textfiles/sex/EROTICA/S/smj.txt

Copyright © 1997   BillyG.   ALL Rights Reserved.

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without
the written permission of the author.  This story may be freely
distributed with this notice attached.  The author may be contacted
through mrdouble@airmail.net.












                                  SISTER MARY JOSEPH

                                                                         by BillyG


     How is it that seemingly unlikely people end up in unanticipated sexual
intimacy?  I mean, what are the forces, the precipitating factors that
contribute to this improbable union?  For instance, how does it happen that
an older woman and a younger man - the friend of her son perhaps - end up
entangled?  Or in-laws?  Or, in my case, with a nun?

     I suppose that some of the necessary predilection would at least include
the right temperament.  But that's one of those true-but-trivial positions. 
Necessary, to be sure, but hardly sufficient.  Think about it: the mere
presence of an erection for example, coupled with a horny disposition hardly
insures much of anything happening.  As a case in point, I spent several
years of my young life hanging out in that uncomfortable space, constantly
armed and ready with nowhere to go.

     No, desire by itself isn't enough.  More's needed.  A physical connection
coupled with a temporal connection might add to the stew of spontaneous
generation.  Yes, there *have* been those times when, by good fortune and
presence, the barriers of improbability have been breached.  It had happened
to me a time or two, but not as often as I might have wished.  No, *that's*
not enough.  There's a huge difference between conventional, voluntary
proximity and reluctant, involuntary closeness.

     So, given the mix of sufficient predisposing personalities, however
hidden, coupled with a forced physical proximity, unexpected shifts might
occur.   

     I wasn't thinking of any of this the time I was thrown together with a
nun.  I didn't even have a secret lech for nuns; they were far down on my list
of masturbation fantasies.  Oh, in the seventh grade I had an attractive
young nun who'd taken a kindly interest in my reading skills and I'd briefly
wondered what she looked like under those long, black robes.  But it hadn't
been planted in my libido as a major jack-off fantasy.  So when I'd accepted
a two-day charter to deliver a 35' sloop to the British Virgins, I hardly
blinked when I was unexpectedly asked if I'd take along a Sister Mary
Joseph as a passenger.  

     I wondered briefly if all nuns were called Sister Mary Joseph?  I vaguely
recalled having a Latin teacher by that name.  But I remember about as
much of that teacher as I did the Latin that was force fed into my reluctant
adolescent mind.

     "Sure.  Be glad for the company," I replied to the charter manager.  He
rarely asked for favors and besides, I thought he was a straight shooter.

     An hour later, as I was finishing stowing my gear and provisions for the
two-day sail, Mike, the guy who'd arranged this ferry job, pulled up in his
jeep with the gaily-colored canvas top and tooted his horn.  A black-robed
woman in traditional, I mean old-fashioned, nun's attire climbed out.  I saw
a flash of black-stockinged calf as she lighted.  Shading her eyes with her
hand, she surveyed the length of the small sloop, her eyes ending with me.  I
smiled and waved to come aboard.  She waved back, turned and said
something to Mike who in turn, waved goodby and spun off.

     She picked up a small black bag and walked to the gangplank where I
stood ready to assist her.  What little I could see of her face, I guessed she
was about my age, middle thirties or so.  As I extended my hand to help her
step aboard, I smiled at our contrast, she covered head-to-toe in black and
me, wearing nothing more than a faded pair of ancient Pusser's sailing
shorts.

     Even though there was a little cooling breeze, she was perspiring, not
surprising given the intensity of the August sun in the Caribbean.  And it
was early morning.  It was going to get a lot warmer, I knew.

     "Thanks for giving me a lift," she said, extending a warm, firm hand and
shaking mine.  Her eyes were grey-green, level and intelligent.  Strong eyes,
I thought.

     As I touched her elbow to steer her aft, I said, "Normally, I try to sail
straight through doing these deliveries.  But the weather's been a bit
unsettled and I'd prefer to lay over at night.  How much of a hurry you in?"

     She laughed, wiping the sweat from her brow.  "Actually, I'm way ahead
of schedule.  I don't have to be at the school until September.  So please, do
whatever is comfortable for you.  I want to be a good . . . uh, shipmate?"

     "Good, we'll just poke along then.  I've done too many of these
day-and-night sails, and I can use the rest."

     "Sounds good to me.  Where shall I put my things?" she asked, holding
up her small bag.

     "Tooth brush?" I asked.

     "Hardly more.  All my materials and clothes were shipped ahead.  I
suspect they're waiting there for me."

     "Sister," I said, "it'll be a bit cooler as soon as we get underway, for
there's a fairly constant wind out of the northeast, but I have to warn you,
it's going to get a lot hotter before the sun goes down."

     "Oh, darn!  Really?  I'm suffocating already in this Batman outfit."

     Her description of her habit was so unexpected, I guffawed and then
almost choked, trying to muffle it.  "Sorry," I gasped.

     "Don't think a thing of it.  The Church has already changed their stance
on nun's clothes.  They're becoming much more liberal, thank goodness. 
But I had a brief interview by the Bishop and, apprehensive as I was in the
presence of such an . . . ah . . . exalted person, I wore these traditional
robes, I guess to try to impress him."  She looked away and added in a
softer voice, "I don't think it did."  Then again speaking to me she added,
"But my "real-live clothes" have gone ahead."

     Leading her into the galley, I said, "If it's permitted and you're
comfortable, you can wear some of mine.  I have some extra, but they're all
men's sailing clothes . . ." Finishing lamely, I added, "Shorts, T-shirts,
things like that."

     "Oh, would you?  I'd be so appreciative.  This all happened so fast,
getting a ride with you I mean, I didn't have a chance to plan a thing.  God
provided, I thought, and I just jumped at it."

     I pulled a Coke from the ice chest and holding it up, raised my eyebrows
in a universal query?

     "Yes, please.  That'd be wonderful."

     "There's a very small cabin here that you can use.  There's only one head
right here; we'll both have to use it.  The pump for the toilet takes some
getting used to.  OK?"  

     She smiled and nodded.  I find it's much better to get the ground rules
out front.  If there's a problem or an objection, it's better to know about it in
advance.  I knew I carried all sorts of misconceptions about religious orders
and nuns.  That, coupled with a slight problem I had with authority figures,
might set me up to misunderstand.

     Digging into my duffle, I pulled out another pair of shorts and a T-shirt. 
Then remembering, I dug into a locker and found a baseball cap.  "Well,
that's about it.  Not very clerical, but certainly cooler and more practical."

     "Can I change right away, before we get underway?"

     "Sure.  I'm going above to cast off.  We'll motor in the channel.  Come
up when you're ready."

     I put the small gang plank ashore and cast off the stern and bow lines
before jumping back aboard.  It's always easier to sail with more than one
person, but from long experience, I knew how to do it with an economy
of motion.  I didn't have to think about the mechanics of boats and sailing. 
It was just something I did, freeing my mind for other things.  Like thinking
about Sister Mary Joseph.  Geez, what a handle!  I wondered if she'd mind
if I shortened it? 

     "What can I do to help?" she asked.

     Surprised, my head snapped around.  She was standing on the aft deck
wearing my clothes.  She was almost comical.  The shorts and the shirt
were both too large.  The bunched bottom of the T-shirt was belted into the
sailing shorts.  They, in turn, were staying up only by the grace of a cinched,
built-in pull belt.  She looked like a little girl wearing her daddy's clothes.

     "You're laughing at me!" she protested with a smile.

     I looked ashore as if to form an answer and looked back at her, secure in
the knowledge that the sun at my back prevented her from seeing my eyes
as I looked her over.  Christ, she had breasts!  And shapely ones too, made
more prominent by her tiny waist.

     "Sorry again.  Don't mean to laugh.  It's the contrast, you see.  One
minute you were my seventh grade teacher and the next minute you're . . .
well, certainly not that!  You look good!  I mean, it's . . . it's more, uh,
fitting."  

     "Thanks.  And I mean it.  What can I do to help?  I'm a strong woman
and I'd like to learn something about sailing.  I'll be your uh, first mate. 
That OK?"

     Mate?  Suddenly, that term carried a vastly different meaning.

     "Alright, mate.  You take the helm.  See that red buoy ahead of us? 
Steer a course to the right of it and I'll handle the main."

     I'd done this a hundred times alone, but I thought it'd be better to give
her something to do.  I knew there'd be times later when her help would be
welcome.  After several minutes' busy work, we were healed over a little
and sailing at a comfortable five knots.  I shut off the diesel and sat back,
watching her.

     Her hair was auburn, wavy and longer than I thought nuns wore it. 
Shows how much I knew about nuns. Next to nothing.  Curling around her
ears, it framed her face nicely.   Her arms and her legs were firm and nicely
rounded; they were not pale as I'd anticipated.   Actually, she had an olive
complexion with a good base tan.  She also had an athletic build and she
looked strong.  I told her so.

     "It's the racquetball," she explained.  I'd rather play tennis, but in the
winter's cold, I'm glad for the exercise.  You play?"

     "Both," I nodded, and then to be honest, added, "but not in the last
while."

     The day's warmth and humidity was taking it's toll in perspiration and
despite the capacious of the borrowed T-shirt, it began to cling to her,
mostly to her rounded breasts.  Her bra was clearly evident.  I naturally
noticed things like that, but in this case, it carried an extra charge.  I was
enjoying looking at this nun's body, at least as much as I could see.  

     "Sister Mary Joseph?" I asked.

     "Yes?"

     "Would you mind if I called you something shorter?  Maybe MJ, or
something like that?"

     She laughed and answered, "No one's ever called me "MJ" before. 
Actually my baptismal name is Mary, but sure, call me MJ if you like."

     "Thanks, that'll feel better."  Reaching into a small top-side storage, I
pulled out a tube of sun block left there by a previous passenger and passing
it to her, said, "You'd better put this on . . . everywhere that's exposed . . .
the sun'll fry you in an hour, even if you've got a fair tan already."

     "I'm used to tanning well.  It's the Mediterranean blood I think, but
you're right.  I'd better be careful."

     I put the autopilot on our course and then watched as she covered her
arms and legs.  As she lifted one foot to cover her calves, I noticed one leg
of the baggy shorts gap well open, affording me a view almost up to her
crotch. I caught a flash of white panties.  

     I'd put on sun glasses as I always do, for the bright sun light hurts my
eyes.  I have a slight impairment of my pupillary constrictor muscles and can
only constrict about half way.  Still, I didn't turn my head away and when
she suddenly looked up, she saw me looking between her legs.

     She flushed and lowered her leg, but kept on chatting.  I hardly heard
what she was saying, so taken was I with her obvious healthy good looks
and innate sexiness.  And why, I wondered, was there an added charge
because she was a nun?  Was it the unavailability?  Or did I simply enjoy the
kinkiness of it?  Probably both.

     A strong gust healed us to starboard and unprepared, she lost her
balance.  Instinctually, she threw an arm and a leg out as she fell back and
then hung there, over-balanced on her behind, unable to come upright again. 
And this time, the pant leg of the baggy shorts fell completely open,
exposing an entire thigh to her panties and crotch.  It was broad daylight
and I stared at the darker gusset of her white panties and the dark pubic hair
curling out of her panty crotch.  The view lasted seconds, no more, but it
was imprinted in my mind. I was looking at a nun's white panties, right at
her crotch.  God, what a jolt!

     MJ regained her balance with a good natured laugh and asked, "Does
that happen often?"

     "Infrequently on relatively calm days like this, but when it kicks up . . ."
and I let it finish itself.

     Sitting back against a floatation cushion again, she asked, "So tell me,
why'd you become a sailor?"

     I thought a moment before answering, "I didn't."

     "I don't understand."

     "I don't think of myself as a sailor.  Yes, I sail, but that's not what I do. 
That's not who I am."

     "I understand that you're not what you do, but how do *you* mean it?"
she asked, persistent.

     "I've driven a truck, but I don't think of myself as a truck driver.  And
once I learned about electronics and could fix a televison set, but I don't
think of myself as an electronics technician."

     "But I think of myself as a nun."

     "Yes, there's that.  And I can understand it, for you've given your life to
it, haven't you?  To God?  Something like that?"

     "That's certainly part of it.  There's commitment, to be sure.  If you were
to ask me, 'Who are you?' I'd see myself as someone in a black robe; I'd see
myself as a nun.  What do you see?"

     "About myself?"

     "None other, cap'n."

     "Well, it's not what I do.  It's what I AM."

     "And that is?"

     "I'll tell you something about me.  It's no secret.  Secrets'll kill you."

     "My!"

     "I'm a guy who used to drink too much.  I don't do that any more. That's
the central organizing fact in my life, Sister."

     She looked at me, one eyebrow elevated.  I'd seen that look before.

     "Really?"

     "Yes, really.  Now, I don't drink.  Not at all.  Haven't in a long time, but
I used to.  I was . . . no, I *am* an alcoholic.  It's important for me to
recognize that I'll *always* be an alcoholic and in that recognition, I don't
have to drink."

     "I've heard about that.  AA I think.  One of our priests had a problem
and he . . ."

     I interrupted; I'd heard those stories hundreds of times from pros.  I
didn't want to listen to a second-hand report.  "So you see, Sister, when I
think of myself, it's not what schools I've gone to, what degrees I have or
what I've done, but rather, it's who I *am*.  Simple, huh?"

     "Hardly . . . but I think I do understand a little.  And what happened to
'MJ'?  I was beginning to like the sound of it."

     "Yeah, I retreat to formality when I'm apprehensive, MJ."

     "You thought I'd judge you, didn't you?"

     I shrugged.  "Many folks do."

     "I've my own history.  I wasn't always a nun, you know.  I'm quite aware
of humanness.  No, I try not judge people.  I try to accept them just as they
are and hope they'll accept me as I am."

     "And how's that?" I asked, curious.  This was no ordinary nun, I thought
and then smiled.  I didn't know any nuns at all.  How would I know
ordinary?
     
     "Most days I'd like to think that I'm a daughter of God, that I've given
my life over to his care, but the fact is, quite often my ego gets in the way. 
And my humanness."

     Laughing, I said, "I know about ego, but what do *you* mean about
humanness?"

     "Goodness, how'd I get into this?"

     "You don't have to talk about anything that's uncomfortable."

     "Yes, I know, but strange as it sounds, I think I'd like to.  I need to be
honest.  Perhaps I need to be honest with myself . . . honest outside the
confessional.  Somehow that doesn't seem to count, the confessional I mean. 
The anonymity serves to protect me from the bare truth."

     "You on the lamb or somthin', MJ?  You know, church collections or
somthin' like that?"

     "Oh, you!"

     "I know, I know.  I often try to hide behind repartee.  Don't let me side
track you."

     She pulled both knees up and leaning forward, wrapped her forearms
around her legs as she gazed off into some unfocused middle distance.  I
looked at the undersides of her thighs.

     "It's just that I'm not sure . . ." and she trailed off.

     "Of what?"

     "I'm not even sure of what.  My faith perhaps.  Or, as scary,  if I'm really
cut out to be a nun.  I mean, I'm not completely happy . . . I have these . . .
uh, thoughts . . . these desires.  They're unsettling.  Do you know what I
mean?"

     "Maybe.  Not sure."  Then, taking a big chance, I asked, "Sex?"

     For a moment, she looked pained.  "Yes!  That's it."  She looked aside,
perhaps in thought or perhaps in embarrassment.  "That's what's bothering
me and there's no one I can talk to.  Father Weston always tells me the same
thing."  Then, dropping her voice, she mimicked the Father: 'Just pray,
Sister.  Pray to God.'"

     "It work?"

     "Sometimes.  A little.  But mostly, I'm left uncertain, agitated, almost
jittery."  

     Not knowing anything about her and less about the chaste life of the
religious, I didn't know what to say, but trying to keep the topic alive, I
asked, "MJ, were you inexperienced . . . I mean, were you a virgin when
you became a nun?"

     I felt my face become warm when I suddenly realized that I'd spoken of
her virginity as if it were in the past tense.

     "Uh . . . I didn't mean . . ." I started to say, but she just laughed.

     "Not even close!  I became sexually active when I was a teenager and I
loved it.  Actually, I continued to love it right up until I made the decision to
enter the convent in my mid twenties, somewhat later than most."  She gave
me a shy smile and added, "I suppose I thought that when I became a nun,
it'd be no problem."

     I nodded, thinking she knew what I was feeling when she caught me
looking between her legs.  I glanced away, feeling guilty and then looked
back, making eye contact again.  She has a very soft smile.

     "That's the problem.  It'd be easier if I'd never tasted the fruit, but I did
and I'm bedeviled with the memory and the urges.  My body seems to have
an agenda separate from my mind."

     "Get horny?"

     She laughed again and said, "I haven't heard that word in years, but yes,
that's the feeling."

     "Humanness then."

     "Yes, I suppose that's another word for horny?"  She gave it an
interrogatory inflection and looked at me as if for confirmation.

     "Well, I stayed chaste one time.  For a year.  Actually for a year and ten
days, but who was counting?  But I must confess that I didn't think of my
*humanness* as I grew twitchy!"

     "A year?  But why?  I mean, if you didn't *have* to . . ."

     I shrugged.  I didn't know what to say.

     "Character building?" she asked with a gentle smile.

     "Whatdaya' think?  Did it work?

     She starred at me with an appraising look and said, "I suspect you
already had lots of character.  Were you in jail?"

     I glanced at her, ready to protest and then felt silly when I saw her smile
and the twinkle in her eyes.  Two could pay this game.  Still, my face felt
warm.

     "Just a confinement of my own making," I replied.

     "Yes, I know about *those* jails."

     Checking the wind direction and my heading, I interrupted, "I'm gonna
make a starboard tack, wanna help?"

     Jumping up, MJ said, "Sure.  Tell me what to do."

     Pointing to a line, I said, "When I come about, the boom'll swing way
over to this side.  Help me pull in the line, but be careful.  Watch where
you're standing," and I pointed to a spot, ". . . so you're not hit by the boom
when it swings over.  Okay?"

     "Aye, aye, skipper."

     Noting that she was standing where I'd indicated, I turned my attention
to the busy work that'd occupy me for the next few seconds as the boat's
forward momentum carried it across the wind.  As the boom was whipping
across the deck, MJ stepped forward for some reason and catching her
movement, I yelled, "Back!"

     The boom just brushed by her, knocking her off balance and she toppled
right over a stay wire into the water.  In moments she was bobbing astern
and as I turned directly into the wind again, I looked back to see her waving
an OK to me.  Fortunately she was directly astern and the wind drifted the
boat back to her without having to come around.

     With the main flapping in the breeze, I ran to the stern and lowered a
small ladder.  MJ appeared to be a strong swimmer and came right up to the
hanging ladder the first time and with little help, scampering back aboard. 
She was laughing but there was a trace of fear in her eyes as she grabbed my
hand and said, "Thanks.  Does this mean that you're now responsible for my
life?"

     "Yes.  But only for the next few days.  After that, it's God's turn again." 
I stared at her, soaking wet, the thin T-shirt clinging to her bra-covered tits,
nipples full and prominent.  I thought I'd love to 'take care' of her.

     "Guess I"ll have to change again," she observed, wringing out the tail of
the T-shirt, exposing a good portion of her midriff.  

     "MJ, I've got lots of shirts, but those are my only extra shorts.  There's a
Tobago Cays shirt at the bottom of my bag that someone gave me.  It's
XXL and is way too large for me, but it'll work as a night shirt for you."

     Sweeping her short hair out of her eyes, she laughed again and looking
at me shyly said, "Any port in a storm."

      I approved of her steady, non-hysterical response to the sudden
dunking.  

     Using the hatch cover as a hand hold, I swung down into the main cabin
and turned to lend her a hand stepping down the ladder.  Her legs appeared
longer to me, in part because the shorts were jammed up between her
thighs.  I seemed not to be able to help myself, for I continued staring at
her legs and her crotch all the way down the ladder and it wasn't until she
said my name that I looked up into her eyes.

     "You're staring," she said in a soft, mater-of-fact, non-accusatory tone.

     "Uh, sorry," I replied.  My face felt warm.

     "That's okay.  I understand," she murmured and then stood for a
moment, looking at me before saying, "The shirt?"

     "Oh yeah, the shirt . . . it's right here somewhere . . ." I was mumbling to
myself as I rummaged in the bottom of my bag.  "Here . . . this is it," and
handed it to her.  All I could see were here nipples.  She'd gotten a bit
chilled and her nipples had become even more prominent.  The wet shirt
clung to her pebbled areolae, making dark, bumpy circles plainly visible
through the shirt and bra. 

     Seeing the direction of my gaze, she glanced down at her shirt front and
said, "Oh!  Goodness.  I didn't know.  Sorry."

     Mimicking her, I said, "That's okay, I understand."  

     Hearing her own words, she broke into a bright smile and said, "I hope
so."

     There were no other boats on the horizon when I'd last looked and I
knew we were well away from any shallow reefs, still I felt an imperative to
check things out topside.  More, I wanted to remove myself from the hole I
was digging with such persistent alacrity.   

     The breeze had died off a little so it was easy to catch the wind and
return to the new heading.  After putting the boat on autopilot, I sat back
with my feet braced and contemplated the horizon, a more compelling sight
than my navel.  She'd had panties on under my shorts; I'd seen them briefly.
Now they were wet but would she wear 'em anyway?  Or - my mind ran
with this one - would she have on only my large T-shirt?  If so, I might get a
look at . . . and her voice nudged me out of my reverie, "If I fall over board
one more time, I'll be in big trouble, huh?"

     She came up on deck, pinning her hair back, her arms up, raising the hem
of the shirt.  I looked her up and down, admiring her lithe lines and shapely
legs.  

     "MJ, you are the best looking nun I know."

     "I'm probably the *only* nun you know," she retorted, sitting opposite
me, gathering the hem of the long shirt under her thighs.

     "Well, there is that," I agreed, "but when I was in grade school at St.
Columbia . . ." and tailed off.

     "You're kidding!" she said, looking surprised, pushing the shirt down
between her thighs, still holding her knees up but together.  The shirt fell
away from the back of her thighs affording me a glimpse of her legs.

     "Once, in seventh grade I think, at recess I was showing a photography
magazine to a younger nun who'd been kind to me and while I was paging
through it, looking for a particular picture I'd wanted to share with her, a
black and white picture of a nude woman suddenly popped up.  In my
confusion and embarrassment, I fumbled and before I could go on, she
placed her hand on the open magazine and commented on the non-nude
picture on the facing page.  Can you see this tableau, MJ?"

     "Sure.  What happened?"

     "Well, nothing *happened* but I always wondered what she thought.  I
mean, she had to have seen the naked woman and she had to have known
how embarrassed I was."

     "I'm sure she did, on both counts.  She probably took some vicarious
pleasure in pretending to look at the other picture."

     "You think so?"

     "I would have.  But then, that's part of my problem, these earthly
thoughts."

     We looked at each other, me wearing only an old pair of shorts and she
wearing only a large T-shirt.  I was acutely aware of her, not just as a nun,
but as an attractive woman who was nude under my shirt.  Or was she?

     "MJ," I asked, "you wearing anything under that shirt?"

     She looked down a moment and then into my eyes.  "No," she answered,
"why?"

     I considered for a minute telling her some lie, some bullshit that would
have aimed at making me look good, but without thinking about it very
much, I knew that wouldn't work for me.  I'd have to tell her the truth, but
how best to word it?  And what was the truth, anyway?  That I was just
being open and honest with her?  Maybe a little, but more, I suspect, that I
wanted to get in her pants.  Except at the moment she wasn't wearing any.

     "Why?  Because you're an attractive woman.  More actually.  Because
you're a sexy woman."  Jesus, I thought, what the hell was I doing?  I wasn't
sure *what* I was doing, but I wanted to follow this thread, so I continued,
"You think of yourself as a nun.  I don't, at least not entirely.  I think of you
as more - as a woman.  Seeing you like this is pleasing and it's exciting."

     She just stared at me, wide eyed.

     "Am I offending you, MJ?  I don't mean to be discourteous, but I've this
unsettling habit of being frank.  I say what I'm thinking . . . most of the time
anyway . . . and further, I tend to ask for what I want."

     She leaned forward a little and still looking at me with that same
quizzical expression, she asked, "And do you get what you want . . . most
of the time?"

     "Seldom," I laughed, "but I try not to make up other people's minds
for them.  I let them decide for themselves.  I've been told to ask for 100
percent of what I want, 100 percent of the time, and then be willing to
negotiate a win-win compromise.  So tell me, am I offending you with this
line of questions?"

       She sat and stared at me for a long time; I didn't think she was going to
answer.  Then she passed her hand in front of her in a kind of a chopping
motion, apparently to add emphasis to her words, and said, "I must confess
that in most social situations I've been in since taking the vows, I *would*
have been offended. I don't understand it, but for some reason I'm not.  It's
refreshing.  Your honesty, I mean.  No, I don't feel offended - that surprises
me a little - and there's some part of me that finds this whole situation just a
little thrilling.  Perhaps I'm being tested.  Do you think?"

     "It's been said that nothing happens in God's world by mistake.  Perhaps
we're both being tested.  What do you suppose the message is?"

     She smiled and countered, "You're answering a question with a question,
but that's all right.  You've been frank.  I shall as well.  Is that okay with
you?"

     "The truth shall set you free," I quoted.

     "But first, it'll piss you off," she appended.

     "They teach you that in the nunnery?"

     "Yes, but not exactly in those words.  I got that rendition from my
father."

     "A wise man?"

     "More than I knew back then.  But I don't want to talk about my father. 
I'm much too selfish right now.  I want to talk about me.  Actually, I think I
NEED to talk about me.  Will you keep a confidence?"

     Making a small adjustment in the sail, I observed, "We certainly have the
time to talk and I've never had a need to share a confidence.  What ever you
tell me, MJ will stay with me."

     "You're sure?"

     Nodding, "You can take that to the bank."

     Again she studied me for a long moment and then seeming to make a
decision, she leaned back and said, "I hardly know you, but I feel that I can
trust you.  Heaven knows, I need someone to talk with.  Someone outside
the Church, that is."  

     The breeze caused the mainsail to snap and at the same time, it rustled
the bottom of her long T-shirt.  I caught a flash of her thighs again, still well
below crotch level.  I couldn't tell if she saw me looking.

     "I'm a good listener and I'll tell you my truth if you want it.  Still, it's
been my experience that many people just want to be heard.  They don't
want to be fixed, just heard.  And some don't even *want* the truth."

     "Yes, I do want to be heard, but I think in addition I need some reality
testing, some feedback.  Let me just start and we'll see where things go."

     "Okay, let's start with the truth.  Not any truth.  Your truth.  You know,
the one that'll piss you off?"

     She wrapped her arms about her knees and looked up at the mainsail for
a moment before starting.  "It's always been true for me, that I don't like to
hear unflattering things about myself.  Since becoming a nun, in some ways
it has gotten worse."

     "Expectations set you up?" I asked.

     "Of course.  I think I *should* be this or I *should* think that.  I'm
never as good as I think I should be."

     "Good as in holy?" I asked.

     "Yes, that's it!  Not just a good person.  More than that, I think I should
be at least spiritual, if not totally holy.  At times I expect that I should have
attained some spiritual peak un-attained by Jesus Christ!"

     "You're your own toughest critic, aren't you?"  My pants were binding
and I pulled the crotch away.  I saw her eyes fall.  "Is my fly open?"  I
asked with a frown.

     She laughed and said, "Please, don't make me look there!"

     "You're fun and I like that.  It's okay with me, but you know, you're
beating around the bush, don't you?"

     "Yes, I am.  It's difficult for me.  It's as though I've got to tip toe around
this for a while."

     "Want me to just listen or to prompt you a little?

     She slid her foot back and forth, making wet marks on the teak deck
with her toes.  "Uh . . . both, I guess.  What I mean to say . . . well, I'd like
you to listen, but there are times I need a little help."  She cocked her head
and asked, "Does that make sense?"

     Nodding my head, I said, "Yeah."  Then adding the prod, I suggested, "It
was about keeping a confidence, remember?  You asked me if I could keep
a confidence."

     "It's not likely that I'd forget.  I'm edging toward very thin ice."

     I waited.  She knew what was bothering her.  I didn't have to remind her
of that, but she had to take her own time about it.  It had started, I thought,
when I told her I found her attractive.  That was new for her, or at least, the
first time in a long time.  Too, this was probably the first time in as long that
she'd been sitting with a man wearing no more than a thin T-shirt.  A T-shirt
with nothing under it.  The cat was clearly out of the bag.  Would we chase
it?

     She surprised me.  

     "You said you'd been chaste for a year?"

     I nodded.  Where was she going with this?  I thought this was about
*her*.

     "What did you do after that, if I may ask?"

     I smiled at the memory.  "Became a rabbit."

     "As in making love like one?"

     "Making love is one expression.  Rutting's another."

     "Renewed vigor?"

     "An understatement.  Renewed interest, awareness, drive and, oh yes,
pleasure.  That's some of it.  I'd come to enjoy a new freedom, a freedom
from the bondage of self - some people say."

     "Would you call it excess energy?  Sexual energy?" she asked.

     Still not seeing where she was going with this, I nodded my
confirmation.  

     "Well then, you might be able to understand what has been happening to
me."  She paused.  I waited.  "I was sexually active and then sublimated all
my energies.  I attempted to substitute my religion and my work for my
passion.  I was naive.  I really thought it'd be no problem."  She fell silent
again, looking out across the sea, but not seeing.  I recognized her process.

     After a bit, I commented, "And it didn't work.  It was still a problem."

     She glanced back at me.  "Was . . . and is."

     "Horny," I said.  It wasn't a question.

     She nodded and then smiled, "But I tried to think of it in other terms."

     "Yeah, same thing."

     "Same thing.  That's as good a term as any.  Actually, better than most. 
Horny . . . doesn't beat around the bush, does it?"

     "So, what do you do?  Pray or masturbate?"

     Her head snapped back to me, her eyes momentarily dark in anger, then
she softened.  "Prayer, yes.  It helped at first, but less so later.  And yes
. . . this is difficult to say - I mean right here, in front of you, looking at you
- but yes, I did uh, relieve myself."  She looked down and then rushed on, "I
HAD to.  I'd have gone crazy.  You don't know what it was like,"

     "You're right, of course, MJ, I don't know - couldn't know what it was
like.  I'm not a woman and I'm certainly not a nun.  But I do know about the
body's physiologic needs, about desire, about horniness.  My body simply
has its own agenda and it's independent of my philosophic beliefs or my
spiritual state.  I suspect - but I don't know for sure - that your agenda isn't
a lot different."

     She reached over and touched my knee.  "I'm sorry.  That was
condescending of me.  You're absolutely right.  At base, we're all the same,
we're all human.  I'm sorry I was patronizing of you."

     I made a dismissive gesture with my hand and said, "Thanks, but don't
give it a thought.  I didn't.  If we're going to be honest with each other, let's
not walk on egg shells.  Say what you're thinking.  And you were thinking
about masturbation . . . or what ever you called it."

     She seemed to brace her shoulders.  Did nice things with the front of her
T-shirt.  "My dad used to tell me to call a spade a spade."

     "And not a excavating appliance?"

     That earned a flash of white, even teeth.  "Yes.  It's not like I've been so
sheltered that I don't know the language including its idioms.  Remember, I
used to be a uh, horny chick?"  And she laughed at her own description.  I
hoped she still was.  I harbored few illusions about myself.

     "So you got horny and prayer didn't always work and you couldn't sleep
at night and you became restless and irritable and then, in some moment of
weakness or desperation, you'd break down and masturbate and then suffer
the guilt of the damned?"

     "Whew!  Have you been listening in on my confessions?"

     "No, my own.  A long time ago."

     "Are you still feeling guilty?"

     "Not even close."

     "Why?  I mean, how . . .?"

     "MJ, this may sound strange to your ears, for it's leagues away from the
Church's position, but I've fired the God of my childhood and I've hired a
new one.  My God rejoices in me.  He/she/it rejoices in my humanness and
in my sexuality."

     Her tone betrayed her surprise and her confusion.  "I'm surprised.  I
know I shouldn't be, but I am.  Do *you* really believe in God?"

     "No, not *your* God, MJ.  My God.  There's a huge difference.  I used
to be afraid of your God.  I suppose I thought of him as a cross between a
white-bearded Charlton Heston and Atilla the Hun, a stern, unsmiling,
cosmic score keeper who knew what a worthless sack of shit I really was
and my only reward was going to be the warm place."

     She looked at me with wide-eyed wonder.  I half expected her to put
her fingers over her open mouth or to glance upward in fearful expectation.

     I continued, "I once asked a guy if he believed in God and he said no,
that he considered himself a 'Christian atheist'.  When I asked him what
the devil that was he replied, 'I don't believe in God, but I'm still afraid of
him.'"

     She pointed out the obvious: "But you must believe in something if
you're afraid of it."

     I shrugged, then asked, "MJ, what'd you do with your wet clothes?"

     "What?"

     "Your wet clothes.  If you left them say, on the floor, they'll never dry. 
Even hanging up below decks, it'll take a while.  Up here, they'll dry out in
less than an hour."

     "Oh.  Yes, of course.  Shall I get them?"

     "I'm not your mother superior, MJ.  Your call."

     As she was getting up she commented, "Isn't it amazing how I defer to
authority?"  She smoothed the shirt over her hips which pulled it tight
across her breasts.  I looked at her tits.

     "Uh . . . I'll get them," she said and went below.

     I checked the wind and the direction.  No change.  There seldom was in
these latitudes.  Sitting back, I wondered to myself, "What do you think
you're doing?  Sure she's attractive, sexy even and sure, you'd love to get
into her pants, but you don't have the right to fuck with her head.  She's
trusting, uncertain, even a little troubled and terribly vulnerable.  What kinda
sexual predator are you, anyway?"

     "Thanks for making this talk easier for me," she said.  She'd returned so
silently and I'd been so lost in my own thoughts, I'd not sensed her presence. 
"Where shall I hang these?"

     "There's a coffee can with clothes pins by the binnacle.  I usually clip
them to the stays on the windward side.  Use extra clothes pins.  We won't
turn about for a lost . . ." and looking at her garments, I added, " . . . pair of
panties."

     She stiffened a moment and then chuckled, "You're trying to desensitize
me, aren't you?"

     "Is that what I'm doing?  Hell, I thought I was just trying to talk dirty."

     Pinning the brief white panties in question, she said, "I've never met
anyone like you.  You pretend your tough, but it's clear that you're well
educated.  You pretend you don't care, but you do."

     "Pretend?  Me?"

     "Yes, you, Mr. Smarty Pants.  I'm catching on to you," she said,
hanging her white bra and the last of her wet clothes.  "Yes, I think I'm
getting your number."

     "Well, if you figure out who I am, let me know, won't you?  I've been
working on that one for a long time and every time I think I've got it nailed,
I lose it.  And by the way, you might want to hang those clothes on the port
side."

     "Why?  This is the sunny side.  Tell me, are you a control freak?"

     I shrugged again.  Seems I was doing that a lot.  "Yeah, I guess."  I
eyed her clothes and allowed that a strong gust from the northeast *could*
heal us over enough to catch a wave and dowse her laundry, but it'd been
steady for the last few hours.  I let it go.

     "Do I *have* to?"

     "What?"

     "Move my clothes?"

     "Nope.  Actually, you don't *have* to do anything much in life.  We
have choices.  Accept the consequences and you can do anything you like."

     "Good.  I'd rather do nothing right now.  Where were we?"

     "Well, right before the brief exchange we had about your panties, we'd
been talking about God . . . your God, my God."

     "There's only one God."  

     It sounded rote.  "So I've been told and that may be the case, but I don't
think any religion - Christianity included - has a lock on God.  They'd just
like to *think* they do.  But let's not discuss theology right now.  You don't
have to like it, but just accept that I have my own concept of a higher
power, of the divine if you will.  Our concept of a cosmic conscious doesn't
bear upon the very real problems we're talking about right now."

     She looked like she might argue this contentions stand of mine.  So many
Christians tended to take religious disagreement personally, as if it were a
direct attack on them.  I wondered if she'd let it go.  Less God talk and
more sex talk, that's what this conversation needed.
     
     She sighed and made a vague hand gesture of surrender.  "You're right. 
What attracts me to you is your unconventional stance; I can talk theology
with the theologians."

     "And I represent a non-intellectual philosophy of life, a variant on the
'if-it-feels-good-do-it school'?"

     "Perhaps a little, but only on the surface.  Actually, I think that's a mask,
a facade behind which lives a deeper person.  I suspect you're intellectual to
a fault."

     "But sweet and charming.  Don't forget that."

     "Do we have a topic here?" she asked, looking about the deck as if it had
fallen and rolled under a hatch cover.

     I sighed loudly and in protest.  "Yes we do.  We have for quite some
time.  You've been dancing around it with all the verve and denial of an
ergot-frenzied Maypole celebration.  MJ, you know what the topic is better
than I do for that matter.  What do *you* suppose we're talking - or not
talking about?"

     "Ergot-frenzied?"  Then seeing the look on my face, she laughed and
said, "Okay, okay.  I give up.  You can't blame a girl for trying."

     "The topic?"

     In one smooth motion, she pulled her heels up to her thighs and pulled
the T-shirt over her knees down to her ankles, but not fast enough.  Alert as
I am to such possibilities, I was quick to catch a glimpse, no more than a
flash, of her dark and thick pubic hair.  My first time.  First time seeing a
nun's bush, that is.  When I looked up, she was watching me with an
enigmatic smile.  I felt like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

     "I suppose that's the topic?"

     I raised one eyebrow in question.  Such a display of sophistication was
not beyond me, I hoped and besides, it looked hip when Cary Grant did it.

     "My sexuality."

     "Ah, yes," I nodded, as if I'd forgotten it for a moment.  

     Sitting with her chin resting on her shirt-covered knee, her eyes
resting on me, she began to speak, slowly at first, then with gathering
strength.  "Much of my personality fits well with being a nun, but there's a
huge emotional hole in me that nothing seems to fill, nothing spiritual that
is.  As I've alluded, this appears to be in the realm of either a physical need
or that, coupled with an emotional obsession.  Because it's so blatantly
sexual, I've no way of dealing with it, physically or emotionally."  She
paused, perhaps to check my reaction.  I just smiled and nodded.

     "Being here with you today," she looked toward her clothes, "and
this way," gesturing toward her lingerie hanging in the breeze, has somehow
given me permission to be honest.  I don't know where I'm going with this
or how I'll feel about it latter.  I only know that if I don't get honest, I'm
going to continue to feel bad."

     "Usually that way for me."

     She began curling her toes.  They were attractive toes.  No polish. 
Of course.

     "Do you know about exhibitionism?"

     I was caught by my surprise and for a moment didn't answer.  In point of
fact, I'd always taken a low-grade interest in seeing and being seen.  I
nodded again.  "A little."

     "Well, as a teen-aged girl, I was very aware that I was attractive, even
sexy.  And as well, I was aware that the boys liked to look at me.  I liked
that.  I liked it even more when I 'accidentally' allowed them to see a bit
more than was proper.  I'd dress in semi-revealing ways, nothing brazen but
I'd find situations to push the boundaries of propriety.  It was thrilling, more
so because it was - I perceived it anyway - as on the edge.  Still it was more
than acting out.  It was more than getting away with something, although
heaven knows, that was part of it.  There was something more elemental
about it.  For one, it excited me no end.  I'd get . . . um . . . excited . . . "
and she looked me in the eye as if daring me to say anything, ". . . actually
what I mean to say is, I'd get wet, showing some secret part of myself."

     Again the look, the check; again the smile.

     "At first it thrilled me if I thought some guy had seen down my dress. 
Later, I made sure he saw more than that.  A button left undone might
afford a glimpse of my bra or the swell of my breast.  I knew that.  I'd
checked in the mirror and knew what way I had to twist so the blouse
would open up accidentally. Later, I practiced the same thing, checking
myself in the mirror as I crossed my legs, knowing just how much thigh I
was revealing.  What came to surprise me, however, was that I seemed to
get caught up in my own exhibitionism.  I often inadvertently pushed my
own boundaries and showed more than I'd ever intended to."  She furrowed
her eyebrows.  "Is this making sense?"

     I moved a bit to get back into the sail's shade.  She turned to continue
facing me, dropping one leg to the deck.  Without staring, I knew the way
the shirt was drawn and tented over her that if I could duck my head a little,
I'd be looking well up her bare leg.  Given the topic of our conversation, I
didn't even wonder if she knew.

     I commented, "Of course.  I suspect such innocent play is far more
common than people let on.  MJ, this all sounds pretty normal to me.  A
touch kinky, but that's healthy in my book.  I don't see behaviors there that
might have scared you.  And none that would have left an emotional hole."

     "No," she agreed, "that was just the beginning, but as you can see, my
exhibitionism is still very much with me today.  For instance, I'm very aware
of your attention and given the permissiveness of the setting, I'm aware of
my own excited reaction to it."

     "I'm flattered."

     "And familiar with it too, I imagine."  She smiled to take away any
perceived sting from her words.  Then she continued, "Most people regard
nuns as naive and sheltered; many are.  I am not . . . naive anyway.  I'm
quite aware that I'm sitting before you, wearing only your T-shirt.  I'm
equally aware that my undergarments are flying before your eyes.  I didn't
plan it that way, but the exhibitionist in me is delighted.  Seeming to be
totally innocent, I've been able to show you my intimate underwear and
even to flash you a glimpse of my thighs."  She looked at me coquettishly
and asked, "No more than that, was there?"

     I didn't get to answer.  A sudden blow, unanticipated and out of
nowhere, heeled us way over at the same moment a large swell was sliding
by.  MJ fell back, legs flying again.  Her almost-dry wash was again soaked. 
I'd been sitting in such a fashion that I'd caught myself effortlessly and
viewed with considerable interest the sight of Sister Mary Joseph, sprawled
back, T-shirt now in her lap and sisterly beaver looking at the sun, perhaps
for the first time in years.

     Her unerring instinct caused her to jam the shirt tail between her legs
immediately as she sputtered, "And I didn't plan that!"

     I might have said something like, "Well done, MJ.  And did you plan
your panties getting wet again?"

     "So *that's* why you suggested the um . . . windy side," she
accused.  "One more dousing and I'll be reduced to my birthday suit, and
we all know that the partially-clothed woman is far more seductive."

     "And I thought I was seducing you."

     The shock of our honesty caught us both unprepared and we began
to laugh, each looking into the eyes of the other.

     "God, you're fun," she said, gasping as she held her hand over her
breasts, one nipple thrown into marked prominence.  

     I didn't want to interrupt our conversation for another wash day.  "Let
'em hang for a little while.  We can rinse them out later." I suggested,
nodding to her wet clothes.

     "We?" she laughed.  "Are you some kind of pervert?  Trying to get into
my underpants?"

     "That's already been established.  Of course I am.  And I will."

     "Get into my pants?" she asked, still laughing.

     "Has anyone?  Since you've been a nun, I mean?"

     She suddenly sobered and stared at me with that look of mild alarm she
had.  "No.  Well, not exactly.  I mean, I've had a couple of close calls, but I
never . . . " and she paused, looking off into some unfocused distance of
recall, " . . . there was this young priest.  I think he may have had the same
problem I do.  He hinted at it.  I was vulnerable.  We were both excited. 
But nothing really happened.  Still, I wonder.  I think if he'd pushed me, I'd
have fallen right over.  We used to call that 'round heels.'"

     "So, you remain chaste in fact if not in spirit?"

     "Part of me says, 'Yes, darn it,' and another part admits I may never have
been chaste in spirit.  Therein lies the problem, my sailor friend.  I'm a
walking time bomb it seems.  Awareness of my sex, of my physical needs, is
never far from my consciousness."  She shook her head, as if to clear it. 
"Let me continue with my story, okay?"

     "Okay."

     "The other side of the coin of exhibitionism, is of course, voyeurism.  I
thought it was just natural to want to watch other people when I was a kid. 
I used to peep at my dad and both my younger and older brothers.  It was
so funny.  They'd drilled a peep hole into my room.  It was so obvious.  I
first found it late one night by seeing a pin-point flash of light where there
should have been none.  When I checked it out, crawling beneath a table in
my room and with my eye right up to the small hole, I was looking right into
their room.  Later, when I looked, they had a rolled-up paper plug in the
hole, but the night I found it, it must have fallen out.  Anyway, I could
effectively block their view of me by putting something in the way, like a
coat thrown over the back of a chair.  But most of the time, I just let them
look.  It gave me a thrill.  Perhaps as much, I found I enjoyed looking at
them!  I'd have died if they'd found me out."

     "Much of the time, they'd forget to re-plug the peep hole and later I
found it easy to poke out the paper plug.  I got a real education in male
anatomy and male masturbation those couple of years.  I never had the
nerve to let them watch me masturbate, but I certainly wanted to."

     She gave a nervous laugh and said, "Whew!  I can't believe I'm telling all
of this to you."

     "I used to peep at my older sister . . . every chance I got.  I think it is
pretty natural.  You hung up on that?"

     "Well, it seemed more okay when I was a teenager.  

     "Was this 'show' you put on for your brothers a one time thing?"

     She chuckled.  "To the contrary, it was a long-running event, and in
many ways, it was a dysfunctional interaction."

     "How so?"

     "I'm certain that we all knew what we were doing, but we never talked
about it . . . we didn't even allude to it verbally.  And at the same time, it
changed all of us.  Particularly me and my older brother."

     "Why was that, do you suppose?"

     "I'm not certain, but I'd guess that me and my older brother inherited the
horny genes while my younger brother was more interested in cerebral
things, ethereal things even.  Anyway, eye contact, body language,
attention to me - things like that - let me know that my older brother John
was the hot one."

     "Hmmm . . ."  I said, perhaps sounding wiser than I felt.

     "Actually, it wasn't much of a detective job.  For instance, if Paul, my
younger brother, was in their room alone, the peep hole plug wasn't
removed.  But if John were there alone, I could count on it.  In fact, I'd try
to get his attention by doing something more outlandish at night and then
see how he behaved later.  It worked."

     "How so?"

     "Well, after I'd been letting them see glimpses of my body, like in a bra
or at most, a bra and panties, I just knew that they knew that I knew. 
Convoluted, I know, but do you get the drift?"

     "I'm hanging in."

     "I was definitely feeling more provocative, so I decided to *be* more
provocative.  I started doing a little strip tease.  It was fun.  It was really
delicious and I'd get so hot."

     "What'd you do, MJ?"

     "I'd play a hot little number on my CD and then begin to dance around
my room, careful that nothing blocked the view.  By this time, I knew it was
John who was the dedicated voyeur, so it was for him that I'd dance.  I
began to run my hands over my hips and over my breasts as I danced, trying
to mix innocense in with sexy provocation.  I remember the time I
impulsively took off my blouse and continued to dance with just a skimpy
bra.  God, I felt wicked and terribly sexy!"

     "Is that as far as you took it?"

     "You want all the details, don't you?"

     I smiled and nodded.

     "No, that was the early part.  I was a junkie.  I always wanted more. 
After a few weeks I took off my bra as well and cupped my bare titties. 
That got me so turned on I snapped off the light and jumped into bed so I
could masturbate.  I imagined I could hear him doing the same thing."

     "Did you finally get totally nude for him?"

     "No, not really, but close to it.  By this time I was stripping down to bra
and panties pretty quickly, then dropping the bra.  I'd dance around and
throw in a lot of hip action, knowing that he could see things like my pubic
hair sticking out the side or the shadow of my bush through the thin
material.  About this time I caught him pulling a pair of my soiled panties
out of the clothes hamper.  I ducked back so he didn't see me.  He went into
his room and I heard the door lock click.  I just knew he was going to do
it."

     "Jack off?"

     "Yes . . . jack off.  I had to see, so I went into my room and crawled
under the table to push out the plug.  I was afraid he might see it fall out,
but I was so driven, I didn't care."

     "Was he?  Masturbating I mean?"

     "Yes, of course, but I couldn't see well . . . not nearly as well as I
wanted.  He was laying on the bed.  I could see that clearly, but because he
was sunk into the bed a little, I could only catch glimpses of his cock.  I
could see his hand pumping up and down, but really got my juices going
was watching him hold my panties up to his nose and smell them. 
Somehow, that made it so personal.  It was like I was involved."

     "And did you masturbate?"

     "Jesus, I *had* to.  It wasn't an option.  I was ready to bust, I was *so*
turned on.  If he liked the smell of my panties, he would have loved the
smell of my room, I'll bet.  When I came, it was like an explosion.  It left me
weak."

     "He say anything later?"

     "No, darn it.  By this time, I was ready to open up some kind of dialog,
but we were both too inhibited, I guess.  But I did notice that he didn't
bother to replace the plug after that.  Without words, we told each other
that we knew and that it was all right."

     "What was the most provocative thing you did?"

     "No.  I masturbated for him!  Oh, not naked, but I was dancing and
feeling myself outside my panties and one day, I just slipped my hand down
inside and cupped my self.  Then I couldn't stop.  I didn't even want to turn
the lights out.  I knew he was there and that he was watching me, so I sat on
the bed, facing the peep hole, and fingered my self inside my panties.  I got
pretty wild as I remember.  I ended up lying back on the bed, my heels dug
in, heaving up off the bed with my finger inside myself and strumming my
clitty with my thumb, all inside my stretched panties.  I didn't even try to be
quiet when I came."  She glanced at me and grinned.  "I used to be very
noisy."

     "A screamer?" 

     "Kind of . . . at least vocal."  She paused, then continued, "Somehow it
was different when I became a nun.  The voyeurism, I mean."

     "I'd think there'd not be much chance for voyeurism in a nunnery," I
reasoned.  

     "So you think.  The fact is there are a lot of woman under one roof and
despite the watchful eye of the older nuns, there was a certain relaxed
attitude during sports, showers and the locker room.  It's not as if we all
live in separate cells!  And I just know some of my sisters *had* to have
feelings like mine."  
     
     She pushed her hair back and then glanced away, a sure sign she was
about to reveal something more.

     "Anyway," she continued, again glancing off to the horizon, "it surprised
me how much I enjoyed looking at the other nuns.  I mean, looking at their
nude, or partially-nude bodies.  I didn't think of myself as anything but
heterosexual, but I found I was getting aroused looking at them and
knowing, or at least suspecting, that some of them were looking at me. 
You know, in *that* way."

     "That way?"

     "Yes.  Interested, sexual, curious, excited . . . all those things.  I liked it,
but still, it troubled me.  I began wondering about different ones.  Was she a
virgin?  Had this one ever gone down on a guy?  Did she play with herself?" 
She laughed, "Then it got even worse!"

     "How?"

     "I began having that same kind of thoughts about the priests.  Oh, not all
of them, just the sexy ones.  I wondered if they ever did it."

     "What made the 'sexy ones' sexy?"

     She thought a minute, then smiled.  "You're one.  It's not just looks,
although that's part of it.  It's more attitude, I think.  Confidence.  Self
assurance.  Body posture.  Bold eyes.  Innuendo.  Things like that."

     "And?"

     "And . . . and I wanted to do it with them!  I'd be talking to some priest
about some religious matter at the same time I'd be wondering how big his
penis was.  I'd find myself distracted, looking at his mouth or looking at a
glimpse of his tongue, fantasizing about doing it with him, or him doing it to
me.  Going down on me, I mean. There was a part of me that looked
forward to confessing some of my licentious thoughts to the 'sexy priests'. 
I'd get a thrill from - what did you call it? - talking dirty?  I couldn't stop
myself from thinking this way.  The more I tried, the more impossible it
became.  I was horny and excited all the time, and feeling like the lowest
form of pretense, a walking column of human garbage."

     "That's a feeling and not a fact.  How you feel is how you feel, but it
helps to know that you're not garbage.  You're one of God's kids and you're
perfect just the way you are."

     "Come ON!  As much as I enjoy hearing nice things said about me, I
can't for a minute accept that."

     "That's part of the problem.  You've made up your mind that you're a
piece of shit because of your very human feelings.  That's a no-win.  Until
you accept yourself as you are, you're screwed, MJ."

     "You know why I'm taking this trip?  No, of course you don't.  How
could you?  I'm taking a leave of absence.  I had courage enough to talk
about some of this with my superior who sent me to a shrink . . . a Jesuit
shrink if you will!  He reminds me you.  You and he say the same things. 
Anyway, they - the powers that be - have recommended that I take a year
off with no more than light duties, that I think about how I might best serve
God and myself.  They even suggested that not all who are called are
chosen, that I might discover that my path is outside the order."  

     She crossed her legs, Indian style, with the shirt tail still jammed between
her thighs.  This served to pull it taut against her breasts and prominent
nipples.  She checked.  I was looking.

     "You are my first authentic contact, my first experiment with real life
since I started this sabbatical.  So, what do you think?"

     "You have nice tits."

     Her eyes blazed.  "You!  I mean what do you *really* think?"

     "I saw your pussy when you fell back a little while ago.  I was the voyeur
and I loved it."

     Again, she jammed her hand between her thighs.  "You're impossible!"

     "No.  I'm really easy."

     "Is that actually what you were thinking about?  Just my body?"

     "That, certainly.  I also heard what you said about your feelings and
taking time off.  You've been given a blessing, MJ.  Take it and run.  Live
it.  Let yourself go.  Live your fantasy.  Explore yourself.  Learn that part of
you that has been pushed into the closet.  If you have an itch, scratch it."

     "I love your earthy analogies.  You sound more and more like Father
James, the shrink.  He didn't pull any punches either.  He was good with
spades."

     "Is that it?  You all done with the confession?"  I waved a hand and said
with a grin, "I guess I'd hoped there'd be more, you know, juicy stuff."

     "There is more, 'juicy stuff' as you call it, but that's the main thrust of it. 
I'm a damaged chick.  Want to take me on as a patient?"

     "No."

     "No?  I thought . . ."

     "MJ, I don't want to be your therapist or your advisor or your confessor. 
I'm a man and you're a very attractive woman.  You excite me and I want to
seduce you, to thrill you, to fill your fantasies.  I want to see you naked."

     She suddenly jerked the T-shirt to her chin, held it there for the count of
two, and then pushed it back into her lap.  "Like that?" she asked.

     I studied the after image.  It was lucid and clear.  Her breasts were
larger than I'd imagined, full and firm-looking with medium-large, pebbled
areolae and meaty nipples.  Her waist was surprisingly narrow atop flared,
woman's hips.  Her dark auburn public hair was full and lush, at least what I
could see.

     I clapped.  "More, I loved it!  It thrilled me.  Is that what you wanted to
know?  What'd it do for you, flashing me that way?"

     "If I got up, there'd be a wet spot."

     "Get up."

     "Are you serious?" she asked, looking a little embarrassed.

     "Yes, I'm serious.  Get up.  I want to see if you're just talk."

     She frowned.  I suppose she didn't like me thinking of her as 'just talk'. 
She stood up, pulling the shirt against her butt as she looked behind her at
the teak seat.  There was a wet spot.  

     "See!" she exclaimed.  She spun around and pushed the flat of her index
finger against the wet spot and then shoved it under my nose.  "Smell!" she
commanded.  

     It was faint but unmistakable.  I knew that odor, that sweet, musky
bouquet of pussy.

     "Careful," I advised.

     "Why, careful?"

     "Those are powerful pheromones.  I'm liable to jump your bones."

     "That sounds more like a request for permission than a threat of action,"
she countered.

     "Busted," I admitted.  "I guess it's not for nothing that I've been called
'an old gas bag', huh?"

     She leaned forward and looked at me intently as if to make a point.  I
waited.  "Let me see your penis," she said.

     "What!?"

     "Your penis, let me look at it.  What do you call it?  A cock?  A prick? 
Dick, maybe?"

     "You like to take it slow and easy, don't you, MJ?"

     "I've been taking it slow for the last ten years.  YOU were the one who
told me to live out my fantasies.  Well, asking a sexy guy to show me his
cock is one of them.  I don't want to look through a peep hole at life.  I
want to see it right here, right now."

     "That get you wet, girl?"

     "Yes.  What gets you hard, Mr.?"

     "Lots of things, but it all comes down to T&A."

     "T&A?"

     "Tits and ass.  And of course, attitude.  Is this quid pro quo?"

     "You show me yours and I'll show you mine?" she asked with an
expression close to a leer.

     "It always comes down to juvenile stuff like that, lady.  Yeah, if I'm
gonna show you my boner - isn't that a charming name? - then I wanna up
the ante.  I wanna crank up the intimacy current.  Show me your pussy, but
not a flash.  Really show it to me."

     MJ leaned back and smiled at me, a warm, sunny smile that spoke
volumes of her comfort at that moment.  How far we'd come.  A short while
before, she'd stepped aboard looking all the world like what she was, a nun.
Now, through a goofy process of self revelation, we were playing some
bewitching, sexy game that embodied the challenge portion of Truth or
Dare.

     "Can you drop anchor somewhere?  I'd be more comfortable if we
were tied to something, like the bottom and I wouldn't have to concern
myself with running aground on Virgin Gorda or someplace like that."

     I gestured to port.  We'd not been out of sight of land since we'd sailed. 
"See that island?  We're stopping there for the rest of the afternoon and
night.  There's a secluded and protected cove where the water's clear blue
and the Trade Winds blow all night.  Helps keep us cool and the mosquitoes
away.  Want to help me anchor?"

     She grinned and nodded her head.

     Watching her take up lines and bend over, often it seemed, in an
outlandish fashion, served to keep my fires going.  I was quick to show my
appreciation with timely wolf whistles.  In short order, we were secured and
safe.  She turned to me and pulling off her voluminous T-shirt, she asked,
"Now are we going to play show and tell?"

     I walked slowly toward her, unbuttoning my shorts and allowing them to
slip down on my hips, only my erection holding them up.  "MJ, I seem to
have a problem here with my shorts.  Could you help me get 'em off,
please?"

     My eyes raked up and down her naked form.  Sister Mary Joseph, pink
and in the flesh, my big-titted sexy nun, was admiring me as I presented
myself for her ministrations.  

     "You've come to the right place, sailor.  I'm an expert in removing
recalcitrant shorts."  She kneeled in front of me and slowly pulled my shorts
down my thighs.  Pausing a moment, she looked up at me and said, "I
*usually* kneel down for quite another reason."

     My cock was stiff and bent down and when suddenly freed, leaped to
attention.  "Oh, my goodness!  I've not had a close look at one of *these* in
a long, long time," she stated, slowly fisting my cock.

     I pulled her to her feet saying, "MJ, these teak decks are beautiful to
look at, but for substantially greater comfort, come below and try out the
bunk in the master suite, won't you?"

     "Both of us?  In one bed, I mean?"  Laughing, she pulled me by the
hand, down the ladder into the main salon, chanting, "Lead me not into
temptation; I know the way myself."

     "What ever happened to that demure, sexually repressed little nun I took
aboard just hours ago?"

     "You're right about the repressed part, sailor boy.  I'm given to
understand that you have a treatment for my sexual frustrations.  Is this true
or is it all just hypothetical bull pucky?" she asked, sweeping her black habit
off the master bunk.

     "The treatment started several hours ago, MJ.  Look at yourself, at the
progress you've already made.  Better yet, let *me* look at you.  I'd be far
more appreciative."

     "Well now, I'd hoped you might get around to a little friendly voyeurism. 
I'm certainly in a show-off mood.  What would you like first to see?"

     "Tell you what, woman . . . I'd like to examine your tits right now and
while I'm doing that - you'll have lots of time - I'd like you to tell me of one
of your fantasies, one of those delicious little vignettes long suppressed in
the nunnery.  That'll start our erotic variation of show and tell."

     "I *think* things like that, but you *say* them!  I love your boldness,"
she said as lay back, cupping her breasts.  "Have at 'em," and she laughed at
her own mimicry of me.

     I lay down beside her and leaning on one elbow, I reached down and
ran a feather-light touch around the base of her breast next to her axilla,
approaching and retreating from her nipple.  "Ready to tell me a story?" I
asked.

     She arched her back, pushing her breast toward me, saying, "Oh my
God, that feels so good.  I can't tell you . . ."

     I pushed a little harder, testing the substance of her breast.  It was
surprisingly firm.  I traced patterns from her chest wall to the edge of the
areola, still not touching the prominent nipple.

     She groaned and whispered, "Oh, please, please, please . . . yes, again
yes.  Please touch me!"

     "Slowly, MJ.  You've waited ten years.  Let's wait another ten minutes.  I
want you to remember this and more, I want you to have clarity about this." 
I cupped her other breast and held it softly.  "This is both an experience and
an experiment."

     She drew her heels up and with knees well apart, lifted her pelvis off the
bunk, thrusting at a body, a cock, that wasn't there.  "You're driving me
crazy.  I'm so darn horny I can't stand it.  Do something."

     She reached a hand down as if to touch herself.  I held her wrist and said,
"Not yet, lady.  When it's time, I'll get you off.  I want you mad with
passion."

     She glared at me, eyes snapping.  "You don't think I'm excited enough? 
You're daft!"  She sniffed the air.  "Smell me.  I'm so wet and so randy, I
smell like I'm in heat!"

     I'd been aware of her increasing musk filling the still air of the closed
cabin.  My brain's response to her odor was to dive between her legs and
smell her cunt, but I wanted to draw this out, to stretch every moment's
awareness of the now.

     "Yes, I can smell you.  I smell your cunt.  You're ripe, you know that?"

     Writhing, she gasped, "Yes, I know I'm ripe.  I secret so much.  At times
I've smelled myself in church and was mortified that someone else would
smell me and know what was happening between my legs.  Christ!  
Touch me there, Please, please."

     "You smell that way for a reason.  It's to attract a man . . . to attract me .
. . right here, right now," I said, trailing a hand down over her belly and just
brushing her pubic hair with my fingers.  She thrust at me again and said
something that sounded like, "Umph . . ."

     I pushed my self up and looked between her scissoring thighs at her
wet and matted pubic hair.  Her inner thighs and butt cheeks were slick, her
pussy lips swollen and partially everted.  She made a squishing noise when
she suddenly brought her knees up, catching my hand between her legs.

     "Yes, there!  Touch me there.  Touch my womaness, my sex."

     "Your womaness?" I said sarcastically, "Is *that* what you call it?"

     "NO!" she shouted, defiantly.  It's my . . . it's my pussy.  My box. Snatch. 
Beaver.  Damn you, anyway.  It's my CUNT!  There, you made me say it. 
You happy now?"

     "Happier.  I don't know what kinda spade you call it, but 'womaness'
doesn't cut it.  I like pussy and when I want to add and edge, I like to call it
a cunt," I said, conversationally, slowly running my finger  through her slick
slit.  Then I added, "Turn over."

     "Huh?"

     "Roll over on your stomach.  I wanna see your butt."

     She flipped right over, saying, "You *said* you were a T&A man, didn't
you.  Well, here's mine!"

     She had that wonderful lordosis, that sweet concave curve that arises
from a narrow waist and swells to two firm, jutting cheeks.  I ran the palm
of my hand over her butt and said, "Who'da thought it?  Who'da imagined
that under those heavy black robes this sweet ass existed, unappreciated and
unloved for all those years?"

     She arched and back and pushed her buttocks up with a gratifying moan. 
I pushed up from the bottom on her belly and said, "Higher."

     Up on her knees with her chest on the bunk, her cheeks separated,
exposing her tan anus surrounded by a sprinkling of dark auburn curls.  I
traced a light line around her ass hole and she gasped.  Her body shuddered
and she exclaimed, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph . . . what are you *doing* to
me back there?  What *is* that?  I've never felt anything like that."

     "MJ, that's your butt, known to the medical community as an anus, but
to lovers of this anatomy, it's more commonly referred to as your ass hole. 
Like the feeling?"

     "Like it?  God almighty, I love it!  I never imagined . . . I mean, no one
*ever* touched me back there.  I always thought of it as . . ." and she fell
silent, searching for the proper adjective.

     "Dirty?" I suggested.  

     "Yes . . . dirty.  No one ever tried to touch me there!"

     "Lots of people - perhaps most even - are anally erotic but many don't
even know it."  I continued to touch her external sphincter and each time, it
seemed to wink at me.  "Shall I proceed?"

     "I surrender.  I just give up.  Do anything you want with me.  But for
God's sake, do *something*."  She pulled her arms under her chest and
cupped her tits as I moved behind her, keeling between her legs, facing her
upthrust ass.

     "MJ, you've got a beautiful ass.  I say that in the most appreciative way. 
You're an extraordinarily sexy woman."  

     Her aroma was wafting up to my nose; I drank in her scent for a long
moment and then lowered my face to her exposed pussy.  I opened my
mouth and breathed my hot breath on her labia.  She jerked and groaned,
"Lord, lord . . . that's indescribable."

     I extended my tongue and with it's pointed end, I touched the tender
flesh between her anus and her labia and then slowly licked around the
periphery of her ass hole.  Her body jerked and she mumbled something into
a pillow, the words lost.  As I drew back to look again at her pumped up
labia, her hand snaked between her thighs and she dipped a finger into her
pussy, pulling thick secretions back to her distended clit.

     "MJ, I can see you.  You're touching your cunt and I'm watching you . . .
watching you masturbate . . . and fingering your tender ass hole at the same
time.  Feel that?  Feel my finger."  I dipped my finger into the pool of her
secretions and pressed the pulp of that finger to her anus, feeling it tighten
and then slowly relax.  "I'm going to slip my finger into your ass as you frig
yourself . . . feel the pressure . . . that's it, push back against my finger . . .
now . . . I'm in!  Feel it.  I'm inside your warm, soft ass guts, MJ.  Frig your
clit.  Help me get you off."

     She began bucking her ass back at me, all the time clawing at her pussy,
moaning and thrashing her head from side to side, all the while murmuring
incoherent words of passion.  "Oh God.  Oh shit-oh God, I'm going to cum. 
Shit, shit, shit . . . I'm going to cum.  Jesus, Jesus.  Here it comes . . ." and
her voice rose to a scream of mindless ardor, long, high-pitched and crazed. 
Her body jerked once, twice and then again, each time accompanied by a
visceral grunt.  She fell forward in a limp puddle of spent emotion.  Then
she began to cry, initially quietly.  I held her.  Her crying grew in intensity,
grew into body-racking sobs.

     There was nothing to be said.  The only thing I could do was hold her
close, petting her hair, mumming softly in her ear.  This was not an
intellectual process.  Far from it.  It was a total-body catharsis, long over
due and it had nothing to do with cognition.  I could only hold her.  Aware
at the moment that my hard cock was pressed into the crack of her ass, yet
not needing anything at that moment, aside from holding her.

     I had no idea how this would impact her life.  Was this the thing she
needed to fill the emotional void?  Hardly, I thought.  That's an inside job. 
But there's no denying our body's needs.  We can trick it, deny it, say that it
doesn't matter and perhaps for a little while, we get away with it.  But the
body remembers and one day, if its vital enough, it will out.  

     How important is that?  For me, it's important.  Not the most important
thing, but still, important.  I'd come to recognize that I couldn't do much in
life by myself, that I needed people.  More, I needed love.  

     I held her close to me and whispered, "MJ, you are a lovable woman. 
Whatever you choose in life, know that."

     ________________________________________________


                                                EPILOG

     Well, that was it.  We slept together that night and the next but I
never fucked her.  My dick wanted to drill her, but instead my spirit got
what it wanted.  Perhaps what it needed.  

     We talked and talked over the next two days, sharing our fantasies
and our fears.  MJ said that she didn't know what was going to become of
her but she knew that she couldn't trick her body any longer.  I think she
was moving into resignation, that her life had to encompass more than that
of the celibate cleric.

     We masturbated together a couple of times each day and spoke of
our mutual desire to fuck each other.  Yet, for reasons neither of us
completely understood, we didn't.  We wanted to and we admitted that. 
But we didn't and that seemed right.  In the last hours of our being together
we agreed that she needed to spend her year looking at her own issues
without the distraction of someone like me.  She said she'd get in touch
with me after a year.  I said sure, but didn't believe it.

     I haven't seen her since that day and I'd not heard from her in
almost that long.  The other day I received a phone call and I recognized her
voice immediately.  I said hello and she said, "I'd like to see you again.  Will
you see me?"

     "You!  I never thought I'd hear from you again."

     "Will you see me?  We need to talk."

     "Ahhh . . ."  I couldn't talk, I was stunned.

     "This may me one of the most important things in my life.  Say you
will."

     I'm flying into San Francisco tomorrow.  She said she'll meet me at
the gate.  I wonder what she'll be wearing this time.

















--


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