Father, you don’t need to ask how long it’s been since my last confession. You know and I know the truth. It’s been a week. But what a week, Father! Does it involve another trip to that place? Yes, it does. But a lot more than that Father. And that woman? Yes, she makes another appearance. Probably her last though. I really think I’ve managed to get her out of my system this time. It didn’t involve too much sinning. Just a little. Which is why I’m here.

It starts with my Uncle Errol. I’m not blaming him. He just happens to live near that place. Yes, Father, the San Sussy. Not to be confused with the Sugar Bunker next door. I’m not good enough to go there. If the Sans Sussy is like the Notre Dame, then the Sugar Bunker is the Vatican of Lust.  He tells me he’s never gone to either. I believe him. He’s single and far as I know still a virgin. It’s not my theory. The whole family believes it. Of course, he’s not a holy virgin. If you went over to his place and went through his collections you would see plenty of, well, unchaste things. You see, he likes comic books. Under all the standard heroes and villains there’s wilder stuff. Women form-fitting costumes and getting into situations where alligators and lasers make them lose their clothes.

That plus light bondage. Not my thing, Father. If I can be my own devil’s advocate, when I commit a sin of the flesh, I don’t do it through a medium. I’m direct. I actually get to touch the woman. You understand? I guess not. You shouldn’t Father, right? Anyway, Errol’s place is near the San Sussy. The reason that’s important is because Uncle Errol wanted to see me. He sounded desperate, Father. I’m probably his favorite nephew and promised to come over as soon as possible. Soon as I told him, I remembered the San Sussy. Oh what a curse. To have that hole of immorality between him and me.

I wanted to take the long route to  avoid it. But temptation got the better of me and I went inside. I paid the necessary fees, bought the necessary watered-down drink, and watched the show. None of the usuals were up there gyrating around the staves. It was nice, but these girls were not what kept bringing me to the San Sussy. I asked Claude, the bartender where Madame du Strawberry was, and he said she had been upgraded. Upgraded? Was she at the Sugar Bunker now? No, he said. The Madame was working nights.  She also qualified for the special service. Remember the one I told you about Father? The one that takes place in the backroom they call the Orangerie?

For the first time there was someone working there who interested me. I’d heard so many rumors about it. A garden of delights. Real drinks. All the touch I could have. But so far, the only girls assigned to the space were the kind of girls who, well Father, I’m not into. They’re quite attractive. In fact, they’re hot. Hot doesn’t really interest me, Father. I like pretty. Call me old-fashioned.. Madame du Strawberry is pretty. She’s not overpowering. It’s like the statues of the Blessed Virgin you got here at Saint Strabo’s parish. She’s never a supermodel. Now, I’m not suggesting anything serious here, but if you needed a Virgin Mary for the nativity, the Madame would do in a pinch. Just cover her fishnets with some blue robes.

Okay. So, I finished my drink and nearly tripped over a table on my way out. Not because I was drunk. Not at all.  It’s a pretty dark room, you see. Even in the afternoon it’s dark. I guess it’s what you would except for a place with so much sin. It’s everywhere. The curtains are probably dripping with it. Don’t ever go there Father, not even if one of the strippers needs last rites. Tell them to bring her to you or take her outside into the parking lot. You can do it there. No need to involve Saint Strabo with the San Sussy.

After adjusting to the light outside, I found my Uncle’s place. I’d never seen him happier to see me. I went into his apartment and did my best to be friendly towards his ferrets. Father, does the Church have a position on those things? They must be unclean or something. While they nibbled at my ankles, Uncle Errol said he had something he wanted to give me as a birthday present. I just had to follow him into his backroom. Unlike the Orangerie, I’ve been there before. Like the Orangerie the room has its own version of a holy of holies. Many of them are under plastic.

And one of those treasures is The Palatine, Issue #7. If you’re not familiar with the world of comic books, Father, it’s the one where Palatine’s nemesis, Tercio, is introduced for their first battle. I’d heard about it, but I didn’t know my Uncle Errol had a copy. It’s pretty valuable. Not like upside-down airplane stamp valuable. You couldn’t buy a house with it. It’s just pretty valuable considering how much it cost to make it though. Some ink, some paper, some glue. It only took cents to make a thing that you could sell to buy enough incense for a decade.

Uncle Errol gave Issue #7 to me after singing his version of the Happy Birthday song. It was a simple transaction. No paperwork necessary. We ordered takeout and watched some action movies through the rest of the afternoon. I think he had more fun than I did. That’s okay. At my age, you don’t need everything to be about you on your birthday. Why focus on your age and how you’re getting older? After the takeout and the movie were done, I told Uncle Errol it was time for me to go. He thanked me for coming. I thanked him for Issue #7. I went to grab it but my Uncle stopped me. I had sweet and sour sauce all over my fingers.

Once I was clean enough, he let me go with my present. When I got home, I realized I didn’t know where to keep the thing. I don’t have a holy of holies, Father. I thought about starting one, but couldn’t find the right place. There was space in the cabinet under the sink. But the risk of a leak was too high. There’s a little storage space under the steps to my room as well. But that’s used by the super to store paint and tools. For a moment I thought I might keep it in my freezer. You can see I’d make a terrible archivist Father. Eventually I left it in my desk and figured I’d only take it out on a special occasion. Maybe one day I’d have kids to share it with.

But Father, the neon lights and the heavy bass music of San Sussy still called out to me. Through the following weeks I tried to remain strong and resist all thoughts related to that place. It was no use. I visited again. Father, you probably remember this one. I told you about it last time. Oh how quickly sin snowballs! I went there at night, saw Madame du Strawberry and indulged her so she might indulge me. Then I went home and…completed my violations.

In between, there was some success, Father. She actually sauntered over to me, yes sauntered Father, and said she was hoping to see me again. But in the Orangerie.

The Orangerie, Father!

It’s an expensive place though. You have to buy your way in. Then you have to pay for a dance. In between there are drinks. It’s all very expensive. Two months rent, at least. Just to give you an idea. Though you don’t really pay rent to do Father? Not on the rectory. It’s a couple of car payments. Does that work? The cost of a brand-new church pew? See we’re heading into your territory and I’ve got no idea what I’m talking about. Without reflecting on it at all, I went online, looked up the price of Issue #7. I’d like to say there was a dark night of the soul after that. But no. It was all seamless. I sold it to a guy in Singapore.

He paid me well Father and it didn’t take long for the comic and the cash to change hands. When I got the money, I pulled it out of an ATM just so I could feel it. I guess you can’t understand it, Father. You get to handle huge piles of cash all the time. All the money in the poor box and the bills in the collection plates. Not that you get to keep any of it. I’m not suggesting that Father! You’re just numb to it now. All those presidents and landmarks passing through your fingers. It means nothing. In my case, I still get excited by all that. Cash still feels real to me. It makes everything I’m paying for feel real too. Whether I’m using it for a drink, or the tip jar, or putting it inside a g-hovah’s collection plate.

The money I had was deliciously crisp and I spent it. Yes, at the Orangerie, Father. I didn’t get to go in there right away. No. I had to build up to it. I had to hang around the main area. It was dark as usual, but I could recognize Madame du Strawberry. I got a real drink. Then another. Then another. I started buying drinks too. The dancers noticed and started move for me. I watched for a bit but I was loyal to my favorite, Madame du Strawberry. She was nice enough to let me do a shot out of her belly button. It was high-proof stuff, Father. Not like communion wine. Don’t worry, it sanitized everything. It had to, it burned.

Father, I did such terrible things that night. I opened the temple of my body to misuse by others. Myself too. But they helped. Someone suggested we go into the Orangerie and I went along, dropping more cash between the bar and the curtains separating me from the ordinary clientele. Claude was at the entrance and collected a fee for going further. Once inside, I noticed there was another bar. I got a bottle of pink champagne. On ice. Across from the bar was an orange tree with fruit hanging from it. It was all fake. Surrounding the tree was this crescent shaped couch with cushions. It was orange and white. Sort of like a giant Creamsicle.

On the walls there were black velvet paintings. They were arranged a bit like our stations of the cross. Except they showed a woman being stripped and bound. Then she was, well, impaled by something other than nails. Did I look Father? Yes. I was curious even if it wasn’t really my thing. I do my best not to break the first three commandments, Father. In all these visits, have you ever heard any blasphemy or idolatry coming from me, Father? I think not.

Madame du Strawberry started to dance for me. I swear she crawled up into the tree and hung from the branches, shaking her gifts from God at me. A work of art. Or so I thought. Claude asked me if I wanted to pay to see more. I did. Then Madame dropped her bra. Her stockings. Her panties. Oh, Father forgive me for causing any second-hand sin. I must be honest in a place like this. Then, she swung back and forth in front of me. It was too dark to get a real view though. Claude asked for more money, this time, to turn the lights on. I shoved more crisp bills into his fist. I swear that when I was done, I could smell the oranges hanging on the tree.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, things got brighter. Oh Father, she started to come into view and straddled my thighs. I was doing all the things which come naturally to a man at that point. It was all involuntary. Oh my poor body. It was a case of the flesh being led to the slaughter because of the mind’s own lust. Father, I could feel her breath on my neck. Then she asked for money, so that I could touch her. What could I do? I gave her the last of the comic book money.

Claude turned the lights to their brightest setting. I reached out and touched Madame du Strawberry. Where do you think my hand went Father? No, not there. Not there either. It did not grab or fondle. I just wanted to steady her. I held her side and felt something strange. It was a wound Father. Or I should say, a scar. A C-Section scar. Oh if I had any doubts about Madame du Strawberry not being real, they were gone. She was real. All too real. I recoiled from the way her skin felt and almost jumped into the branches of the tree. I tried to hide my disgust, but couldn’t. Too much champagne and liquor were sloshing around in me.

No vomiting in the Oragerie. That’s one of the rules they don’t tell you about, Father. Then again, why would they? When they kicked me out of the San Sussy, they sent me onto the street with laughter. Laughter, Father! It was clear I was a joke. Pathetic. I hit the curb pretty hard too. Face first. It hurt so much to get back up, what with scrapes and bruises all over my hands. But I did it anyway. What choice did I have? Nobody on the street passing by the San Sussy wanted to help me. Not one Good Samaritan. I understand it. Who would want to help a guy covered in vomit and treated like a laughingstock?

I didn’t really understand the damage until I went home and woke up the next morning. My lip was swollen. My chin had blood on it. My nose looked bad. I couldn’t begin to tell what was wrong with it. My insides hurt in all kinds of ways. Of course, there was a hangover on top of all that. I tried to fall back asleep, but my phone started buzzing. And who was it? My Uncle Errol. He wanted to see me again. Well, not just me. He was already missing his Issue #7 and wanted to check up on it. Maybe we could read it together. I said that sounded nice and I would see him later and bring it with me.

Only after I ended the call did I realize how stupid I was. I didn’t have Issue #7. What would I do? How would I tell him what I did with it and where the money went Father? Honesty seemed to be the only thing I could do. Just like I’m doing here, Father. The library didn’t have a copy of Issue #7 that I could xerox anyway. I went to Uncle Errol’s place, taking the long route this time. I avoided not only the San Sussy, but the Sugar Bunker as well. That whole rotten lane.

When I got to his door, I knocked and thought about my testimony. Uncle Errol opened it, and gasped, yes Father, audibly gasped at the sight of me. He didn’t ask why I looked beaten up. Uncle Errol immediately thought I’d been mugged and, get this Father, that Issue #7 was taken from me in the struggle. Soon as he gave me that story, I used it. I think it was good enough to say it had been stolen. In way it was. The San Sussy. The Orangerie. Claude and the Madame du Strawberry. They weren’t exactly fair with me the whole time, were they? Should I’ve broken his heart Father?

In the end, Uncle Errol took my back to his sanctuary and offered to give me another comic book. There were a bunch that he held up. From his excitement I could tell they were valuable. To him and other people. I told him to save them for another birthday. I hope he forgets about it. I don’t want to have the temptation of selling another collectable. Like I said, I’ve got nowhere to store them and keep them safe from the thorns in my flesh. That and mildew.

Father, forgive me for the lie. Though he gave it to me, his truth became false in my hands. A kind of reverse transubstantiation, right? I don’t need to be absolved for the San Sussy business. No. Father, as far as I can see through this still swollen eye, I’ve done my contrition. Sure, it was done to me. If we’re being accurate. But I still received my punishment. The Lord was working through Claude and the others that night. I came, I saw, I touched, I suffered. What more is there to say about it? I didn’t I suffer like Jesus. It was more of an Old Testament thing, Father. But things are balanced now. The only thing that remains is that falsehood I used with my Uncle.

Father, tell me what I need to do for my penance. How many Hail Marys this time? Speaking of Mary, Father, do you think she maybe had a C-Section scar too? You can’t tell under those blue robes. Not to say a miracle didn’t happen in Bethlehem. I’m just wondering if she kept everything down there intact thanks to a little divine surgery. The Father could’ve held the knife and the Holy Ghost could’ve put her under anesthesia. Right? Maybe the C in this case could stand for Christmas. Right, Father?

– Benjamin Nardolilli