Quickies

Rusty's hands was holdin' onto me tight, and when my eyes met his and his guitar let out a long, lonesome wailin' sound, I ain't never wanted anything more than to feel that girl's sweet, hot flesh against mine. I started takin' down her dress and I saw him flash me a smile, his face dark like night but his teeth white as pearls Rusty, she didn't say nothin', but she started workin' on my dress, too, and before I could say devil-don't-make-me, we was naked together against that wall, still rubbin'

and chafin' up against each other like nobody's business. Rusty had these tiny little titties, and she was pressin' 'em against my great big 'uns, our nipples rubbin' together in time to the music.

I put my hand 'tween her legs and she spread 'em open for me. She was wet and thick like molasses. I was, too, and her fingers shoved up into me and we worked it out together, kissin' and touchin' and rubbin' each other in that dark room with the music pulsin' through us like our hearts beatin' and our blood pumpin' and our juices flowin'

down our thighs.

I hooked my leg 'round hers, so's our bodies couldn't slip away from each other, cuz she was shakin' and jerkin' and wailin' against me. I looked over an seen him watchin' us, his eyes glowin' like fire, and then I's buckin' against Rusty, too, feelin'

waves of love an heav'n rollin' all through me, 'cept it felt like I's possessed by something and maybe it was the devil after all.

Weren't no girl not naked in that room, and he played and played and played us until we was all tangled up together by dawn, mewlin' and cryin' like a pile of black'n'white kittens. He left us there in the mornin', and I heard him whisper when he walk by, "Next time, maybe dey'll pay me like they's s'posed to."

There was a big scandal in the town, and they woulda lynched him if they coulda found him. They never did. I think about him when I pick my banjo for Mama, sittin' on the porch and starin' off at those mountains in the distance.

When I think about him, I just wanna cry.

Acts of Contrition

I was in boarding school, and things were different back then. I think they still have corporal punishment in some states, like Texas, but in most places it’s been phased out. But we were good Catholics, or we were supposed to be, and if you spared the rod, you’d spoil the child. Hell, that was what my parents put me there for in the first place. My father couldn’t stand to say no, and my mother couldn’t say anything but, and they decided, between them, that someone else should raise their daughter.

So the nuns and the priests attempted to curb my voracious appetites for four years. They failed miserably. By the time I was a senior, my birthday just passed in a haze of alcohol and sex-the drinking age hadn’t yet been changed from eighteen-I’d been disciplined more times than I could count, suspended from classes, and nearly expelled, twice. I was always scraping by, just barely, but it was enough for me.

Father Hamilton had the task of disciplining me for my latest transgressions. The nuns had pretty much given up and handed me over to the priests, which was fine, as far as I was concerned. The priests were more direct. They liked to use the paddle-a thick piece of wood that Father Lowery, who taught physics, had drilled several holes through for less air resistance-and while it stung, it was over pretty quick. And the good thing about Father Hamilton was that he hated to give sermons. It was always straight to the punishment.

“Over the desk, Amy.”

I knew the drill. I bent over his wide desk and lifted my skirt-they weren’t supposed to touch us except with objects-exposing the seat of my white cotton panties. It was a typical school uniform, navy skirt, white blouse, white knee socks, Mary Janes. We looked like drones running up and down the halls on our way to class.

“For every blow, you must say an act of contrition.”

“Yes, Father.”

I waited, my heart hammering in my chest. I wasn’t afraid of it anymore, but there was a sick sort of anticipated dread anyway in the moments before.

SMACK!

I winced, beginning:

“Oh my God,

I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,

and I detest all my sins

because I fear the loss of heaven

and the pains of hell…”

The second SMACK! came long before I could finish, and I began again with a gasp, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for…”

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

“Father!” I whimpered, my whole ass on fire with pain. It hadn’t been like this before. “Please!”

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Beg.”

SMACK!

“Oh!” I buried my face in my arms, trying to hide from the pain. “Oh please, I’m sorry, please…”

“You’ve been in my office fourteen times this year, Amy.” SMACK! “And you’ve said an act of contrition for each blow.” SMACK! “And yet you’re still running around like whore of Babylon aren’t you?”

I would have screamed when he grabbed my hair, pulling my head back as he growled this last, but my voice was gone. I thought the Father had gone crazy.