Diary of a Reformed Harlot: Part Five
My lack of female camaraderie is the underline reason why my vag has become hotly contested territory. I have sorors but I don’t trust them as far as I see them; all except Jackie, the interior designer working with TI. Jackie and I were friends before pledging but even more so afterwards on account of her saving my ass on more than one occasion. My problem, if it can be called a problem, is I simply don’t get along with women; especially those who whine about their plight in life. Why don’t they shut the hell up or change it?
Take Jackie for example. In school, she dreamt of opening her own design firm and marrying Mr. Perfect. My dream was less ambitious in the area of matrimony; a healthy relationship was a bonus prize for working my ass off. Anyway, I left school with a degree in marketing and finance. Jackie left with a degree in business, an ill-suited husband, and a raging case of chlamydia. Antibiotics cured one problem but it took ten years and a painful divorce to rid herself of the other. Today she has a flourishing business, an adorable son, LJ, and she’s happily single. She didn’t whine—she changed herself and in doing so, changed her circumstances.
Lately our schedules have reduced our conversations to news flashes and bulletins; brief and to the point. What I need a girlfriend with nothing better to do than call me a hussy and sort out my love life; preferably over cocktails. As is, I have four men with whom I can’t imagine life without. Okay, PC is a pain in the ass at times but we share a past—that counts for something. True is, I thought I’d have my head wrapped around this by now instead of spinning my wheels. I’ll be thirty-nine in two days and I didn’t envision being here, stuck, at thirty-nine.
Brit is my only beau who has met all of the others. He quickly wrote off TI and PC as non-threats to his dominion; TI because of his youth and PC because of our checkered past. Bishop was an entirely different story. They met last year at my birthday party when I foolishly assumed two alpha males with egos the size of Central Park would get along considering neither of them was overly possessive of me. Bullshit! I’ll be damned if the night didn’t turn into a verbal clash of the Titians.
I normally hate themed parties where everyone dresses as whores and pimps but last year my sorors out did themselves. I actually got in on the fun wearing a curve hugging short black dress with intricate lace sections revealing an indecent amount of cleavage, a garter belt around my bare thigh, and a pair of black hooker heels. The evening was going well: music was pumping, I was tipsy, my sorors were shameless flirting with Brit, and he was politely ignoring their advances. The doorbell rang. I answered, and Bishop gave me a wicked half cocked smirk. I’d ticked every box beside his weaknesses: translucency, lace and bare skin. I was getting laid!
Stepping into the house, he slowly pulled me against him, our pelvises connected gently but firmly and with clear intent. He whispered in my ear how it was good to see me and there was a delicious moment when we ended the hug and our faces passed closely and our eyes locked. I looked him up and down and gave him a cheeky smile. He was wearing a black button down pushed up at the elbow, and those dark faded jeans that made his ass look like a million bucks.
“You’re not wearing a costume?” Even at the time, my comment seemed stupid.
“I could’ve come dressed as a Bishop.” He kissed my cheek, and whispered, “You look amazing. Happy birthday, my love.”
I giggled schoolgirl with a secret crush, then introduced him to everyone. I freely admit to being a little jealous when I caught a few females eyeing him. Brit, who also turned up sans costume, was courteous until the identity of the man with his arm around my waist was revealed. Then the preverbal gloves came off. They traded jabs and cynical remarks and cold stares while I stood there like a deer in headlights.
“You’re a Bishop,” Brit said condescendingly.
“Yeah, I oversee nearly four hundred parishes. Why?”
“No reason. Must keep you busy. I’ve never seen you guys without your pointy hats.”
“The occasion didn’t call for vestments,” He pulled me closer. “And I’m never too busy for her.”
Not so bad, I told myself.
“Good! She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Brit brushed the back of his fingers down my cheek, “She’s a bit much for one man to handle; even me. It’s good to know you’re there to pick up my lightweight.”
FUCK! He’s gonna hit him!!! I screamed in my head when Bishop’s jaw twitched. This was bad, very bad!
“Hmm,” Bishop took a sip of beer, saying nothing else.
Brit wasn’t going to be blown off so easily. “Excuse my frankness, Father…it is Father, right?”
Bishop dropped his arm from my waist and angrily stood toe to toe with Brit, “You can call me ‘Your Excellency’. He clinked beer bottles with Brit. “Cheers, asshole.” He went upstairs to my bedroom—possibly to pray—but most likely to find my loaded forty-five. I followed.
In my bedroom, he tried apologizing for his behavior but my mouth went straight to his. I slammed him against the wall, and quickly opening his jeans. I was on my knees and he was in my mouth before he drew his next breath.
“Oh shit,” he whispered down at me. One hand held my hair back. The other cupped my face.
Taken off guard, he mindlessly, helplessly, watched his cock disappear between my lips. His thighs trembled as he dove into the warm depths of my throat. Sucking and devouring; nothing slow, nothing tender. It was pure frantic need.
“Oh fuck. I’m going to cum,” Muffled, dizzy cries with fists knotted in my hair. My mouth was bursting full. His eyes looked down at me looking up at him…begging for a fix.
Sucking, stroking, he watched me taking what was mine. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. Cum pumped through his cock, painting my throat and tongue. I drained him dry.
Dazed, and panting, I left him standing in there and returned to my guests.
Diary of a Reformed Harlot: Part Five
So where’s all of this rambling leading? Hell, I try not to think about it. But my birthday is around the corner, I don’t want to be in this situation next year. It’s time, if only on paper, to face my demons.
Later that night after my party, Bishop and I conceived a child. I’d finally proven I wasn’t a genetic dead-end—I could bear a child. Sadly, by a man who was outwardly celibate.
I was in firm denial for a month. By the second month, I admitted to myself but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was carrying his child. I wanted to tell him. I needed his support; I needed anyone’s support. I couldn’t turn to my emotionally stretched family. Miko was having one of her bad spells; it just didn’t seem like the right time. I swallowed my problems and got on with it.
I made the appointment for an abortion, telling myself that, by not telling Bishop, I was being magnanimous. I was saving him the guilt of having to ask me to have an abortion. I was taking the blood off of his hands; he couldn’t be guilty if he had no knowledge. I even tried to convince myself that I didn’t love him. I told myself I was nothing to him; a fuck, one of many probably. As the date approached and the morning sickness grew worse, I kicked him away. I fought him at every turn, angry that he couldn’t read my mind.
Truth is I was afraid of losing him. I was afraid he’d blame me. This, in hindsight, was the stupidest bullshit I ever sold myself. He would’ve been there for me. Maybe that’s what I was afraid of:: he would have stood by me…again proving to be my soul-mate. What good is a soul-mate when you can’t marry them without destroying who they are!? I didn’t have a choice. I did what I had to do…alone, as always.
I don’t remember much of the procedure itself. I lay there, staring at the white cotton cheese looking ceiling, wincing only as the local anesthetic was applied and when the suction became unbearable. I remember my ears ringing, a metallic taste in my mouth, and staff whirling about the room. It was over in minutes. The nurse helped me to a private observation room where I sat sipping orange juice. A car service brought me home but I can’t remember how I got in the house. I recall sleeping that night curled against Bishop’s chest. And I recall feeling needy.
I’ve never kept anything from him. How could I tell him what I can’t admit to myself? I want it to go away so I can go on pretending it hadn’t happened. So far so good. Somewhere along the way, I’ve pushed it out of my head.
But…there’s always a ‘but’…
The memories came rushing back while visiting Bishop’s family. Bishop was adopted at birth. His mother was raised a good Catholic so when she discovered she was pregnant at sixteen, she was ‘urged’ to give him away to a stable Catholic family who could offer him a better life, with the understanding being he’d join the church. His illegitimacy wasn’t a secret, though there are times I believe he wishes it were. His parents overcompensate by constantly offering to help locate his biological parents. It doesn’t take a rocket science to see he’s not interested. I guess this explains why the structured life of a cleric suits him; his work brings comfort to his parishioners, and he spends great stretches of time away. More than anything though, it’s the charitable element of his position he finds most fulfilling.
Is he a soft touch? Hell no!
With more than four hundred parishes under his governance, he isn’t the easiest Bishop to work for. While Dominicans are considered conformist, and the undisputed masters of scholastic logic, Bishop promotes inner personal relationships with God above all else to his priest and congregations alike. This, in the eyes of his fellow Dominicans, has earned him the reputation of an Anglican.
Still, he runs a tight ship not unlike the mob. He’s happy-go-lucky, you’re best friend—but at the slightest hint of scandal, someone is gonna take a bullet to the back of the head. No half stepping of any kind goes unchecked. Some might see his approach as hypocritical given the stark contrast between his private life and the standards by which he governs others. It isn’t. His faith is genuine but his private life is his own. And his sister Penny encroaches on both. Three days into our trip, I wanted to strangle her.
For sake of appearances, I filled the position of his secretary which, given our level of intimacy, wasn’t far from the truth. His parents were sweet as pie…Penny was disingenuous. With a face shaped like a yield sign spackled by Jackson Pollock, being short, fat, rude were her redeeming qualities. Her narrow eyes rarely left Bishop which led me to believe there were untapped incestuous feelings floating about – turns out she’s overprotective. I can’t blame her. I’d be protective if my self-worth derived solely from my sibling’s accomplishments.
After a pep talk from Bishop, I attempted to get along with her. This venture ended with her thinly veiled presumption that I was leading Bishop away from the church. I kindly remained her who the hell she was talking to and that if Bishop left the church, it wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I might’ve called her a bitch; I can’t remember.
On a happier note, nothing says, “I’m sorry my sister is such a bitch” like cunnilingus. Later that night, I lay with my hips on the edge of the bed while Bishop knelt on the floor licking me to orgasm. I love when he looks up at me, and smiles with his face still buried between my thighs, telling me how much he loves me between kisses.
We lay curled around one another—a curtain of post-coital fog set in. I sensed something was eating at him. He’d spent most of the day visiting neighboring parishes so I chalked up his restless to exhaustion and hours spent in stiff clerical dress. But this was different. He was quiet, unusually so. In retrospect, he’d been out of sorts since we arrived.
“Lena?” He paused. “Let’s make a baby.”
I froze. “You don’t mean that.” I said as if his words hadn’t knocked the wind out of me.
“That’s the problem,” He sighed deeply, and kissed the back of my head. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.”
What the hell have I done? It was time to tell him about the abortion. Still frozen, the words were snared in my throat. It was now or never. Why couldn’t I speak?
“Goodnight.” Bishop pulled the covers over our tangled bodies.
Just like that, my opportunity was lost.