Sweetmeats (ROUND 6)
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: Amber Kiso, by DS & Durga.—Its polished cleanliness (medicinal greenery that gives off a phantom lemon) making even its more gritty facets (animalic leather and urine warmth) seem as chill and slick as Baudrillard in a Blade Runner Tokyo (indeed, almost even like the virtual stuff of Willam Gibson’s cyberpunk dreams), Amber Kiso—which would perhaps be among my top two ambers if only this geisha had just a tad more body-yadi-yadi (or, on the chance that she is thicker than she seems under all her silk, was a tad less nose-blinding)—is a meditative fragrance that dials back, in the spirit of minimalism we associate with Japanese culture, the sweet syrup and baking spices of benchmark ambers (think: Serge Luten’s Ambre Sultan, Profumum Roma’s Ambra Aurea) and tosses in some smokey frankincense and powdery iris as well as a variety of brisk evergreen elements (Sawara cypress, hinoki wood, Asahi Zuru maple, tree moss), cold and bright elements that (in conjunction especially with the leathery labdanum) make for a bandaid-turpentine presence like we get in other patchouli-and-herbs leather woods (Gucci’s Guilty Absolute and Bianchi’s Black Knight) but with a butter-popcorn-meets-warm-urine envelope that makes it truly one of a kind—the overall effect, haiku-like in both its austere aura and skin-tight projection, being to transport the wearer to a pine-grove scene (prickly at times, very similar to Pineward’s Brokilän if you nosedive) where the sacred and the industrial merge in what again seems (because of the hyper-crisp aura of sanitization) a cyberscape: an incense-tinged Shinto shrine whose entrance area or courtyard, which features NPC leather workers putting final touches on Bushi armor, serves (so we might imagine) as the morning fight arena for players plugged into some videogame reminiscent of Black Mirror’s Striking Vipers.
Sweetmeats
From the bearded seal bloodbaths of the Arctic ice drifts, we shift now to our own human world. For all our pretensions to civilization, tooth-and-claw instincts—undiminished, if not riled all the more, by the self-shame frenzy to conceal them—tinge the private nooks of even our most tranquil sanctuaries. Observe the delicate genesis of a chilling predation neither whose familiarity, nor whose stretches of boredom (too vast for real-time coverage), detract from its spectacularity. Rarely successful absent the foresight of a cunning mind (whose willpower must be rigid enough to plod onward for the long haul and yet nimble enough to course correct for the inevitable curveballs), it is a calculated hunt that pushes delayed gratification to limits never before seen on our planet—limits surpassed perhaps only in the algorithmic wake of our AI progeny.
Light-hearted interaction marks the first tentative 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—stands out, his sleepless eyebags dark as Halloween, for the very trifecta of vulnerability that has his peers pointing the way, through bullying, for the needy priest: (1) broken home pickled in enough alcoholic neglect for more than one cigarette mattress fire; (2) only child starved as much for attention and belonging as for the confidence and the skill boosts of sibling competition; (3) fat as all honeybun hell. Best-foot-forward compliments—calculated yet subtle, restrained from love-bombing extremes (this is not, after all, amateur hour)—spill organically from Father Peady’s lips. “Oh wow, a true artist in the making!” he murmurs in mock study of the boy’s colored-pen drawings of ninja combat, 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—chief among them Father Phiely, whose dozens-of-deaf-ears nickname (“Touchy”) both adolescent and adult gossipers alike tuck between the “Father” and the “Phiely” for one chef’s kiss of a sobriquet.
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. In what reveals an instinctive gift for courtship of his own (every motion perhaps not so obvious to its effect as a songbird flaring its plumage in the light), behold the boy ram-ramming his jiggly ass into an ever-bulging, but best believe ever-unbudging, wall of hands-high pelvis—the whole sweaty tango, 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 (lest exercise awaken any ideas about leaving the loner shell) slipped from cassock pockets—that worm-tongue incantation “KING SIZE” bold 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, the connection much 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 teasing out just so (sometimes even landing upon surprise corner chocolate) 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 just yet too far from mere verbal affirmation. Father Peady’s reliability in that regard stands among the best in the Rushmore echelon.
Kids are perceptive, though. They can sense, if only preverbally, whether the praise is all talk. Dumb as they so often appear (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 see the clinamen-spoiling hidden variables, flinching 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—from what would seem to unweathered minds but a random swerve out of some Lucretian nowhere—the bottle shatters against the wall. Our boy turns his mother’s chin each night to the side (his own psyche still scarred from the gurgles of drowning) and puts the lighter out of reach (his own blanket still charred from putting out the last fire). Our boy cleans up the shattered bottles, one eye on cartoons as he squats with his makeshift dustpan of junk mail (plumber ass crack only deepening the maternal grimace). He has taken to squeezing a shard in these moments and, in the micro-privacy of a centering zoom-in, beholding the flow of his own blood—a focus-nuzzling behavior (the candle flame and mantra of the meditator) completely understandable, just as is his chronic nail-biting (the asymmetrical ravage of his front teeth telling a similar story, vivid even for the quick glance of a stranger, to the dog’s ever-wet bald spot). But just as intrusive thoughts still render the meditator’s “single-point” focus more like the flatness of a table (that is, strictly-speaking untrue), the concentration on gathering up every rogue shard—even coupled with the cutter-game of redirection—never fully tunes out the tired barrage of introspection-spurring slurs: “Shoulda neva had yo’ fat ass.” More often than not accompanied by another work-undoing bottle (dig-a-hole-only-to-fill-that-hole logic straight out of Dostoyevsky’s nightmares), these taunting slurs—superfluous guarantors of the boy’s baseline mania of hypervigilance—only further accelerate that neurotic feedback loop where headiness hypertrophies as confidence atrophies; where the lower the confidence drops the lower the threat threshold drops, which ramps up hypervigilance to such hectic proportions that eventually even what well-adjusted people take in stride as normal opportunities for growth become threats to avoid (but whose avoidance, of course, only ensures the lack of skills that corroborate the lack of confidence, perpetuating the cycle).
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 high-strung 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?”