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From: Bill Hayden <hayden@mindless.com>
Subject: RP - BillyG's "Sister Mary Joseph"  In Celeste's Top 100 for 1987
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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' 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 by 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.  OK?"

     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 OK?"

     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 healed
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 half way.  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.  Instinctually, 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 lamb 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 side track 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 starred 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'd 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 OK 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 here 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 an
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.
What ever 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 tip
toe 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 what ever 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 score keeper 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 your 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 that, 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 my 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 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 my self.  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'd 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, Mr.?"

     "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 kneeled 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 secret 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 my self 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 partially everted.  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 womaness, 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'da thunk it? Who'da
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 it's pointed end, I touched the
tender flesh between her anus and her labia and then slowly licked
around the periphery of her ass hole.  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
over due 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


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