Sweetmeats (ROUND 4)
Let’s workshop this prose poem (which comes from the story "Mario Mangione") that details the step-by-step grooming tactics of priest salivating over an obese and vulnerable altar boy.
scent of the day: T. Habanero, by Rania J.—A leather-and-oud twist on the hay and incense tobacco standard we get in Serge Luten’s Chergui (only here, unlike with the sourer twist we get in Tom Ford’s Tobacco Oud, the leather and the oud are more authentic and coupled with an aftershave mint that leans this fragrance into tobacco-barbershop territory but without sacrificing darkness), T. Habanero opens with a farm-stable agarwood (prominent, but not as pungent or skanky as something like Bortnikoff’s Lao Oud or Ajmal’s Dahn Al Shams) that quickly recedes (as does the citrus-oil-zested mélange of cardamom, black pepper, and pink pepper) to a charred-and-growly-but-distant supporting role for the broad-spectrum tobacco (unsweetened, in defiance of the Herod-Naxos norm)—a quality tobacco that, evoking both cured leaves and burnt cigar ash, takes more and more of a backseat as a Rien-reminiscent trifecta of myrrh and incense and sandalwood-creamed leather (a lighter version of the same animalic leather in Orto Parisi’s Cuioum) shows itself as having been as steady (even if behind the scenes) as the eucalyptus-like camphor that (in addition to this fragrance’s lack of habanero) invites a name change: something like “Barber Chair Tabac,” which would capture the tobacco element while honoring how much this Rania J. release ultimately boils down (with its leather and shaving foam elements) to a near twin of Amouage’s Memoir Man (another notable dark fougère).
Sweetmeats
Light-hearted interaction marks the first gentle taps on the sphincter-tight jar lid of trust, the boy—for Father Peady no more than a cherry-glazed sweetmeat in a confectioner’s pick-me window—targeted for his trifecta of vulnerability: (1) broken home pickled in enough alcoholic neglect for more than one cigarette mattress fire; (2) only child starved as much for attention as for the confidence and the skill boosts of sibling competition; (3) fat as all honeybun hell. Best-foot-forward compliments, restrained from love-bombing extremes (this is not, after all, amateur hour), spill organically from Father Peady’s lips—like on the boy’s colored-pen drawings of ninja combat (“Oh wow, a true artist in the making!”), their school-counselor-worthy volumes of blood (warping and bleeding through the paper) enough to make Father Peady glance over his shoulder for any rival sharks circling among the clergy (especially Father Phiely, whose dozens-of-deaf-ears nickname “Touchy” adolescent and adult gossipers alike place perfectly between the “Father” and the “Phiely”).
Such verbal nudges evolve to shooting netless hoops behind the rectory in what outwardly appears an overdue intervention to get the boy more physically active. Repeatedly defaulting—like a one-trick-pony (but one hell of a trick it is!)—to the post-up play that would send even hesitant priests into game-on mode (clerical collar tightening with each carotid thump), the boy becomes temptress Eve incarnate on the court: ram-ramming his jiggly ass into an ever-bulging, but best believe ever-unbudging, wall of hands-high pelvis—the whole sweaty tango, like the lip bites and the heartening affirmations, lifted right out of an Atlanta nightclub: “There you go!”
Then comes a steady flow of gifts: Augustus-Gloop chocolate bars, insurance against exercise awaking any ideas about leaving the loner shell, slipped from cassock pockets—the worm-tongue phrase “KING SIZE” loud on double-entendre purpose—after an unnecessary but precedent-setting show to ensure no one sees; a paperback version of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, a little nudge from Father Peady’s favorite author to prime the boy to enter Joseph Campbell’s heroic cycle (where answering the call of adventure requires status-quo-breaking bravery, not to mention a wise mentor); a “special” rosary, talisman on the hero’s journey (kissed and handed over with a mysterious, because unwarranted, smile of conspiracy—a foreboding smile of stringy salivation).
Ambush patience rivaling that of Sauron (a self-control mustered by some magic beyond just age-amplified phronesis and age-dampened gonad yield), soon enough one-on-one time extends beyond lap-twerk b-ball (where the cock-blocking eyes of nuns and rival suitors never seem to quit). Private Latin tutoring (thick with praise when it comes to “handsome” penmanship and memorized declensions) becomes their thing in the backroom (under the staged presence of wine bottles) where no one can bother them, alone together—shoulder to shoulder, only the connection is harder and hotter and heavier than pre-mass preparation of sacred vessels (where fingertips merely graze). But even here, however much the temperature rises watching the boy with the tip of his tongue sticking out just so as he concentrates on small translations (“Puer est dulcis” and “Corpus est dulce” and writes out the gender-mismatch reason why it is wrong to say “Puer est dulce”), one must be disciplined enough not to veer too far from mere verbal affirmation. Father Peady is reliable in that regard.
Kids are perceptive, though. They can sense, if only preverbally, whether the praise is all talk. Although often appearing dumb (blushing and stuttering when the math teacher calls upon them), one must especially watch out for kids made insecure by homes of dysfunction. Those are the ones, as in the case at hand, who eventually learn to flinch at phantom warnings—yes, even through slack-jaw meditation in the glow of the nanny tube—long before the Newport sets the mattress on fire or the vomit drowns the mother in sleep or the bottle shatters against the wall from what would seem to less-experienced minds completely out of nowhere. Our boy has blanketed out mattress fires and each night turns his mother’s chin so any stomach contents flow away from exit holes. Our boy has cleaned up the broken bottles, one eye still on the cartoons as he squats with his dustpan (plumber ass crack only deepening the maternal grimace) under the tired barrage of introspection-spurring slurs (“Shoulda neva had yo’ fat ass”) that only further hypertrophy headiness even as they atrophy confidence—atrophy confidence so much that, in a neurotic feedback loop, headiness beefs up all the more until the baseline mania of hypervigilance can sniff out the merest threats (even ones that for well-adjusted others are either nothing or opportunities for growth).
Testifying to what—like the magic of the wandering eye itself or, perhaps better here, like the unsettling genius of the spider’s web—renders divine design difficult to deny, in Father Peady even the most sensitive and skittish of such boys meet their match. Actually walking the walk, Father Peady elevates his prey through “duties for the select few.” Beyond helping count weekly donations—again among the wine bottles—in the backroom (where the boy once innocently thought they burned all the money), the boy even gets to assist in the blessing of holy oils—commanded, as if by a stage director in a theater of audio pornography, to “blow” over the oils: “Blow it good. Don’t be afraid. . . . Harder! Make ripples, like the holy spirit over the sea”). Rougher knife taps of edging foreplay escalate through compliments on how well these duties—these “well-earned privileges”—are being carried out, how the boy has “defied all expectation.” Sure, all this talk of being “special” is straight out of the groomer’s guidebook. But there is good reason why it appears in every edition. Whispered benedictions of chosenness—no doubt coupled, if only we could take a peek behind the priest’s skull (especially with the benefit of hindsight), with the fantasies that would curdle holy water—slide like communion wine down the throat of a drunk parched for divine approval: “Such natural grace must make the archangels blush”; “God himself must have guided such a pure servant's heart to our parish.”
Ingratiation with the boy’s family is a chore, but a must. Ecce homo as he chokes down dinners of hamburger helper, dinners of desiccated meatloaf hit with a cold line of generic ketchup on top—the mother’s attempt, wasted (and to a net-loss degree, like the air freshener that only puts a sickly spin on the cat-shit carpet), to pretend that this is not a daily dollar-menu home. Behold his smile, strained with every forkful, as he showers the single-mother with applause for the “remarkable parenting of this special boy.” Offering to tinker with the fritzing furnace (“As long as my little helper’s willing to get dirty with me”) and even dipping into donation pots to pay up their back rent (“Oh it’s nothing, but I do expect”—he shoots the boy a wink—“this young man here to work off at least some of the debt”)—all the investment of time and energy, every brick in the wall of trust (or at least silence), proves worthwhile (hard work paying off, as if the world really were run by a grand justice). Extra-ecclesiastical one-on-one time of unfettered access—bowling and pizza, even movie nights stretching past midnight—soon raises no eyebrows. At the very worst, any family members would feel weird enough about finding it weird that they would never open their mouths. And what family members were there anyway, aside from the mom who cannot afford to hear any warnings from within; who, even if her intuition has not been drowned by gratitude (easily washed down with his regular host gift of jug wine), definitely does not want to bite the hand that feeds her?
So much depends (just like that red wheelbarrow glazed with rain) on the priest’s finesse, of course. But provided we are dealing with a talented hunter, the wedge of isolation can be hammered down after enough of these special outings (these, so the priest more and more starts to call them, “date nights”): a glut of duties and even manufactured emergencies, like altar preparation and cleanup before morning mass because of “overnight vandalism” (vandalism conveniently sexual in orientation, like penises painted on saints statues)—demands on time that keep the prey distant from the already thin flocks of family and friends.
And what would a good grooming story be without the encouragement of secret-keeping activities, each shared transgression a thread in the spider's web: sneaking an extra slice of pizza, watching a movie few parents would allow, whispered jokes lacing scripture with innuendo? Sips of sacramental zinfandel shared behind the drawn blinds of private chambers is the paradigm example, a maneuver tried-and-true—the locking of the door beforehand, one bolt two bolt, carried out with loud theatrics to test where the boy is at in regards to fight or flight (as if testing were even needed, the way the boy has only gotten more aggressive with his posting up in the paint).
And speaking of testing, the physical boundaries must be tested: hands lingering too long under the pretense of adjusting altar robes, extra hugs (and of lifting proportion), roughhousing that only gets rougher (and that culminates in tickle sadism and even a few nipple twists), shoulder massages, compliments shifting more toward physical features—and also, the best priests taking care not to let the direction of touch become too lopsided, lubing the boy’s hands with blessing oil (a breaking point for young lions still clumsy with their game, but not for our man) and then guiding those hands over the priest’s fantasy-wrinkled forehead until the boy gets the hint (reciprocation becoming self-driven) and the priest can let go to grip the boy’s shoulders in false prayer (tightening just enough to make resistance feel unholy).
Backing off from physical contact (“I’m sorry Georgie, but Father Peady’s just too busy for basketball”) has long proven a solid tactic at this point to keep the boy squirming in hunger for redemptive contact: combing through memories to discern what sin might have cost him his special status, wondering what other boy might have the man’s attention, until perhaps—granted sufficient drawing out of touch denial—the desperation to put and end to the withdrawal himself becomes too much. During this calculated distance, the priest—if there is anything to nominative determinism (and assuming, of course, he has the courage to pursue his prize beyond fantasy)—will be adding even stickier threads to the web of dependency. Confidant for every locker room anxiety, every struggle at home, every—you can bet your bottom dollar—pubescent dream, the priest will position himself—with the help of double-entendre endcaps on each confession (“I’ll always try to get you, Georgie” and “You’re safe with me, no matter how dirty it gets” and “You can always open yourself for me, even if it hurts”)—as (and soon Georgie will be saying the line himself) “the only one who truly understands.”
All the while the sexual undertow will strengthen: bawdy jokes ramped up in graphic detail, the most pornographic parts of the Bible taking centerstage, the most graphic Latin epigrams from Catullus and Martial becoming the material to translate, film nudity dipping beyond nip-slips into bush and shaft—and then suddenly deep into heady and emotionally confusing territories (like Monica Bellucci’s ten-minute anal rape scene in Irreversible, which would have the response needle on any penile plethysmograph jammed at the upper limits of red.
Discussion of sexual topics, disguised as guidance, is crucial here. It feeds right into the priest taking that leap (relatively small if he put in that work) of getting the boy to expose his genitals and, as a show of good faith (if there is reluctance), pulling his out first in what is packaged as a “return to the shamelessness of Eden, the way God intended us.” “Look,” the priest (Father Peady) will say, “wet dreams are completely normal. Liquid comes out even in daytime. The process is automatic. It’s nothing to feel shame about.” He will then at that point take the boy’s hand to his balls. “I want you to feel how it all just spasms. Watch.” And then as Father Peady reaches the edge (quickly, no doubt, after all these months of foreplay”), he will convey—in a tone that ever so sightly crosses the line (from clinical distance into oohing-aahing surrender)—one hell of a command in the form of a question: “How you gonna feel it if you don’t squeeze? Really get in there. There we go. Squeeze. Ooh, here’s where you squeeze hard”—his tone here, restrained by nothing but whisper, shifting momentarily deep into oohing-aahing surrender—“hard as can be.” And in the wake of the wild eruptions, whose correlated moans and taunting mumbles he holds back with a composure meant to show that this is just as normal as eating, he will say “See how you helped Father Peady? You got it all out. That’s a big big help. It helps me focus—.” He will give a post-cum exhale: “pfhhhhhooo,” savoring what he just received. “It helps me focus,” he will point up at the crucifix, “on what matters. . . . Just as we have to eat to focus on our studies, we gotta get this all out. Otherwise we find ourselves distracted. . . . So now you’re gonna let Father Peady help you. . . . No, watch. Just a few kisses should be good enough. I don’t think you’re ready for any of that squeezing! Here take the oil and go back and forth and I’ll just kiss down here. Right here, see?”
It cannot be all “See, how we can help each other?” In an ideal world maybe, but not here. Guilt and fear need to be instilled: from the old “We’re both sinners but we at least have each other” and “You wouldn’t want to disappoint God or me, would you?” to the equally old “No one would believe you over me anyway” and “I’ll make sure your family knows just how dirty their little boy can be”). Every case is different just like every child: some require drugs, others just a lot of camaraderie and heartfelt discussion. Regardless, it is often good to intersperse confusing counternarrative—saying something like: “In a way, as long as we ask to be forgiven, it can’t be so wrong. It’s love in the end, right?” The procedure is not fully linear. The priest often needs to circle back to earlier steps. He does so expertly, for example, by asking the boy “right?” at this point. Who would not feel special when an ordained priest looks to you for answers?
But however much the path might involve loop-de-loops, the jar—in what seems, depending on one’s perspective, no time—is fully pried open if the hunt is successful. We find Father Peady in the anechoic vestry, lit by flickering votive candles. Only this evening he is not changing into ceremonial garbs but rather naked on his back demanding another baby arm be driven up the pipe (“Ooh yeah, little piggy gonna play in that slop”) and demanding (on threat of violence implied by the snarl of teeth) that there be no disruption in the sadistic rhythm of hard headbutts and stretchy slurps of the shitty scrotum—headbutt to slurp, headbutt to slurp (“Fuck those bad balls up good, little pig”). Closing in on the point of no return, he clutches the boy’s hair—the scalp-locked stuff of dark-web rape porn—and uses the little mouth as a headbanging stroker. “Stretch it boy. Stretch it way the fuck out.” The command here, hissed with the rare curse from Father Peady’s mouth (indicative of serious business, of go time), is for the boy to drive his palms and forearms outward, his fingers pressed together inside for fulcrum leverage, against the various contractile and puckering and speculum-fighting structures from the anus on up. This half-a-minute fury—and all the priestly taunts (“Ooh you’re going to fucking hell for this, pig”)—we can assume, at the point, the boy is already well familiar with. The bar of depravity does, however, tend to recede. And on this particular occasion, so we might assume, those peach-fuzz lips are smooshed in the final stroke so deep into middle-aged mons pubis hair and unguent fatty tissue that Father Peady’s love effluvia—over a week in the building, we can also assume given the tremendous patience show hitherto—burst from the boy’s nostrils. Held down without breath, a surprise chucks up and out as well from those same gasping nostrils: the mandarin oranges and grade-B beef of Taco Tuesday.
Such an ecstatic crescendo, cleaned up with low-capillary-action chalice linen by the boy himself (ashamed for losing his stomach), will likely have—for a tango team that has gone this far already—two big downstream implications. First, the pinching closed of those nostrils—that will be a thing from here on: “I want my love swallowed, pig!” Second, the dawning of a new kink expectation: vomit-filled grand finales of chef’s-kiss throat convulsion (the same penis-milking panic contractions that, to cite the old Parisian brothel move, come from the cloaca of the neck-wrung hen)—that will also be a thing. And guess what? The non-appearance of vomit, once an aberration and now a norm, will be framed by Father Peady as disloyalty and so as grounds for ramping everything way up: forcing the shattered relic of a boy to keep a Mary figurine up his ass throughout the school day (a sort of modern twist on hairshirt asceticism), or holding the boys face in the bird bath of bubbling holy water while Father Peady pumps out anal vinegar strokes that on one occurrence, so let us assume, draw out so on and on that the boy needs CPR rescue breaths—Father Peady becoming more of an earthly savior than ever before!
And yes, all of it will be caught on video: starting from the first mutual masturbation session, which almost seems sweet in comparison to the wood-creaking shit and blood fuck sessions to come (where Father Peady, like clockwork whenever “that fat back” is arched just right, will start mumble-singing in sync with his rhythm (as sweat drips from his forehead) “♪Something tells me I’m into something good♪” from the Harmans Hermits’s classic hit “I'm into Something Good")—all of it. In the grand impermanence (and now that footage is no longer grainy), who could resist? Father Peady, this way, gets later spank-bank material that doubles as blackmail material: “What would mom think, what would your buddies think, seeing this little cum-drinking, shit-eating, piggy?”