		  terribly vulnerable.  What kinda sexual predator are you,
		  anyway?'

			   "Thanks for making this talk easier for me," she said.
		  She'd returned so silently and I'd been so lost in my own
		  thoughts, I'd not sensed her presence. "Where shall I hang
		  these?"

			   "There's a coffee can with clothes pins by the
		  binnacle.  I usually clip them to the stays on the windward
		  side.  Use extra clothespins. We won't turn about for a
		  lost..." and looking at her garments, I added, "...pair of
		  panties."

			   She stiffened a moment and then chuckled, "You're
		  trying to desensitize me, aren't you?"

			   "Is that what I'm doing?  Hell, I thought I was just
		  trying to talk dirty."

			   Pinning the brief white panties in question, she said,
		  "I've never met anyone like you.  You pretend you're tough,
		  but it's clear that you're well educated.  You pretend you
		  don't care, but you do."

			   "Pretend?  Me?"

			   "Yes, you, Mr. Smarty Pants.  I'm catching on to you,"
		  she said, hanging her white bra and the last of her wet
		  clothes.  "Yes, I think I'm getting your number."

			   "Well, if you figure out who I am, let me know, won't
		  you?  I've been working on that one for a long time and
		  every time I think I've got it nailed, I lose it.  And by
		  the way, you might want to hang those clothes on the port
		  side."

			   "Why?  This is the sunny side.  Tell me, are you a
			   control freak?"

			   I shrugged again.  Seems I was doing that a lot.
		  "Yeah, I guess." I eyed her hanging clothes and allowed that
		  a strong gust from the northeast *could* heal us over enough
		  to catch a wave and dowse her laundry, but it'd been steady
		  for the last few hours.  I let it go.

			   "Do I *have* to?"

			   "What?"

			   "Move my clothes?"

			   "Nope.  Actually, you don't *have* to do anything much
		  in life.  We have choices.  Accept the consequences and you
		  can do anything you like."

			   "Good.  I'd rather do nothing right now.  Where were
			   we?"

			   "Well, right before the brief exchange we had about
		  your panties, we'd been talking about God... your God, my
		  God."

			   "There's only one God."

			   It sounded rote.  "So I've been told and that may be
		  the case, but I don't think any religion - Christianity
		  included - has a lock on God. They'd just like to *think*
		  they do.  But let's not discuss theology right now.  You
		  don't have to like it, but just accept that I have my own
		  concept of a higher power, of the Divine if you will.  Our
		  concept of a cosmic conscious doesn't bear upon the very
		  real problems we're talking about right now."

			   She looked like she might argue this contentions stand
		  of mine.  So many Christians tended to take religious
		  disagreement personally, as if it were a direct attack on
		  them.  I wondered if she'd let it go.  Less God talk and
		  more sex talk: that's what this conversation needed.

			   She sighed and made a vague hand gesture of surrender.
		  "You're right. What attracts me to you is your
		  unconventional stance.  I can talk theology with the
		  theologians."

			   "And I represent a non-intellectual philosophy of life,
		  a variant on the 'if-it-feels-good-do-it school'?"

			   "Perhaps a little, but only on the surface.  Actually,
		  I think that's a mask, a facade behind which lives a deeper
		  person.  I suspect you're intellectual to a fault."

			   "But sweet and charming.  Don't forget that."

			   "Do we have a topic here?" she asked, looking about the
		  deck as if it had fallen and rolled under a hatch cover.

			   I sighed loudly and in protest.  "Yes we do.  We have
		  for quite some time.  You've been dancing around it with all
		  the verve and denial of an ergot-frenzied Maypole
		  celebration.  MJ, you know what the topic is better than I
		  do for that matter.  What do *you* suppose we're talking -
		  or not talking - about?"

			   "Ergot-frenzied?"  Then seeing the look on my face, she
		  laughed and said, "Okay, okay.  I give up.  You can't blame
		  a girl for trying."

			   "The topic?"

			   In one smooth motion, she pulled her heels up to her
		  thighs and pulled the T-shirt over her knees down to her
		  ankles, but not fast enough.  Alert as I am to such
		  possibilities, I was quick to catch a glimpse, no more than
		  a flash, of her dark and thick pubic hair.  My first time.
		  First time seeing a nun's bush, that is.  When I looked up,
		  she was watching me with an enigmatic smile.  I felt like a
		  kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

			   "I suppose that's the topic?"

			   I raised one eyebrow in question.  Such a display of
		  sophistication was not beyond me I hoped and besides, it
		  looked hip when Cary Grant did it.

			   "My sexuality."

			   "Ah, yes," I nodded, as if I'd forgotten it for a
			   moment.

			   Sitting with her chin resting on her shirt-covered
		  knee, her eyes resting on me, she began to speak, slowly at
		  first, then with gathering strength.  "Much of my
		  personality fits well with being a nun, but there's a huge
		  emotional hole in me that nothing seems to fill - nothing
		  spiritual, that is.  As I've alluded, this appears to be in
		  the realm of either a physical need or a physical need
		  coupled with an emotional obsession. Because it's so
		  blatantly sexual, I've no way of dealing with it, physically
		  or emotionally."  She paused, perhaps to check my reaction.
		  I just smiled and nodded.

			   "Being here with you today..." She looked toward her
		  clothes. "...and this way..." gesturing toward her lingerie
		  hanging in the breeze, "...has somehow given me permission
		  to be honest.  I don't know where I'm going with this or how
		  I'll feel about it latter.  I only know that if I don't get
		  honest, I'm going to continue to feel bad."

			   "Usually that way for me."

			   She began curling her toes.  They were attractive toes.
		  No polish. Of course.

			   "Do you know about exhibitionism?"

			   I was caught by surprise and for a moment didn't
		  answer.  In point of fact, I'd always taken a low-grade
		  interest in seeing and being seen.  I nodded again.  "A
		  little."

			   "Well, as a teen-aged girl, I was very aware that I was
		  attractive, even sexy.  And as well, I was aware that the
		  boys liked to look at me. I liked that.  I liked it even
		  more when I 'accidentally' allowed them to see a bit more
		  than was proper.  I'd dress in semi-revealing ways, nothing
		  brazen but I'd find situations to push the boundaries of
		  propriety.  It was thrilling, more so because it was - I
		  perceived it anyway - as being on the edge.  Still it was
		  more than acting out.  It was more than getting away with
		  something, although heaven knows, that was part of it.
		  There was something more elemental about it.  For one, it
		  excited me no end.  I'd get...um...excited..." and she
		  looked me in the eye as if daring me to say anything,
		  "...actually what I mean to say is, I'd get wet, showing
		  some secret part of myself."

			   Again the look, the check; again the smile.

			   "At first it thrilled me if I thought some guy had seen
		  down my dress. Later, I made sure he saw more than that.  A
		  button left undone might afford a glimpse of my bra or the
		  swell of my breast.  I knew that.  I'd checked in the mirror
		  and knew what way I had to twist so the blouse would open up
		  accidentally. Later, I practiced the same thing, checking
		  myself in the mirror as I crossed my legs, knowing just how
		  much thigh I was revealing.  What came to surprise me,
		  however, was that I seemed to get caught up in my own
		  exhibitionism.  I often inadvertently pushed my own
		  boundaries and showed more than I'd ever intended to."  She
		  furrowed her eyebrows.  "Is this making sense?"

			   I moved a bit to get back into the sail's shade.  She
		  turned to continue facing me, dropping one leg to the deck.
		  Without staring, I knew the way the shirt was drawn and
		  tented over her that if I could duck my head a little, I'd
		  be looking well up her bare leg.  Given the topic of our
		  conversation, I didn't even wonder if she knew.

			   I commented, "Of course.  I suspect such innocent play
		  is far more common than people let on.  MJ, this all sounds
		  pretty normal to me.  A touch kinky, but that's healthy in
		  my book.  I don't see behaviors there that might have scared
		  you.  And none that would have left an emotional hole."

			   "No," she agreed. "That was just the beginning, but as
		  you can see, my exhibitionism is still very much with me
		  today.  For instance, I'm very aware of your attention and
		  given the permissiveness of the setting, I'm aware of my own
		  excited reaction to it."

			   "I'm flattered."

			   "And familiar with it too, I imagine."  She smiled to
		  take away any perceived sting from her words.  Then she
		  continued, "Most people regard nuns as naive and sheltered;
		  many are.  I am not...naive anyway. I'm quite aware that I'm
		  sitting before you, wearing only your T-shirt. I'm equally
		  aware that my undergarments are flying before your eyes.  I
		  didn't plan it that way, but the exhibitionist in me is
		  delighted. Seeming to be totally innocent, I've been able to
		  show you my intimate underwear and even to flash you a
		  glimpse of my thighs."  She looked at me coquettishly and
		  asked, "No more than that, was there?"

			   I didn't get to answer.  A sudden blow, unanticipated
		  and out of nowhere, heeled us way over at the same moment a
		  large swell was sliding by.  MJ fell back, legs flying
		  again.  Her almost-dry wash was again soaked. I'd been
		  sitting in such a fashion that I'd caught myself
		  effortlessly and viewed with considerable interest the sight
		  of Sister Mary Joseph, sprawled back, T-shirt now in her lap
		  and sisterly beaver looking at the sun, perhaps for the
		  first time in years.

			   Her unerring instinct caused her to jam the shirt tail
		  between her legs immediately as she sputtered, "And I didn't
		  plan that!"

			   I might have said something like, "Well done, MJ.  And
		  did you plan your panties getting wet again?"

			   "So *that's* why you suggested the um...windy side,"
		  she accused. "One more dousing and I'll be reduced to my
		  birthday suit, and we all know that the partially-clothed
		  woman is far more seductive."

			   "And I thought I was seducing you."

			   The shock of our honesty caught us both unprepared and
		  we began to laugh, each looking into the eyes of the other.

			   "God, you're fun," she said, gasping as she held her
		  hand over her breasts, one nipple thrown into marked
		  prominence.

			   I didn't want to interrupt our conversation for another
		  wash day. "Let 'em hang for a little while.  We can rinse
		  them out later," I suggested, nodding to her wet clothes.

			   "We?" she laughed.  "Are you some kind of pervert?
		  Trying to get into my underpants?"

			   "That's already been established.  Of course I am.  And
			   I will."

			   "Get into my pants?" she asked, still laughing.

			   "Has anyone?  Since you've been a nun, I mean?"

			   She suddenly sobered and stared at me with that look of
		  mild alarm she had.  "No.  Well, not exactly.  I mean, I've
		  had a couple of close calls, but I never..." and she paused,
		  looking off into some unfocused distance of recall,
		  "...there was this young priest.  I think he may have had
		  the same problem I do.  He hinted at it.  I was vulnerable.
		  We were both excited. But nothing really happened.  Still, I
		  wonder.  I think if he'd pushed me, I'd have fallen right
		  over.  We used to call that 'round heels.'"

			   "So, you remain chaste in fact if not in spirit?"

			   "Part of me says, 'Yes, darn it,' and another part
		  admits I may never have been chaste in spirit.  Therein lies
		  the problem, my sailor friend.  I'm a walking time bomb it
		  seems.  Awareness of my sex, of my physical needs, is never
		  far from my consciousness."  She shook her head, as if to
		  clear it. "Let me continue with my story, okay?"

			   "Okay."

			   "The other side of the coin of exhibitionism, is of
		  course, voyeurism.  I thought it was just natural to want to
		  watch other people when I was a kid. I used to peep at my
		  dad and both my younger and older brothers.  It was so
		  funny.  They'd drilled a peep hole into my room. It was so
		  obvious.  I first found it late one night by seeing a
		  pin-point flash of light where there should have been none.
		  When I checked it out, crawling beneath a table in my room
		  and with my eye right up to the small hole, I was looking
		  right into their room.  Later, when I looked, they had a
		  rolled-up paper plug in the hole, but the night I found it,
		  it must have fallen out.  Anyway, I could effectively block
		  their view of me by putting something in the way, like a
		  coat thrown over the back of a chair.  But most of the time,
		  I just let them look.  It gave me a thrill.  Perhaps as
		  much, I found I enjoyed looking at them!  I'd have died if
		  they'd found me out."

			   "Much of the time, they'd forget to re-plug the peep
		  hole and later I found it easy to poke out the paper plug.
		  I got a real education in male anatomy and male masturbation
		  those couple of years.  I never had the nerve to let them
		  watch me masturbate, but I certainly wanted to."

			   She gave a nervous laugh and said, "Whew!  I can't
		  believe I'm telling all of this to you."

			   "I used to peep at my older sister...every chance I
		  got.  I think it is pretty natural.  You hung up on that?"

			   "Well, it seemed more okay when I was a teenager.

			   "Was this 'show' you put on for your brothers a one
			   time thing?"

			   She chuckled.  "To the contrary, it was a long-running
		  event, and in many ways, it was a dysfunctional
		  interaction."

			   "How so?"

			   "I'm certain that we all knew what we were doing, but
		  we never talked about it...we didn't even allude to it
		  verbally.  And at the same time, it changed all of us.
		  Particularly me and my older brother."

			   "Why was that, do you suppose?"

			   "I'm not certain, but I'd guess that I and my older
		  brother inherited the horny genes while my younger brother
		  was more interested in cerebral things...ethereal things
		  even.  Anyway, eye contact, body language, attention to me -
		  things like that - let me know that my older brother, John,
		  was the hot one."

			   "Hmmm ..."  I said, perhaps sounding wiser than I felt.

			   "Actually, it wasn't much of a detective job.  For
		  instance, if Paul, my younger brother, was in their room
		  alone, the peep hole plug wasn't removed.  But if John were
		  there alone, I could count on it.  In fact, I'd try to get
		  his attention by doing something more outlandish at night
		  and then see how he behaved later.  It worked."

			   "How so?"

			   "Well, after I'd been letting them see glimpses of my
		  body, like in a bra or at most, a bra and panties, I just
		  knew that they knew that I knew. Convoluted, I know, but do
		  you get the drift?"

			   "I'm hanging in."

			   "I was definitely feeling more provocative, so I
		  decided to *be* more provocative.  I started doing a little
		  strip tease.  It was fun. It was really delicious and I'd
		  get so hot."

			   "What'd you do, MJ?"

			   "I'd play a hot little number on my CD and then begin
		  to dance around my room, careful that nothing blocked their
		  view.  By this time, I knew it was John who was the
		  dedicated voyeur, so it was for him that I'd dance.  I began
		  to run my hands over my hips and over my breasts as I
		  danced, trying to mix innocence with sexy provocation.  I
		  remember the time I impulsively took off my blouse and
		  continued to dance with just a skimpy bra.  God, I felt
		  wicked and terribly sexy!"

			   "Is that as far as you took it?"

			   "You want all the details, don't you?"

			   I smiled and nodded.

			   "No, that was the early part.  I was a junkie.  I
		  always wanted more. After a few weeks I took off my bra as
		  well and cupped my bare titties. That got me so turned on I
		  snapped off the light and jumped into bed so I could
		  masturbate.  I imagined I could hear him doing the same
		  thing."

			   "Did you finally get totally nude for him?"

			   "No, not really, but close to it.  By this time I was
		  stripping down to bra and panties pretty quickly, then
		  dropping the bra.  I'd dance around and throw in a lot of
		  hip action, knowing that he could see things like my pubic
		  hair sticking out the side or the shadow of my bush through
		  the thin material.  About this time I caught him pulling a
		  pair of my soiled panties out of the clothes hamper.  I
		  ducked back so he didn't see me.  He went into his room and
		  I heard the door lock click. I just knew he was going to do
		  it."

			   "Jack off?"

			   "Yes... Jack off.  I had to see, so I went into my room
		  and crawled under the table to push out the plug.  I was
		  afraid he might see it fall out, but I was so driven, I
		  didn't care."

			   "Was he?  Masturbating I mean?"

			   "Yes, of course, but I couldn't see well...not nearly
		  as well as I wanted.  He was laying on the bed.  I could see
		  that clearly, but because he was sunk into the bed a little,
		  I could only catch glimpses of his cock.  I could see his
		  hand pumping up and down, but really got my juices going was
		  watching him hold my panties up to his nose and smell them.
		  Somehow, that made it so personal.  It was like I was
		  involved."

			   "And did you masturbate?"

			   "Jesus, I *had* to.  It wasn't an option.  I was ready
		  to bust, I was *so* turned on.  If he liked the smell of my
		  panties, he would have loved the smell of my room, I'll bet.
		  When I came, it was like an explosion.  It left me weak."

			   "He say anything later?"

			   "No, darn it.  By this time, I was ready to open up
		  some kind of dialog, but we were both too inhibited, I
		  guess.  But I did notice that he didn't bother to replace
		  the plug after that.  Without words, we told each other that
		  we knew and that it was all right."

			   "What was the most provocative thing you did?"

			   "No.  I masturbated for him!  Oh, not naked, but I was
		  dancing and feeling myself outside my panties and one day, I
		  just slipped my hand down inside and cupped myself.  Then I
		  couldn't stop.  I didn't even want to turn the lights out.
		  I knew he was there and that he was watching me, so I sat on
		  the bed, facing the peep hole, and fingered my self inside
		  my panties.  I got pretty wild as I remember.  I ended up
		  lying back on the bed, my heels dug in, heaving up off the
		  bed with my finger inside myself and strumming my clitty
		  with my thumb, all inside my stretched panties.  I didn't
		  even try to be quiet when I came."  She glanced at me and
		  grinned.  "I used to be very noisy."

			   "A screamer?"

			   "Kind of...at least vocal."  She paused, then
		  continued, "Somehow it was different when I became a nun.
		  The voyeurism, I mean."

			   "I'd think there would not be much chance for voyeurism
		  in a nunnery," I reasoned.

			   "So you think.  The fact is there are a lot of woman
		  under one roof and despite the watchful eye of the older
		  nuns, there was a certain relaxed attitude during sports,
		  showers and the locker room.  It's not as if we all live in
		  separate cells!  And I just know some of my sisters *had* to
		  have feelings like mine."

			   She pushed her hair back and then glanced away, a sure
		  sign she was about to reveal something more.

			   "Anyway," she continued, again glancing off to the
		  horizon, "it surprised me how much I enjoyed looking at the
		  other nuns.  I mean, looking at their nude, or
		  partially-nude bodies.  I didn't think of myself as anything
		  but heterosexual, but I found I was getting aroused looking
		  at them and knowing, or at least suspecting, that some of
		  them were looking at me. You know, in *that* way."

			   "That way?"

			   "Yes.  Interested, sexual, curious, excited...all those
		  things. I liked it, but still, it troubled me.  I began
		  wondering about different ones.  Was she a virgin?  Had this
		  one ever gone down on a guy?  Did she play with herself?"
		  She laughed, "Then it got even worse!"

			   "How?"

			   "I began having that same kind of thoughts about the
		  priests.  Oh, not all of them, just the sexy ones.  I
		  wondered if they ever did it."

			   "What made the 'sexy ones' sexy?"

			   She thought a minute, then smiled.  "You're one.  It's
		  not just looks, although that's part of it.  It's more
		  attitude, I think. Confidence.  Self assurance.  Body
		  posture.  Bold eyes.  Innuendo. Things like that."

			   "And?"

			   "And...and I wanted to do it with them!  I'd be talking
		  to some priest about some religious matter at the same time
		  I'd be wondering how big his penis was.  I'd find myself
		  distracted, looking at his mouth or looking at a glimpse of
		  his tongue, fantasizing about doing it with him, or him
		  doing it to me.  Going down on me, I mean. There was a part
		  of me that looked forward to confessing some of my
		  licentious thoughts to the 'sexy priests'. I'd get a thrill
		  from - what did you call it? - talking dirty?  I couldn't
		  stop myself from thinking this way.  The more I tried, the
		  more impossible it became.  I was horny and excited all the
		  time, and feeling like the lowest form of pretense, a
		  walking column of human garbage."

			   "That's a feeling and not a fact.  How you feel is how
		  you feel, but it helps to know that you're not garbage.
		  You're one of God's kids and you're perfect just the way you
		  are."

			   "Come ON!  As much as I enjoy hearing nice things said
		  about me, I can't for a minute accept that."

			   "That's part of the problem.  You've made up your mind
		  that you're a piece of shit because of your very human
		  feelings.  That's a no-win. Until you accept yourself as you
		  are, you're screwed, MJ."

			   "You know why I'm taking this trip?  No, of course you
		  don't.  How could you?  I'm taking a leave of absence.  I
		  had courage enough to talk about some of this with my
		  superior who sent me to a shrink...a Jesuit shrink if you
		  will!  He reminds me you.  You and he say the same things.
		  Anyway, they - the powers that be - have recommended that I
		  take a year off with no more than light duties, that I think
		  about how I might best serve God and myself.  They even
		  suggested that not all who are called are chosen, that I
		  might discover that my path is outside the order."

			   She crossed her legs, Indian style, with the shirt tail
		  still jammed between her thighs.  This served to pull it
		  taut against her breasts and prominent nipples.  She
		  checked.  I was looking.

			   "You are my first authentic contact, my first
		  experiment with real life since I started this sabbatical.
		  So, what do you think?"

			   "You have nice tits."

			   Her eyes blazed.  "You!  I mean what do you *really*
			   think?"

			   "I saw your pussy when you fell back a little while
		  ago.  I was the voyeur and I loved it."

			   Again, she jammed her hand between her thighs.  "You're
		  impossible!"

			   "No.  I'm really easy."

			   "Is that actually what you were thinking about?  Just
			   my body?"

			   "That, certainly.  I also heard what you said about
		  your feelings and taking time off.  You've been given a
		  blessing, MJ.  Take it and run.  Live it.  Let yourself go.
		  Live your fantasy.  Explore yourself. Learn that part of you
		  that has been pushed into the closet.  If you have an itch,
		  scratch it."

			   "I love your earthy analogies.  You sound more and more
		  like Father James, the shrink.  He didn't pull any punches
		  either.  He was good with spades."

			   "Is that it?  You all done with the confession?"  I
		  waved a hand and said with a grin, "I guess I'd hoped
		  there'd be more, you know, juicy stuff."

			   "There is more, 'juicy stuff' as you call it, but
		  that's the main thrust of it. I'm a damaged chick.  Want to
		  take me on as a patient?"

			   "No."

			   "No?  I thought ..."

			   "MJ, I don't want to be your therapist or your advisor
		  or your confessor. I'm a man and you're a very attractive
		  woman.  You excite me and I want to seduce you, to thrill
		  you, to fill your fantasies.  I want to see you naked."

			   She didn't reply right away.  Instead, she just looked
		  at me. After a long moment she smiled a little smile and
		  suddenly jerked the T-shirt to her chin, held it there for
		  the count of two, and then pushed it back into her lap.
		  "Like that?" she asked.

			   I studied the after image.  It was lucid and clear.
		  Her breasts were larger than I'd imagined, full and
		  firm-looking with medium-large, pebbled areolae and meaty
		  nipples.  Her waist was surprisingly narrow atop flared,
		  woman's hips.  Her dark auburn public hair was full and
		  lush, at least that I could see.

			   I clapped.  "More, I loved it!  It thrilled me.  Is
		  that what you wanted to know?  What'd it do for you,
		  flashing me that way?"

			   "If I got up, there'd be a wet spot."

			   "Get up."

			   "Are you serious?" she asked, looking a little
			   embarrassed.

			   "Yes, I'm serious.  Get up.  I want to see if you're
			   just talk."

			   She frowned.  I suppose she didn't like me thinking of
		  her as 'just talk'. She stood up, pulling the shirt against
		  her butt as she looked behind her at the teak seat.  There
		  was a wet spot.

			   "See!" she exclaimed.  She spun around and pushed the
		  flat of her index finger against the wet spot and then
		  shoved it under my nose. "Smell!" she commanded.

			   It was faint but unmistakable.  I knew that odor, that
		  sweet, musky bouquet of pussy.

			   "Careful," I advised.

			   "Why, careful?"

			   "Those are powerful pheromones.  I'm liable to jump
			   your bones."

			   "That sounds more like a request for permission than a
		  threat of action," she countered.

			   "Busted," I admitted.  "I guess it's not for nothing
		  that I've been called 'an old gas bag', huh?"

			   She leaned forward and looked at me intently as if to
		  make a point. I waited.  "Let me see your penis," she said.

			   "What!?"

			   "Your penis. Let me look at it.  What do you call it?
		  A cock?  A prick? Dick, maybe?"

			   "You like to take it slow and easy, don't you, MJ?"

			   "I've been taking it slow for the last ten years.  YOU
		  were the one who told me to live out my fantasies.  Well,
		  asking a sexy guy to show me his cock is one of them.  I
		  don't want to look through a peep hole at life.  I want to
		  see it right here, right now."

			   "That get you wet, girl?"

			   "Yes.  What gets you hard, mister?"

			   "Lots of things, but it all comes down to T&A."

			   "T&A?"

			   "Tits and ass.  And of course, attitude.  Is this quid
			   pro quo?"

			   "You show me yours and I'll show you mine?" she asked
		  with an expression close to a leer.

			   "It always comes down to juvenile stuff like that,
		  lady.  Yeah, if I'm gonna show you my boner - isn't that a
		  charming name? - then I wanna up the ante.  I wanna crank up
		  the intimacy current.  Show me your pussy, but not a flash.
		  Really show it to me."

			   MJ leaned back and smiled at me, a warm, sunny smile
		  that spoke volumes of her comfort at that moment.  How far
		  we'd come.  A short while before, she'd stepped aboard
		  looking all the world like what she was, a nun. Now, through
		  a goofy and unlikely process of self-revelation, we were
		  playing some bewitching, sexy game that embodied the
		  challenge portion of Truth or Dare.

			   "Can you drop anchor somewhere?  I'd be more
		  comfortable if we were tied to something, like the bottom
		  and I wouldn't have to concern myself with running aground
		  on Virgin Gorda or someplace like that."

			   I gestured to port.  We'd not been out of sight of land
		  since we'd sailed. "See that island?  We're stopping there
		  for the rest of the afternoon and night.  There's a secluded
		  and protected cove where the water's clear blue and the
		  Trade Winds blow all night.  Helps keep us cool and the
		  mosquitoes away.  Want to help me anchor?"

			   She grinned and nodded her head.

			   Watching her take up lines and bend over, often it
		  seemed, in an outlandish fashion, served to keep my fires
		  going.  I was quick to show my appreciation with timely wolf
		  whistles.  In short order, we were secured and safe.  She
		  turned to me and pulling off her voluminous T-shirt, she
		  asked, "Now are we going to play show and tell?"

			   I walked slowly toward her, unbuttoning my shorts and
		  allowing them to slip down on my hips, only my erection
		  holding them up.  "MJ, I seem to have a problem here with my
		  shorts.  Could you help me get 'em off, please?"

			   My eyes raked up and down her naked form.  Sister Mary
		  Joseph, pink and in the flesh, my big-titted sexy nun, was
		  admiring me as I presented myself for her ministrations.

			   "You've come to the right place, sailor.  I'm an expert
		  in removing recalcitrant shorts."  She knelt in front of me
		  and slowly pulled my shorts down my thighs.  Pausing a
		  moment, she looked up at me and said, "I *usually* kneel
		  down for quite another reason."

			   My cock was stiff and bent down and when suddenly
		  freed, leaped to attention.  "Oh, my goodness!  I've not had
		  a close look at one of *these* in a long, long time," she
		  stated, slowly fisting my cock.

			   I pulled her to her feet saying, "MJ, these teak decks
		  are beautiful to look at, but for substantially greater
		  comfort, come below and try out the bunk in the master
		  suite, won't you?"

			   "Both of us?  In one bed, I mean?"  Laughing, she
		  pulled me by the hand, down the ladder into the main salon,
		  chanting, "Lead me not into temptation; I know the way
		  myself."

			   "What ever happened to that demure, sexually repressed
		  little nun I took aboard just hours ago?"

			   "You're right about the repressed part, sailor boy.
		  I'm given to understand that you have a treatment for my
		  sexual frustrations.  Is this true or is it all just
		  hypothetical bull pucky?" she asked, sweeping her black
		  habit off the master bunk.

			   "The treatment started several hours ago, MJ.  Look at
		  yourself, at the progress you've already made.  Better yet,
		  let *me* look at you. I'd be far more appreciative."

			   "Well now, I'd hoped you might get around to a little
		  friendly voyeurism. I'm certainly in a show-off mood.  What
		  would you like first to see?"

			   "Tell you what, woman...I'd like to examine your tits
		  right now and while I'm doing that - you'll have lots of
		  time - I'd like you to tell me of one of your fantasies, one
		  of those delicious little vignettes long suppressed in the
		  nunnery.  That'll start our erotic variation of show and
		  tell."

			   "I *think* things like that, but you *say* them!  I
		  love your boldness," she said as lay back, cupping her
		  breasts.  "Have at 'em," and she laughed at her own mimicry
		  of me.

			   I lay down beside her and leaning on one elbow, I
		  reached down and ran a feather-light touch around the base
		  of her breast next to her axilla, approaching and retreating
		  from her nipple.  "Ready to tell me a story?" I asked.

			   She arched her back, pushing her breast toward me,
		  saying, "Oh my God, that feels so good.  I can't tell you
		  ..."

			   I pushed a little harder, testing the substance of her
		  breast.  It was surprisingly firm.  I traced patterns from
		  her chest wall to the edge of the aureole, still not
		  touching the prominent nipple.

			   She groaned and whispered, "Oh, please, please,
		  please...yes, again yes.  Please touch me!"

			   "Slowly, MJ.  You've waited ten years.  Let's wait
		  another ten minutes.  I want you to remember this and more,
		  I want you to have clarity about this." I cupped her other
		  breast and held it softly. "This is both an experience and
		  an experiment."

			   She drew her heels up and with knees well apart, lifted
		  her pelvis off the bunk, thrusting at a body, a cock, that
		  wasn't there.  "You're driving me crazy.  I'm so darn horny
		  I can't stand it.  Do something."

			   She reached a hand down as if to touch herself.  I held
		  her wrist and said, "Not yet, lady.  When it's time, I'll
		  get you off.  I want you mad with passion."

			   She glared at me, eyes snapping.  "You don't think I'm
		  excited enough? You're daft!"  She sniffed the air.  "Smell
		  me.  I'm so wet and so randy, I smell like I'm in heat!"

			   I'd been aware of her increasing musk filling the still
		  air of the closed cabin.  My brain's response to her odor
		  was to dive between her legs and smell her cunt, but I
		  wanted to draw this out, to stretch every moment's awareness
		  of the now.

			   "Yes, I can smell you.  I smell your cunt.  You're
			   ripe, you know that?"

			   Writhing, she gasped, "Yes, I know I'm ripe.  I secrete
		  so much.  At times I've smelled myself in church and was
		  mortified that someone else would smell me and know what was
		  happening between my legs.  Christ! Touch me there! Please,
		  please."

			   "You smell that way for a reason.  It's to attract a
		  man...to attract me...right here, right now," I said,
		  trailing a hand down over her belly and just brushing her
		  pubic hair with my fingers.  She thrust at me again and said
		  something that sounded like, "Umph ..."

			   I pushed myself up and looked between her scissoring
		  thighs at her wet and matted pubic hair.  Her inner thighs
		  and butt cheeks were slick, her pussy lips swollen and open.
		  She made a squishing noise when she suddenly brought her
		  knees up, catching my hand between her legs.

			   "Yes, there!  Touch me there.  Touch my womanness, my
			   sex."

			   "Your womaness?" I said sarcastically, "Is *that* what
		  you call it?"

			   "NO!" she shouted, defiantly.  It's my...it's my pussy.
		  My box. Snatch. Beaver.  Damn you, anyway.  It's my CUNT!
		  There, you made me say it. You happy now?"

			   "Happier.  I don't know what kinda spade you call it,
		  but 'womaness' doesn't cut it.  I like pussy and when I want
		  to add and edge, I like to call it a cunt," I said,
		  conversationally, slowly running my finger  through her
		  slick slit.  Then I added, "Turn over."

			   "Huh?"

			   "Roll over on your stomach.  I wanna see your butt."

			   She flipped right over, saying, "You *said* you were a
		  T&A man, didn't you.  Well, here's mine!"

			   She had that wonderful lordosis, that sweet concave
		  curve that arises from a narrow waist and swells to two
		  firm, jutting cheeks.  I ran the palm of my hand over her
		  butt and said, "Who'd a thought it? Who'd have imagined that
		  under those heavy black robes this sweet ass existed,
		  unappreciated and unloved for all those years?"

			   She arched and back and pushed her buttocks up with a
		  gratifying moan. I pushed up from the bottom on her belly
		  and said, "Higher."

			   Up on her knees with her chest on the bunk, her cheeks
		  separated, exposing her tan anus surrounded by a sprinkling
		  of dark auburn curls. I traced a light line around her ass
		  hole and she gasped.  Her body shuddered and she exclaimed,
		  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph...what are you *doing* to me back
		  there?  What *is* that?  I've never felt anything like
		  that."

			   "MJ, that's your butt, known to the medical community
		  as an anus, but to lovers of this anatomy, it's more
		  commonly referred to as your ass hole. Like the feeling?"

			   "Like it?  God almighty, I love it!  I never
		  imagined...I mean, no one *ever* touched me back there.  I
		  always thought of it as..." And she fell silent, searching
		  for the proper adjective.

			   "Dirty?" I suggested.

			   "Yes...dirty.  No one ever tried to touch me there!"

			   "Lots of people - perhaps most even - are anally erotic
		  but many don't even know it."  I continued to touch her
		  external sphincter and each time, it seemed to wink at me.
		  "Shall I proceed?"

			   "I surrender.  I just give up.  Do anything you want
		  with me.  But for God's sake, do *something*."  She pulled
		  her arms under her chest and cupped her tits as I moved
		  behind her, keeling between her legs, facing her upthrust
		  ass.

			   "MJ, you've got a beautiful ass.  I say that in the
		  most appreciative way. You're an extraordinarily sexy
		  woman."

			   Her aroma was wafting up to my nose; I drank in her
		  scent for a long moment and then lowered my face to her
		  exposed pussy.  I opened my mouth and breathed my hot breath
		  on her labia.  She jerked and groaned, "Lord, lord... That's
		  indescribable."

			   I extended my tongue and with its pointed end, I
		  touched the tender flesh between her anus and her labia and
		  then slowly licked around the periphery of her asshole.  Her
		  body jerked and she mumbled something into a pillow, the
		  words lost.  As I drew back to look again at her pumped up
		  labia, her hand snaked between her thighs and she dipped a
		  finger into her pussy, pulling thick secretions back to her
		  distended clit.

			   "MJ, I can see you.  You're touching your cunt and I'm
		  watching you ... watching you masturbate...and fingering
		  your tender ass hole at the same time.  Feel that?  Feel my
		  finger."  I dipped my finger into the pool of her secretions
		  and pressed the pulp of that finger to her anus, feeling it
		  tighten and then slowly relax.  "I'm going to slip my finger
		  into your ass as you frig yourself...feel the pressure ...
		  that's it, push back against my finger...now...I'm in!  Feel
		  it. I'm inside your warm, soft ass guts, MJ.  Frig your
		  clit.  Help me get you off."

			   She began bucking her ass back at me, all the time
		  clawing at her pussy, moaning and thrashing her head from
		  side to side, all the while murmuring incoherent words of
		  passion.  "Oh God.  Oh shit-oh God, I'm going to cum. Shit,
		  shit, shit...I'm going to cum.  Jesus, Jesus. Here it comes
		  ..." and her voice rose to a scream of mindless ardor, long,
		  high-pitched and crazed. Her body jerked once, twice and
		  then again, each time accompanied by a visceral grunt.  She
		  fell forward in a limp puddle of spent emotion.  Then she
		  began to cry, initially quietly. I held her.  Her crying
		  grew in intensity, grew into body-racking sobs.

			   There was nothing to be said.  The only thing I could
		  do was hold her close, petting her hair, mumming softly in
		  her ear.  This was not an intellectual process.  Far from
		  it.  It was a total-body catharsis, long overdue and it had
		  nothing to do with cognition.  I could only hold her.  Aware
		  at the moment that my hard cock was pressed into the crack
		  of her ass, yet not needing anything at that moment, aside
		  from holding her.

			   I had no idea how this would impact her life.  Was this
		  the thing she needed to fill the emotional void?  Hardly, I
		  thought.  That's an inside job. But there's no denying our
		  body's needs.  We can trick it, deny it, say that it doesn't
		  matter and perhaps for a little while, we get away with it.
		  But the body remembers and one day, if its vital enough, it
		  will out.

			   How important is that?  For me, it's important.  Not
		  the most important thing, but still important.  I'd come to
		  recognize that I couldn't do much in life by myself, that I
		  needed people.  More, I needed love.

			   I held her close to me and whispered, "MJ, you are a
		  lovable woman. Whatever you choose in life, know that."


			   ________________________________________________


		  EPILOG


			   Well, that was it.  We slept together that night and
		  the next but I never fucked her.  My dick wanted to drill
		  her, but instead my spirit got what it wanted.  Perhaps what
		  it needed.

			   We talked and talked over the next two days, sharing
		  our fantasies and our fears.  MJ said that she didn't know
		  what was going to become of her but she knew that she
		  couldn't trick her body any longer.  I think she was moving
		  into resignation, that her life had to encompass more than
		  that of the celibate cleric.

			   We masturbated together a couple of times each day and
		  spoke of our mutual desire to fuck each other.  Yet, for
		  reasons neither of us completely understood, we didn't.  We
		  wanted to and we admitted that. But we didn't and that
		  seemed right.  In the last hours of our being together we
		  agreed that she needed to spend her year looking at her own
		  issues without the distraction of someone like me.  She said
		  she'd get in touch with me after a year.  I said sure, but
		  didn't believe it.

			   I haven't seen her since that day and I'd not heard
		  from her in almost that long.  The other day I received a
		  phone call and I recognized her voice immediately.  I said
		  hello and she said, "I'd like to see you again.  Will you
		  see me?"

			   "You!  I never thought I'd hear from you again."

			   "Will you see me?  We need to talk."

			   "Ahhh ..."  I couldn't talk, I was stunned.

			   "This may me one of the most important things in my
		  life.  Say you will."

			   I'm flying into San Francisco tomorrow.  She said
		  she'll meet me at the gate.  I wonder what she'll be wearing
		  this time?

		  END