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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 3A
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:19:20 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3A
Just before my 9th birthday my godmother and great-aunt
Frances bought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for
my Confirmation ceremony at St. Mary's Catholic School.
It was a dim, cloudy Sunday afternoon outside; but inside
the ornate, high-ceiling Gothic church hundreds of banks of
candles cast a warm glorious light over everyone in the
church. Mom and Aunt Frances and my deceased father's
mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front entrance and
let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked the
Buick behind the church. I stood there for a moment
looking down at myself, all got up in the immaculate suit
and the shiny new shoes, my hair slicked with a hefty,
odorous portion of Wildroot Hair Oil. I asked myself if it
were really me in this costume. If I bent my arms the
sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkled stiffly, but when
I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into a smooth,
neatly creased tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirt
with a flowery bow tie my aunt had chosen. The tie and the
thick collar dug uncomfortably into the front of my throat.
I felt out of place, as emotionally removed from the
impending ceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a
perfect stranger's dead dog. I climbed the front marble
steps and entered the front vestibule, an imposing, darkly
paneled hall where I lined up with a chatty, squealing
assemblage of other suited boys. The girls, fluttering and
chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end of the
hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes.
Soon the long robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing
habits shushed us into silence and strode quickly through
our ranks to check us out and nod their stern approval.
Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to
a dead stop as my own home-room teacher, Sister Mary
Joseph, sternest and most dreaded nun of all, strode into
the room. No more than a tiny slip of a woman, her
imperious expression and long stride gave her a commanding
manner. She stood exactly in the center of the long and
narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so that her
hands were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As
she slowly passed her glowering eyes from one end of our
ranks to the other, her thin lips characteristically pursed
and reset themselves. The hall suddenly echoed as one of
the kids gave a loud sneeze, which was quickly followed by
the echo of four nuns giving a sharp and loud "Sh!" In the
ensuing silence, Sister Mary Joseph began her announcement
in her usual manner, with a rise of her head and a long
deep breath.
"Children," she said, "you are about to become soldiers for
our lord Jesus Christ." Pause. "As you attend the holy
ceremony of Confirmation today, you will receive a scapular
with an image of your patron saint." Pause. "Wear your
scapular at all times. It is your protection from the
dangers and temptations you encounter in your struggle with
Satan. Protect it as you would your immortal souls. Many
holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of death
rather than lose possession of the holy image we will give
you here today." Pause. "You are fortunate and honored
that your holy scapulars will be blessed by none other than
Monsignor Kearny from Blessed Sacrament School. He has
honored us by agreeing to deliver the blessing and the
sermon today." Pause. "Now we will all file into our
pews." Pause. "Be silent. And conduct yourselves as
children of Christ and as you were taught in the
rehearsals. Don't forget to kneel and to stand at the
proper intervals for a High Holy Mass. And remember at all
times that the Monsignor is watching. I know you will make
him proud of each of you, one and all."
She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vast
carved walnut panels that led into the interior. The place
filled with the shuffling of new shoes and rustling of
clothes as we entered double-file, first the boys and then
the girls, and took our assigned places in a line of wooden
pews along the right side of the church. As I shuffled
slowly in line along the narrow aisle I passed my family,
Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way, and my pert
grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasure
failed to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found
in the situation was the heavy waft of candle smoke and
paraffin in the air, and the dulcet singing of the choir in
the loft above and behind us. As this would be a High
Mass, I knew I would at least have the pleasure of hearing
Sister Albert's accomplished choir singing the Gregorian
Chant required by the formality of the ceremony.
As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was
a tortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my
wandering mind by studying the dozens of statuettes that
line the walls of St. Mary's. St. Christopher: a rugged,
bearded, muscular man leaning heavily on his staff and
struggling head-first through some undefined tempest, the
child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders. St. Stephen
the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came to
know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his
wrists and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes
lifted to heaven, all done with exacting, lurid anatomical
detail.
My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St.
Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been
chosen as the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as
Herculean as St. Christopher, he was a long legged figure
with a long beard, seated at his carpenter's bench with a
tacking hammer in one strong hand, his other arm draped
around the shoulders of the peasant boy Jesus, who clung
absurdly dependant at his side. I studied Joseph's face
interminably, striving to imagine what it might be like to
have had such a father with strong, chiseled features and
commanding eyes under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered
what his beard would feel like.
And the Virgin Mary, a short, full-hipped woman in a simple
white flowing robe with a blue shawl draped about her head
and shoulders. Her slim right hand was raised as if
conferring on the viewer the two fingered blessing that I
had seen Pope Pius XII giving from his balcony in movie
newsreels. In her right arm she held the half-nude child
who turned its head to gaze at the viewer with a frown of
divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappropriate on
the infant's face. Always my eyes fixed themselves on
Mary's girl-like oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for
her a pair of enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her
expression was tender, knowing, forgiving. I could not
match my mother's face with hers, nor my great aunt nor my
grandmother nor anyone else. I wondered what it might be
like to have such a mother. In many ways her expression
reminded me of one I sometimes saw on Martha Jane. My eyes
moved down to Mary's small bosom, and warmly I remembered
the moist swell of Martha Jane's breasts and the feel of
her nipples on my tongue.
I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue
would be scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the
feel and taste of real, warm, responsive titties. Would
she, too, offer a nipple to me for sucking?
I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these
thoughts. As Mass moved agonizingly along, we children
prepared for communion by attending the rear confessional
one by one. Dutifully, I ducked into the dark curtained
booth and spoke into the cloth-shrouded grating that
separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly see and
whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappable
Franciscan, Father Edward.
Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice.
Dutifully, I recited the same repertoire of sins I usually
confessed and for which I was truly sorry: for saying bad
things about my fat Aunt Mary, whom I really didn't like,
even after I confessed not liking her; for talking back to
my mother or disobeying and upsetting her; for not making
the bed on Saturday; for taking God's name in vain when I
got angry at a kid on the playground and wished that Jesus
would tear the little bastard's tongue out and send him to
hell to be devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep
during morning Mass.
Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy
Mother's breasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of
Martha Jane's breasts or her thighs or that I had made her
cum. Brazenly and stubbornly I refused to connect Martha
Jane with evil, and even if I could I brazenly and
stubbornly refused to betray our trust.
On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back
in what I could see was a brown leather-backed chair. He
gave his usual sighs and his usual response: "Very well, my
child, and is that all you have to confess?"
"Yes, Father."
"You know you must honor your mother and you must not have
unkind feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and
care for you in ways you do not understand. And for your
penance I want you to say ten Hail Marys and ten Our
Fathers."
"Yes, Father."
"And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of
greed, envy, and lust."
"Yes, father."
And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: "Your sins are
forgiven. Go, and sin no more. "
"Thank you, Father."
I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered
if his benediction forgave me for that as well as for the
sins I had confessed. I thought the penance was a little
out of line for not liking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at
least half that penance must have been slated for
disobeying my Mom.
Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary's
reverberating with the husky, amplified voice of Monsignor
Kearny. From the ornate pulpit at the front of the church
he inveighed weightily with his baritone's voice of doom:
"...and be wary, my children, of the evil nature of the
sins of the flesh, sins that render our precious souls
disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesus and His
Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the most
offensive sins of all. Because of them we risk the
punishment of being cast down to a terrible, burning place
in purgatory for ten thousand years, and after that, into
the flames of hell for all eternity..."
Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly in
righteous agreement as the monsignor thundered on. I
sighed impatiently, my eyes wandering until they fell on
the statue of Jesus, gruesomely hanging from a crucifix
high over the center of the altar. I cringed at the sight
of the bloody nails...
I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn't
absorb, but at the time I consciously rejected it as
irrelevant to what Martha Jane and I experienced. At that
time I found other aspects of life to be much more
frighteningly evil: evil was the beating of a boy I knew by
some unknown kids who came to our part of the project one
day from the big apartment buildings on the hill at the top
of Exchange Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop
atom bombs on everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs
who had blown off the arms and legs of soldiers and shot
out the eyes of the man who lived a few doors down from me.
But I could not equate evil with the image of Martha Jane
spreading her thighs to allow my hands to please her. To
use a more modern phrase: the equation didn't compute.
However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not to
appreciate the majesty of the edifice and interior of St.
Mary's and the solemnity of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant
had its hypnotic qualities, as did the ritual of the
purple-robed monsignor moving down a line of piously
kneeling children as he draped a scapular ribbon round
their necks.
When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly.
Behind me, my mother stood with her hand on my left
shoulder as the ceremony required.
The Monsignor intoned, "What is the child's name?"
"Steven," my mother answered.
"And who," the monsignor intoned, "is his patron saint?"
"Saint Joseph," my mother answered.
The monsignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out a
scapular-- -a thin ribbon with a small, two-inch
cloth-framed image of the indicated patron-- -and then the
monsignor draped it loosely round my neck.
"Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ
under the guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph."
There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin
as he moved to the next child in line. Even I, brazen and
rebellious sinner that I was, had to admit that the
theatrical power of this pageantry was highly effective.
Of course my relatives were inordinately pleased and heaped
praise onto me incessantly on the drive back home, which
mercifully was only a few blocks away.
Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances
and Grandma Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and
knotbread for the occasion. The kitchen being too small,
we ate in the living room on aluminum trays and paper
plates. I'd had to fast in order to attend the required
communion during the ceremony and it was well past noon; I
sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man.
"Don't spill gravy on your shirt!" my aunt screamed in her
usual panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin
under my tight collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too
hungry to complain.
"Don't eat so fast," my mother prompted. I replied by
stuffing ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the
sides of my lips.
"There," my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. "See what
he does? Why won't you listen to your Mama?"
My mother warned, "You better not stain that suit. Martha
Jane will be here later on. See wants to see you in it."
At that, I didn't eat more slowly but I ate more carefully,
making certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy
shirt as possible.
But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As
it grew dark I went outside our apartment and looked into
their apartment window next door, but no lights were on.
Going back to our apartment I asked my mother what happened
to Martha Jane.
Mom answered, "I guess she didn't have time. She probably
went to the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He
gets sick all the time with that shot up stomache of his,
ever since he came back from overseas."
Once again before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha
Jane's apartment but no one was there. Reluctantly I went
back to our bedroom and removed my suit, getting into my
undies for bed. Mom was in the her nightgown, turning out
all the lights. I lay on the bed in the lighted bedroom
near the window and studied the picture of Saint Joseph on
my scapular. The portrait had been done in oils,
apparently in the late Victorian period. The man was
heavily bearded, piously looking toward heaven with a
conventionally saintly gaze. The scapular itself was a
simple device, a black flat rayon ribbon with the
cloth-bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of cloth.
The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture
once shown to my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found
in a book what she considered to be a true representation
of the fires of hell. She brandished the book before the
ogling eyes of the kids and told us what would happen to us
if we were sent to hell. It showed a dimly lighted cavern
populated by crawling serpents and evil clouds of smoke.
Snarling, leering, crocodile-toothed hairless dogs ate
their way through the intestines of screaming victims and
cruelly tore off their arms and legs.
Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed
magic powers could indeed protect me from such a fate.
Certainly, it had done a shabby job of protecting me from
temptation. I couldn't imagine how anything could keep me
from engaging in future naughty intimacies with Martha
Jane. The image that made me feel a creepy apprehension
was that of having to protect the scapular with my life.
Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had
proposed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the
country and arrested all the Catholics and strangled their
children? I would be found wearing a scapular, certainly a
dead giveaway, and would be sadistically and slowly
strangled if I didn't give it up.
This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed
and shut the light. When I grew a little older Mom would
sleep in the living room on the sofa bed, but in those days
she slept with me. My place was at the window side,
because I often enjoyed sitting by the window sill and
looking out into the dark before falling asleep. Mom said
good night and rolled away from me. For a long time I lay
face up, pondering the magnitude of my responsibilities as
a soldier in the army of Christ with an official scapular
that I had to wear at all times to confirm my identity.
Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone in
the bed. Feeling something moving under me, I rose up on
my knees and looked down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then
hundreds of black thumb-sized roaches dashing across the
white sheets in all directions. Frantically I pounded the
mattress and made wide sweeping movements with my outspread
hands to wipe them away. They kept coming, multiplying,
crawling everywhere, I couldn't stop them...
Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. My
Mom slept on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on
the sheets in front of me. But there were no roaches.
Only the clean white sheets. My heart pounded. I waited
for it to stop. The only object on the sheet before me was
the tangled, black stringed scapular.
I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I did
so, my arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight.
Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, then
onto the floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the
memory of my terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and
took out a new sheet, which I brought with me into the
kitchen, carefully looking back to see my mother still
asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me, I opened the back
door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Looking behind
me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into the
dark back yard, barely visible in the light from a street
lamp several doors away near the corner of the building. A
cricket chirped lazily. I moved out near the curb of the
access driveway behind our building and looked across
Martha Jane's back yard. I saw no lights. It was too dark
for me to see into their bedroom window. I wondered where
she was. When would she be back?
My mother appeared in her nightgown at the back door,
frowning sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes.
"Speedy? Speedy?"
Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my white
shroud trailing at my feet.
"What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night?"
She bent down and examined me. "Are you walking in your
sleep? Huh? Are you asleep?"
Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as
any I might conjure on my own, I nodded yes.
"Are you asleep?" she asked again.
I nodded. "I'm asleep," I said plainly, and looked up to
see if there were any possibility that she believed me.
"Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get
back to bed." She pulled me gently into the kitchen and
stroked my hair. "Are you awake now? Answer me, are you
awake now?"
I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to the
bedroom, where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed
back into bed. As Mom settled beside me I nestled back
into my pillow, face up, and looked away from her into the
shafts of moonlight that banded the window sill.
Mom asked irritably, "What *were* you dreaming about?"
"Roaches," I muttered.
"What?"
"Roaches. The roaches from the scapular."
"Roaches?" she repeated, incredulously. "Well, go back to
sleep. Are you alright now?"
I nodded yes, several times.
"Go back to sleep, then."
She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to her
shoulders. Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay
watching the moonbeams, listening for echoes of Martha Jane
in the room. The resting woman beside me felt like a
foreign object that didn't sound or feel like the Martha
Jane I wanted to talk to and explain my dream to.
I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fell
asleep again.
Continued...
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