Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  “But Father,” Mr. Fairfax leads in tentatively, “what about the sex?”

  “Oh, peas and rice, Richard, give it up!” Mrs. Fairfax shouts. “I think we’ve pressed Father Johnstone enough for one day, don’t you?”

  “No, it’s fine, Jean,” the pastor says. “It’s okay. Go ahead, Richard.”

  As much as he hates to admit it, Father Johnstone is intrigued by the various workings and malfunctions of sex, perhaps because he’s never participated himself. Outside of the physical mechanics, the act (which is technically a tribute according to the Good Book) is mostly a mystery, so there’s a strange dynamic at play when being asked about a subject he knows next to nothing about, nor personally experienced. Father Johnstone is learned in sentiment and emotive context, not the tangible application, which is where Mr. Fairfax’s interests lie.

  “How to I put this?” Mr. Fairfax considers, sighing. “We would…okay, how do we make it…better?”

  “I don’t follow,” the pastor says.

  “What my husband is trying to say, Father, is that we know this is a tribute to the Lord,” Mrs. Fairfax says. “The tribute, however, is…well, it’s become lackluster as of late.”

  “An empty tribute, Father,” Mr. Fairfax says. “Like we’re going through the motions but there’s no meaning behind them.”

  “Hold on, you’re saying you no longer find joy in this act?” Father Johnstone asks. “That it feels vacant?”

  The Fairfaxes turn to each other, tilting their heads slightly considering if what they’re about to say should be verbalized. Their admission might not be well-received, but they’re also not the type to withhold information from their pastor. Guilt by omission, as they say. It’s a grave sin to lie to a man of the cloth. By extension, that’s a lie to God as well.

  “Yes. More or less,” Mrs. Fairfax says. “We won’t bore you with the details but it’s become a bit of a chore. A burden, almost.”

  “Tell us, is empty sex between spouses a sin?” Mr. Fairfax asks. “We’ve been wondering about that.”

  “No,” Father Johnstone leans back in his chair, considering all the factors in the scenario. There’s a parallel in there somewhere. He can feel it, almost as if God Himself sent the Fairfaxes to help deduce his own recent problems: the nightmares, the irritability, and a certain numbness regarding the wellbeing of his flock. Much like Father Johnstone, the couple before him have strayed from their usual selves.

  “Empty sex isn’t technically a sin, Richard,” the pastor says. “But tell me something…how have you two been sleeping lately?”

  Las Vegas, NV

  The Christian lingerie fails.

  Serena’s disease transfers over to me after a one-week incubation period, manifesting in a steady discharge of cloudy fluid that is neither urine nor semen, accompanied by a mild inflammation at the tip of the urethra. Great pain now occurs during the process of voiding the bladder, a sensation akin to that of passing hardened splinters or pine needles. Pain also occurs during the act of climax, although much sharper on account of the speed the liquid exits the body.

  If the Christian faith does in fact have the ability to prevent disease, then I have somehow miscalculated and must continue on with the experiment.

  “We’re going to try something a little different,” I tell the girl on the bed—not Serena. This one goes by the name of Desiree, however, I’ve since devised the modern whore regularly exercises deceit in order to conceal their identity. She is ashamed of her endeavor, and therefore, distances herself from it on every conceivable level.

  Desiree examines the items sitting on the hotel comforter: a Bible, a crucifix, a large bottle of water. “You want me to do what now?” she asks, flipping through the text with no intention of reading it, keeping idle hands busy. Wearing a fresh set of Christian lingerie, Desiree rests on her side and smoothes one leg over the other, flipping through Genesis…Exodus…Leviticus.

  “Start with the Bible,” I tell her. “And keep the Lord in your heart as you do it.”

  She glares at me for a moment, abhorred. “You’re into some weird shit, mister,” Desiree says, closing the book shut and rolling onto her back. The corner of the text mashes into her clitoral region, rubbing, applying stimulation to nerve endings. Responsive nerve endings that cause the vaginal cavity to salivate, becoming wet with enzymes.

  I take a mental inventory: Christian text, Christian symbol of worship, Christian lingerie. A bottle of Holy water that I procured from a receptacle that was used for something called a ‘baptism.’ Under intense duress, the priest with the broken fingers finally admitted that my experiment was ill-intentioned and likely to fail. ‘A nutjob,’ he called me, which I can only assume is a derogatory term considering the context. I broke two more of his fingers, impressing upon him that another failed ordainment would come with consequences.

  “This is too kinky,” Desiree says, rubbing the spine of the Bible over the cleft in her underwear. Faster until the labia engorges with blood, flushing hot. Wet. “I’m not even gonna ask how this turns you on.”

  I smirk, adjust in my chair. “The crucifix now. Pull your underwear aside.”

  Desiree does as instructed, laying down the book and taking the cross in a manicured hand, palming the longest of the four ends. She exposes the vaginal canal: glistening meat. Clean unblemished skin. One wooden corner is applied to the clitoral region, rubbing methodically so as not to cut herself.

  “This is totally unsanitary,” she comments.

  I stand up from the chair, approach the bed and take in the air filling the space between her knees. It is lacking contaminants. No disease. Modern chemical components are regularly being applied to purify the area, a process I’ll later discover is called ‘douching.’ Vinegar, salt, and calendula herb. This particular whore cleans herself; aesthetic damage is minimal. No scabs or major abrasions, which might explain why she costs 300% more than Serena.

  Desiree makes eye-contact, asking me in a smoky tone, “Do you like that, daddy? Does this make your cock hard?”

  ‘Daddy’ is an informal substitute for ‘lover.’ ‘Cock,’ in this instance, does not refer to the traditional farm bird, but the male sex organ. Much of my understanding of modern culture and dialect can be attributed to whores. Las Vegas whores especially tend to be especially worldly, hailing from all corners of the U.S. along with Europe, Asia, and South America. Their vocation is perhaps even more diverse than my own, which is saying something.

  Desiree asks me in her smoldering voice, “This get you hot?” peeling apart healthy pink labia, rubbing the tip of the crucifix over it.

  I shake my head, lean down and adjust the idol symbol in her hand so that the Savior is facing downward. “Like that,” I say.

  “Is Jesus supposed to be eating me out?”

  ‘Eating out’ does not literally mean to bite, chew, and swallow. I made that mistake some years ago and have since learned it’s the slang vernacular for oral stimulation.

  I say, “Yes, he’s eating you out.” Reminding her, “And you keep Him in your heart while you do it.”

  Desiree complies. Legs butterfly-wing open, mashing the carved face of the Savior into that cluster of nerve endings, moaning convincingly. I grab the bottle of water from the bed, unscrew the cap, and proceed to dump the contents on her pubic bone. It cascades through her vaginal canal, past the perineum, onto the comforter where it begins to soak through to the mattress. Desiree suspends stimulation, glaring at me inquisitively.

  “Holy water,” I tell her. “To purify you.”

  She rolls her eyes, shakes her head. I unzip my pants and remove myself, bringing the tip of my penis closer to her. It’s still drooling, leaking. Oozing disease. “You need to put on a condom,” she says, bringing her knees together. Desiree props up on her elbows and waits for me to address the circumstances.

  From my front pocket, I pull out a $5,000 casino chip. Based on the initial fee I paid her, this equates to roughly six encounters. It doe
sn’t take long for Desiree to calculate that. Whores are reasonably proficient in math. She sighs, takes the chip in her empty hand and lets her shoulders touch back to the comforter. Legs spread and she gives the crotch of the underwear one final tug to the side, offering an adequate route of entry.

  “You better not give me anything I don’t want,” she says, sliding the casino chip into the top of the corset. “I’m serious.”

  I nose the tip against her clit, smoothing it down to her labia, bathing in Holy water and organic lubricant. Hot disease and fever burns. Stings. I ask, “Do I really look like someone who would do that?” pushing myself inside her.

  I implore God to stop me.

  To save the whore.

  The Examination

  “Let’s check the ol’ ticker,” Dr. Keller says, pressing the end of a stethoscope to Father Johnstone’s bare chest. He flinches slightly, chills spiking as Dr. Keller moves the metal pad down an inch, left another. It settles over Father Johnstone’s heart, and the doctor squints while he listens. Dr. Keller raises his eyebrows and gives a satisfied little nod, plucking the eartips of the stethoscope and positioning them around his neck. “Sounds normal to me,” he says.

  Father Johnstone, however, has never felt more unlike himself. What started off as a general sense of fatigue and passivity has deformed into something much worse. He’s getting headaches—intense migraines, to be exact, and this is accompanied by an unrelenting state of exhaustion that’s since prompted him to start taking massive amounts of sugar with his coffee. This merely delays the problem for a short while, though. Moments of pain-free alertness are few and far between, and so the pastor finds himself cycling through caffeine, various pills, and the numerous prayers begging for a return to good health. He prays for strength and the will to go on, or even just a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep when he’s feeling especially desperate. So far, neither God nor the marvels of modern medicine have responded.

  It’s the first time in many years that Father Johnstone has seen a doctor for anything other than his annual flu vaccination. There was the one instance where a random nail in the basement snagged the pastor’s arm. He got a tetanus shot and had some standard blood work performed. Besides that, Father Johnstone has always avoided Dr. Keller’s table, either by living a life of low risk or the utilization of home remedy should illness arrive. It’s always been easy to stay healthy in Pratt if you’re careful, so the pastor’s current condition is a bit of a culture shock compared to the common cold.

  “And you said you’ve been experiencing insomnia-like symptoms?” Dr. Keller asks, wooden clipboard at the ready.

  During the day, the pastor can barely stay awake. At night, he can hardly sleep for more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time. He’s waking up so often that Mary has all but given up on her usual balled-up position under the covers, opting for the living room couch or a pile of dirty laundry if it’s available. This is about the extent of what Father Johnstone feels comfortable revealing. Symptoms are required for Dr. Keller to make an informed diagnosis; it’s none of his business as to what the nightmares are actually about. That’s irrelevant, the pastor thinks.

  “Okay, and you said that you’re waking up about every half hour or so?” Dr. Keller confirms. “Can you give me a little more detail on that?”

  “The symptoms have steadily intensified,” the pastor says, buttoning his shirt back up. He sighs. “Honestly, if I could handle it or if I thought it would go away on its own, I wouldn’t be here.”

  For the past three nights the condition has been at its worst. Father Johnstone is ripped from sleep, usually bolting upright so violently that it strains his lower back, always covered in sweat. There’s so much of it he has to wring out his pajamas over the bathroom sink. This process is such a chore though, that he’s since cast his modesty aside, either returning to bed in fresh briefs or completely nude. He prays the Lord forgives his indecency. Father Johnstone begs and pleads the Lord let him sleep for just a couple hours without a nightmare or migraine or fever sweating episode. He prays for the very simple ability to sleep and to sleep soundly, sometimes shouting into the dark about why the Lord would test him like this. He asks God about the nightmares, but as always, there’s no response, verbal or otherwise. Not unless Mary’s grumbling counts. Understandably, she’s been especially cross with her owner with all the shouting and waking up in the middle of the night.

  “It sounds like you’re experiencing night terrors,” Dr. Keller says, scribbling something on the clipboard. “That’s what the symptoms indicate, anyway. The interesting part is that for a man your age, this is extremely unusual.”

  “How so?” the pastor asks.

  “People get set in their ways after a while,” Dr. Keller says. “Stuff like this doesn’t hit men our age without a good reason. It usually means a trauma happened,” he hints.

  Even though Dr. Keller isn’t technically one of the flock, he’s a pillar in the town of Pratt, much like Father Johnstone. People respect him. Admitting that something happened, that there was indeed a trauma of sorts, would make the pastor look weak and incapable of leading. It could compromise him, both spiritually and professionally.

  “Did something happen, Father?” Dr. Keller tries again.

  He can’t tell him about the blank spots in his memory, or the moment of lust he may or may not have shared with the widow Wright. His heated meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax has to be kept quiet, too. These are dark turns that need to remain secret, not only because these things would embarrass and discredit the pastor, but like Dr. Keller, there’s a certain amount of confidentiality he must retain on behalf of the flock. Legally, doctors have to do it, but Father Johnstone answers to a higher power. He answers to God, and he’d prefer not to test the Lord right now with sleights of betrayal.

  “I haven’t really felt like myself, David, and I blame much of that on not sleeping…but as far as any trauma,” Father Johnstone says, “I’m certain that hasn’t happened.”

  “Well, the only other thing I can think of off the top of my head is that you might be Hypoglycemic,” Dr. Keller ventures. “There’s been links between individuals with low blood sugar and night terrors, although I doubt that’s the case with you.”

  “What about the migraines?” Father Johnstone asks. “The sweating…is that normal?”

  “Technically, for you, Father, none of this is normal.” Dr. Keller turns to a cabinet above a steel sink, removing supplies from the shelving: gloves, gauze, a syringe. He says, “I’d like to do some blood work, just to be thorough.”

  As Dr. Keller prepares to draw blood, Father Johnstone recalls Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax and their particular set of symptoms: irritability, detachment, and a growing sense of apathy. He had to be careful to not reveal too much about his own situation, taking the angle of the consummate caring pastor—not a man who’s been having night terrors and snapping at anyone who rubs him the wrong way. As it turns out, the Fairfaxes have been having trouble sleeping too, just not in the same way that Father Johnstone is. As Mrs. Fairfax so eloquently put it: “Could you doze off next to 200 pounds of horse turd?”

  Perhaps Father Johnstone was reaching with the theory that whatever affliction he’s recently assumed that the Fairfaxes were experiencing the very same thing. The possibility that they simply have grown to despise each other is still plausible. In fact, it’s highly likely, and no amount of counsel or prayer is going to save them. Some couples, no matter what they say, just don’t want to be fixed.

  Then Dr. Keller is snapping his fingers, saying, “Father, you’re all set.”

  The pastor opens his eyes. He looks around the room, re-familiarizing himself with the paper-shrouded exam table and glass jars containing cotton balls, tongue depressors, and swabs. He asks, “What about the blood?”

  “I took it already. Do you not remember that?” the doctor asks, possibly adding another symptom to the litany he’s already notated on the clipboard.

  “No,”
the pastor says. “I mean, yes, of course, I remember…just—like I said, haven’t been as sharp lately.” Father Johnstone stands up, noticing the cotton ball strapped to his arm with a Band-Aid along with a new weight in his shirt pocket: a foil pack of pills. He forces a reassuring smile so as to not arouse any further suspicion.

  “Remember, only one of those per night, right before bed,” Dr. Keller says. “I’ll phone you with the results, okay?”

  Father Johnstone nods, exiting the examination room feeling detached again. Another migraine thumps behind his eyes as he proceeds down the hallway, giving a half-hearted wave to the receptionist on his way out of the building. Not even a block away from the doctor’s office, and already the pastor is regretting his choice to misrepresent his condition. The sweating and nightmares and headaches—those things are all true, but the pastor has also been experiencing periods of intense anger and sporadic forgetfulness. Mood swings are becoming more and more prevalent.

  Sometimes he snaps at people without just cause. Other times he materializes not knowing how he got to his destination. Yesterday, for instance, Father Johnstone was at the butcher picking up hamburger meat, and not even a moment later, he was standing outside the Presto Diner watching Miss Paige serving breakfast through one of the storefront windows. He didn’t remember paying for his groceries or the usual five-minute walk the restaurant. The pastor, for lack of a better term, had simply ‘appeared.’ At least, that’s what it felt like to him.

  Luckily, he was supposed to pick up a batch of peach cobbler from Madeline anyway. After his critique of her other desserts, she insisted the pastor try one more on the pretense of it being “a gigantic favor that I will be forever grateful for.” Winning a category at the annual Pratt bake-off has become important to her, and so Father Johnstone has been doing his due diligence in the form of cookies, pies, and any other treat Miss Paige concocts in her kitchen. The apricot turnovers she made were exceptional, he recalls.