Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  Madeline. Always Madeline.

  She lies on the bed, bidding Father Johnstone to come closer, to press his body against her own. He refuses at first, opting to remain at the far corner of the bed with his knees pulled bashfully to his chest. His heart beats faster; the sweating begins. It’s not heat. This isn’t a particularly warm place. Father Johnstone is lusting, and Madeline smoothes the spot next to her on the bed with a hand, as if to say, ‘You can lie here safely…right next to me,’ and so the pastor moves closer to her, skin and blood hot, almost boiling. He accepts her invitation, dragging palms and knees across the silk surface. Little dark blotches of sweat trail from the corner of the bed, diagonally to where Madeline is waiting. He feels himself grow firm as he gets closer. Closer still, she reaches out to him, a hand curling around the back of his neck and pulling the pastor’s face to her own. Father Johnstone can smell her sweet breath, the heat in his skin and blood spiking when she says, “Kiss me. Hard.”

  This part of the dream is also consistent.

  At the beginning of these episodes, Father Johnstone would usually wake up in his bed, alarmed and covered in sweat. Sometimes out of breath or shaking. These were the first whispers of sex he’d experienced in years, making his lungs and heart flex uncomfortably, almost painfully as they had long been out of practice. The excitement of sin, even imagined sin, accelerated his body to the point of exertion. So Father Johnstone would need to take a moment to calm down, breathing slowly in the dark as Mary tried to get comfortable again. He’d splash cool water on his face in the bathroom, changing into fresh pajamas if necessary, and wait for his organs to stop rattling inside himself. Father Johnstone would return to bed, breathing and praying. Breathing slowly in the dark, and praying to the good Lord for dreamless rest. He prayed these excursions with Madeline didn’t get any worse.

  The Lord wasn’t listening.

  Back to sleep, back into the dreams where she’s waiting, lounging nude upon the bed, it happens again. Father Johnstone is naked and disoriented, drawn to the only familiar aspect within the void of candles and silk. Madeline clutches the back of his neck and they kiss, sometimes sweetly, other times lewd to the point of it being unnatural if he resists. It’s those instances in which he tries to keep to the Divine path that it turns nefarious, he’s realized. Madeline pushes her tongue into the pastor’s mouth, then further, deep down into his throat so that it’s pressing against his trachea. It makes a crunching sound and Father Johnstone’s breathing stops, his neck visibly bulging. Most of the time he’ll suffocate on tongue and wake up in his bed again. Other times he’ll bite down, flooding his mouth with wet meat and blood. The pastor’s gag reflex kicks in, pushing the elongated lump out of his throat onto the bed. Meat flops around on the mattress while Madeline pulls back, laughing girlishly with blood seeping through her teeth, saying, ‘You’ll learn to like this one day, Johnstone.’

  Again, the pastor would wake up, wet and shaking and scared. Again, he’d try to tell himself that these are just dreams. They are grotesque in nature and disturbing, yes, but dreams all the same. No real harm can come from them. He’ll always wake up in the safety of his own home, heart beating in his ears and unnerved, but safe all the same. And so the cycle would begin again: calming the body, clearing the mind, and praying to the good Lord once again that when he returns to sleep, there are no terrors waiting for him. He prayed sweet Madeline be not on the other side ready to do the unspeakable, to tempt him into sin, and yet the pastor is unsure if he truly meant it. Lust may have eclipsed the sentiment, that carnal need to experience in dreams what he vowed never to do on earth. He wasn’t ‘learning to like it,’ as Madeline said, but he couldn’t deny that he was becoming acclimated.

  As Father Johnstone has said before, “A man who does not fear sin is destined to commit them.”

  The Devil plays off the will of the weak and complacent. He allows you to accept sin in your life, eventually pushing you to a point of indulgence, and before you know it, your life is consumed by lust or violence. It becomes drugs and alcohol and pornography. You covet, fornicate, and murder without regard, but these dark paths always start with that sliver of welcome, which is why we must reject all sin in all forms. Every version. Even in dreams.

  Father Johnstone has reiterated these warnings numerous times in his sermons and private counseling sessions, usually in regards to marital fidelity. In fact, he doesn’t doubt Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are destined to go down this road themselves, what with their mutual disgust and ever-increasing animosity. It seems only natural they’d venture outside of their marriage in search of those earthly delights they no longer find in each other, but this is a slippery slope as most sinners are repeat offenders. Only those true to the Lord and His Word repent with the intention of adhering to virtue, and Father Johnstone doesn’t see this in the Fairfaxes. Their immediate happiness is all that seems to matter to them, which is making them lose sight of the final destination of their souls.

  The pastor will not make the same mistake.

  He has emerged from the hospital with a mission, one that takes precedence over retrieving Mary from the Adams’ household or his still-panging gut. These things can wait for the time being. As Dr. Keller says, “Sometimes living longer means putting your life on hold for a bit,” however, Father Johnstone’s task at hand has nothing to do with blood types or anything regarding his physical self. He needs to heal his spirit, to cleanse his blood of the evil that’s so obviously inhabited it, and so he now finds himself en route to the First Church of Pratt.

  Today, he must save himself.

  The pastor is wearing the same short-sleeved dress shirt and black slacks he had on at the bake-off, though they’ve since been washed and pressed. Not a trace of blood remains, and he hopes Jeremiah Will’s wife had a similar amount of luck with the lime-green polo. Although he can’t be sure, the pastor suspects Jeremiah bought the shirt specifically for his judging duties at the bake-off for the sake of impressions, and he makes a mental note to pay him a visit later to atone for the inconvenience he caused. Only after he’s taken care of himself though. Mary and the hunger and all the apologies he owes can wait. He needs Lord’s house and His counsel. He needs his spirit mended and the Devil seized from his blood.

  No more Madeline Paige, he thinks.

  No more dreams of seduction and lust, the pornographic reel of her pressing breasts to his mouth, forcing his head between her legs and commanding him to lick, chew, and suck, and if he resists, he knows blood is coming. She bleeds from her breasts, soaking the pastor’s mouth with boiling hot copper that blisters his tongue, but sometimes it goes beyond the scope of his imagination, and this is how Father Johnstone knows it’s the Devil at play. The Devil inhabits his mind, feeding him anti-fantasy of his mouth on the vaginal cavity of Madeline Paige, reluctantly licking, saliva leaking down and pooling into the crimson silk. Her hands will be clamped on the back of his head, pulling him to her, inside of her, and if he resists, a bouquet of maggots blooms out of Madeline’s canal. The maggots chew the inside of his cheeks and burrow into his teeth, devouring him, eating his throat, and they taste like sugar. They taste like all those dreamy desserts Madeline feeds him, and she’s laughing, writhing on the bed as the pastor chokes on the sweet moving obstruction. She says, “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. They all do.”

  Walking the dirt dusted roads of Pratt, Father Johnstone catches himself mumbling prayers, saying, “Lord, remove these demons from my mind. Lord, grant me clarity and peace.”

  He walks with Divine purpose, and at the halfway point between the hospital and the church, the pastor notices people stopping in their tracks on the sidewalk. They’re gawking, looking at him like a man back from the dead. Last they saw, he was bleeding and falling apart in the arms of Jeremiah Will, bursting blood, so a rumor of his passing isn’t exactly farfetched. Or maybe they think he’s sick. Their faces shift through a range of expressions upon seeing Father Johnstone, always starting with rec
ognition, but then turning to either pure fear or the indecision as to whether or not to say ‘hi’ or wave or give a cordial smile. He’s storming by too fast anyway, granting onlookers the reprieve of being able to pretend they didn’t notice each other. The smalltown niceties he’s grown accustomed to over the years have been tossed to the back burner, replaced by a sense of disdain or avoidance. No one wants to be the first to reach out, to offer the hand of acceptance that the pastor so often preaches of extending.

  Dr. Keller wasn’t exaggerating; Pratt has been talking.

  Mr. Farson notices the pastor coming his way, prematurely flicking a cigarette to the street that’s not even halfway finished. He enters the hardware store, smoke carrying over his shoulder while another couple of onlookers halt their conversation midsentence, staring conspicuously at Father Johnstone. The pastor is still walking and mumbling, praying to the good Lord as Mr. Radford throws a disapproving glare his way from a porch rocking chair. He elevates today’s edition of The Pratt Tribune just below eye-level, spying the man stalking past and chattering to himself in the street. There’s hatred in their eyes. Hatred and fear, and then something firm pelts the pastor’s shoulder blade, bursting wet and staining the crisp white shirt. Father Johnstone catches a few tendrils of fruit and seeds flying through the air, but cares not enough to identify the assailant who’s launching tomatoes at him.

  He says, “Lord, allow the flock to forgive me, and allow me passage to forgive myself for resenting them. Give me time and peace to restore my spirit.”

  Another tomato pegs Father Johnstone in the lower back, and then an egg whizzes by from his left, just missing his head and shattering against the tire of a tan Chevy parked outside the painting supplies store. Someone, a teenage youth from the sound of it, yells out from behind him, “Get the hell on, preacher!”

  The wind kicks up the dust, and dirt clings to the wetness of the pastor’s shirt as he trudges on, praying. Another egg sails past him, but he neither speeds up nor slows down his pace. He never looks any other direction other than forward, the path towards sanctuary. Father Johnstone is on the road to redemption and clarity. His pale eyes spot the church lawn up ahead, just as a third egg is chucked his direction. It clips the back of his right arm, and veers off to the street where it shatters to snot and white shrapnel.

  “Are you testing me, Lord?” Father Johnstone asks. He looks to the sky and the sun wavers, like a mirage. “Am I to turn my back on the flock now that they’ve turned on me? Shall I seek exile?”

  A rock strikes the back of the pastor’s thigh—not big enough to cause any real damage, but it stings and will surely leave a welt of some sort. Wincing slightly, Father Johnstone prays for relief, staggering towards the church as another rock clips his elbow, and then more eggs and fruit sail past. His boots are sticky with the guts of tomatoes and wet dirt. He can hear the shouts of children and men behind him, cursing his name and demanding he get out of their town. He can feel their hate, even without the death threats and promises of brutality should he not heed their warnings. Acrimony fills the air, and it’s all directed at Father Johnstone for his actions: his sacrilege, his disease, his public scrutiny of the Good Book.

  He enters the church knowing full well that he is indeed the most despised man in Pratt, attempting to turn his heart to embrace of God, but his thoughts remain on Madeline Paige and what those dreams could mean. Perhaps she has dreams of her own where the pastor, like herself, does the unspeakable. Maybe in her mind Father Johnstone is the aberrant aggressor, but the very idea of posing such a question to her directly goes beyond the lines of simple intrusion. Madeline has always been the open-minded type, a free spirit really. To inquire as to whether or not she molests a man of the cloth in dreams might offend her, potentially damaging the relationship beyond repair or apology.

  Kneeling down before the oversized crucifix at the head of the main aisle, the pastor begs for enlightenment specific to Miss Madeline Paige. He prays for the origins of these dreams to be revealed, whether they be the product of Satan or otherwise. His soft words echo through the rafters and arched boughs of the church, asking for guidance to truth, for salvation of spirit. Father Johnstone opens his mind to the Lord, saying, “Forgive me, but I must share my nightmare with you.”

  Madeline is on the bed.

  The bed is wrapped in silk and surrounded by candles. Father Johnstone is comfortable this time, feeling no shame or self-loathing for his indecency. He makes his way over to Madeline without being asked. Normally, she has to lure the pastor over, but not this time. Instead, he lunges at her mouth-first, kissing her. He kisses her hard, just as she would instruct him to, and he feels himself grow firm. Father Johnstone is completely hard, but he wants to taste her first. He wants to put his mouth on that vaginal cavity that usually emits such sugary horrors, almost daring her to do it again now that the Lord is present. His tongue plunges into her, past the labia, pushing deep inside of Madeline, and she’s moaning and gripping the bedding in tightly wound fists. The pastor pushes his face and tongue between the legs of Madeline Paige, sometimes pulling back and inserting two wet fingers inside of her, plunging them in and out. In and out, and she tells him to fuck her. Fuck her now, and because the Lord needs to see how bad this can get, he does it. For the first time, real or imagined, the pastor inserts himself inside a woman and begins thrusting into her. Fornicating. Fucking her. She coaxes him to fuck her harder, and the pastor does it, a part of him waiting for the terror to happen: for the vaginal cavity to grow teeth and castrate him or perhaps a boiling hot fluid to gush out of her and burn him awake. He’s expecting this, but all that happens is pleasure and Madeline’s eyes locking into his. They’re just as warm as the campfire smile. And Father Johnstone pumps her, pumps her harder, building, coming closer to release, closer until he bursts inside of her, soaking her insides, and she’s climaxing too. Madeline’s looking at Father Johnstone, peering into his eyes, smiling and telling him, “See? I knew you’d learn.”

  And then he wakes up.

  Father Johnstone wakes up in the church before the oversized crucifix of thy Lord and Savior, pants down and erection wilting in his hand. Warm milky fluid is running down the backs of his fingers, pooling on the dark flooring. The pastor panics, quickly tucking himself back in and hoping that nobody noticed. He prays that there was no one around to witness his lust manifesting itself, that this mortal sin transpired covertly, and that’s when he sees Mrs. Tiller standing off to the right by the spare office, tears streaming down her face.

  She’s clutching the doorjamb, white as a sheet.

  Prosess XI: Mann på Mann

  For this process the primary male (mann) must first inebriate the servile (or submissive) male, either by way of natural poisons (reference: deadly plants and spores) or man-made chemical compounds (reference: fabricated toxins), keeping in the mind the physical side-effects beyond the servile simply becoming unconscious/unresponsive. Some of the effects (effekter) could even backfire upon the primary, as with certain spores that transfer illness via bodily fluids: blood, semen, or excrement. The primary should research and choose their inebriation method carefully before introducing it to the servile. Some recommend a high dosage of spirits or whiskey, however, this can be a timely endeavor, especially if the servile has an established tolerance (toleranse). Once the servile male has become incapacitated, the preparation process of the physical body is ready to commence. The primary male should completely disrobe the servile of all artifacts of clothing for purification (rensing). Using floral oils or warm animal fat, coat the servile and remove all body hair with an edged rock (onyx or hardened magma is said to work best; shale may also be used). Hair (hår) may be stored for later usage (reference: storage methods). After all hair is removed, turn the body of the servile so that it’s belly-down. Bring in a male goat (geit) with either a brown or white coat (never black), and align the neck of the animal over the buttocks of the servile. Slit the neck of the goat with a blessed blade (r
eference: ordaining tools) while chanting the Prayer of Sacrifice in the Divine Language. The goat blood (blod) will be used for lubrication, however, oils and liquefied animal fat may also be used. The primary male may now penetrate the anus of the servile. Please note that it is perfectly acceptable to imagine the servile’s anus is that of a female (kvinne). Climaxing is all that is important, so the primary may do whatever he wishes in order to achieve that. Homoeroticism is not humane or natural, and therefore, should not be practiced unless absolutely necessary or to establish dominance (dominans). Once climax has been achieved by the primary male, he should harvest both the servile and the slain goat for materials. Horns of a sacrificed goat, for example, are especially valuable. No matter what the primary decides regarding the organs and materials of the servile, it’s in his best interests to slay (drepe) him (no specific method recommended). A servile that realizes they have been anally penetrated is likely to be angry, and will attempt to seek revenge on the primary through violence (vold), burning his farmlands, or taking members of his family hostage. The servile must be destroyed (ødelagt) or permanently disabled.

  The First Sign

  Mrs. Magda Tiller, widow of Al Tiller, is at least ten years older than the pastor. Based on her physical appearance, though, as well as her taste in certain older films (‘the classics,’ as she refers to them), the pastor believes she’s in her early to mid-sixties. He’s accepted that he’ll probably never know for sure until her birthday is etched into a headstone, and that’s fine. The pastor has always written this off to a form of vanity specific to women. They hide their chronological age and even go as far as to conceal the tangible signs of it, usually spending their afternoons at Lana’s Salon on 3rd Street, either getting a quick manicure, hairdo, or full-on makeover. Lana’s has long been regarded as Pratt’s leading beauty resource, not to mention a proverbial hive of gossip and loose talk. Even after her husband passed on (God rest his soul), Magda continued her weekly salon trips just to stay in the loop on the current events not reported in the Tribune.