Jimmy looked up at the camera,

“My brothers and sisters, I cried after reading that letter. I wept before the Lord and asked Him what can I do to help this child? What can I do after reading this? It was a letter describing herself, a young, attractive teenage girl - in detail, and then offering herself…
 Yes, I mean she was offering herself to this band, my brothers and sisters. She would become theirs to do with as they wished. She would no longer be Jeanne, a girl committed to her mother, to the church, to Jesus. No, she would be a tool for their pleasure…
 “My brothers and sisters, I had to ask G-d what can we do when this evil spirit enters our very households. We should all be asking the Lord what we can do to help in this fight.”
The cameras panned the audience, settling on an attractive teenage girl listening intently. The TV screen showed some people slowly shaking their heads in sympathy, others bowing their heads in prayerful devotion to this cause. But Jimmy isn’t through.

“This girl went on to describe, my brothers and sisters, in detail, every act she would allow them to perform on her, and every behavior she was willing to perform on them; begging them to just allow her to try – let her have the opportunity to please them.”
I found I had to move the TV tray to rearrange some elevation issues which were being raised achingly in my lap. Turning to the audience to catch his breath, the cameras settled yet again on the upturned face of another attractive teenage girl.
 “She described how she would dance for them. What she would wear. A willing slave to do anything they wanted with her for even for a short period of time! My brothers and sisters, this is devil worshi...”
Unable to take any more “ministering,” I was on my feet clicking off the set and on my way upstairs. After being “ministered to” in this fashion by Brother Swaggert, I was not all that surprised to hear of his later ministry-ending disaster, caught in liaison with a prostitute from whom he was receiving “special” treatments.
As I entered my bedroom carrying my bible, I headed to the dresser, trading the book for box of tissues. It was as if the book, silent and ultimate father-symbol that it was, might effect some observance of my inner and outer explorations, and – should best be kept out of direct sight.
The Educational Benefit of Dreams
‘Ooh, Cindy girl,’ I thought to myself as I entered the seminar room for my first “African-American Studies” class. ‘Someone is beginning to grow as a person here, yes… This is genuinely so much cooler than that lame religious school mom and dad wanted me to go to. Right… like it wasn’t enough being in that all-girls school my whole life…’
 I had to stifle my smile, as the words “grow as a person” rose up in my mind attaching themselves to some very non-academic images. Episodes from my two sexual episodes of last summer added to the previous Spring’s rush filling out my 36D bra (and these boys here never seem to stop staring). It is just so great to be away from mom and dad. This is like arrival, I think. Suddenly he took over my world.

“You are not just a student in this class,” spoke the commanding black figure at the podium in a stern voice. “You are here to be part of a universal effort to further racial justice and social equality. This isn’t just a resistance to racism we seek to inculcate in this class but a resistance to all forms of social inequality and oppression. The inequality women suffer, not only in the workplace - but universally as sex objects - has got to be torn down and done away with as well.” 

My jaw literally unhinged an inch or two as I found myself staring blankly at this strange, dark man.
 “We know that history is written from the perspective of whites, and that laws and policies benefit whites while putting minorities at an immediate disadvantage. The people who make these laws and policies believe only White Europeans and White Euro-Americans should set the world's agenda and control and distribute the world's resources.”
‘… the way he sneers... I thought of my poor father looking up at the professor trying to combat these dominating hammer-like truths. I was immediately lost in my head speaking these same pearls of wisdom to my family over holiday dinners, bending them to these newfound truths; speaking these same words; unavoidably dripping with appropriate disdain to all who might disagree. It was suddenly easy – surprisingly easy – to be angry at all who might disagree with these words. Well, it’s pretty simple; all who do not agree are racist pigs.

“Whites are like addicts who are unaware of their addiction and how they benefit from - and even depend on - the sufferings of others for their happiness. How can you – if you are psychologically in denial; if you are unaware of your own racism, how can you – be set free?” he asked, ending the sentence with that surprisingly soft tone that made me feel like I was being stroked somehow. “That’s what we intend to discover in this class. How many of you are ready?”
‘OhmaG-d! Was I the only one in the class to start sending her hand up in the air?’
“Many are called,” the impressive man added, passing an imperceptible glance over me as he eyed the room dramatically (did he just look back directly at me?); “but few are chosen.”
He concluded his last statement with a voice not only low in tone but tinged with remorse. No doubt from a life of pain and caring, I ached. I gazed at him spellbound; the scowl on his face reflecting all the injustice of this dark world.
The bell rang. “Those who didn’t get a chance to sign up for the next special forum, please see me,” he added in a quick flat tone. Did he just look at me again? I’d better get down there quickly… probably be a line waiting to talk to him.’

But it was only me. I nervously approached him as he gathered up his notes to put them in his case.
“Uh, excuse me Professor, I, uh, didn’t know about the special forum.”
“No problem. What’s your name again?”
“Cindy Scheiner.”
“Cindy, I’m having some of the students over to my house Sunday afternoon around three. We’ll talk more about it then. He looked closely at me and said, “See you there. My address is in the syllabus.” Without waiting for a response, he picked up his case and walked away from the podium and out the door.

 “What have I got myself into? What will I say? Suppose I’m the only white person there? And oh my G-d, what will I wear?
Sunday I soaked for over an hour in scented bath oil, slipped on my new (talk about expensive!) matching bra and panties, tried on three different outfits and finally settled on a short off-white summer dress. I mean, why get my legs all tan and then cover them up? Besides, my cleavage looks great (in the new fully-expanded mode!), and I couldn’t resist primping in exaggerated innocence in the mirror while bending low, showing off the natural gifts that men normally only find in centerfolds. I straightened up, and, looking myself over in the full length mirror, concluded, ‘The back falls just right, proving further,’ I had to admit, ‘that four years and a thousand hours of gym work can get you one bad ass.’
I touched up my makeup and walked the short distance across campus to the professor’s house, arriving five minutes early. Reminding myself that every boy I passed had stared approvingly - if not hungrily - I nonetheless arrived nervous and unsure, standing on the wooden porch of his small house set back off the main walk. It was surrounded by trees and flowers.
He came to the door in his bare feet, wearing jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt. My heart sank.
“Oh,” he said, bringing his left hand to his forehead in this how-could-I-forget-gesture, “Cindy, your name is new to the list. I forgot to call you. The meeting’s cancelled.”
I froze like an idiot, standing there wooden, feeling stupid.
“No, but come on in, this is good, I want to talk to you…please.”
Happy not to be left standing on the porch with the door in my face, I also found myself reflecting on his six-pack abbs; and for a man his age…

Within a short time I learned the professor felt the usual rules regarding student and faculty were anachronistic, and insisted on adding wine to the occasion. “Like they do in Europe, he said, adding, “Wine is like a social lubricant among intelligent adults.”
“I agree, and thank you, Professor,” I said, even though I could hardly remember the last time I drank wine, probably two years before at my sweet sixteen. I was surprised how pleasant-tasting the alcohol was, and how easily it went down.
“I thought you seemed a little different than the others,” he smiled, as a warm glow began to resonate from my midsection.
“I hope that’s good,” I added with a pretend scared-face and a laugh.
“I think it is,” he said seriously, refilling my glass as he hesitated. He was obviously choosing his words carefully.
“I like to speak my mind, but that often gets a man in trouble. Especially,” he added with soft, patient eyes, “a black man. But I’ve gotten to a point in my life that I just say ‘the hell with it,’ and I already sense in you a person I can just speak to as one person to another without all the bullshit rules.
I lowered my eyes hoping my spreading smile didn’t show. Excitement ran into realization, this is a real man!… for the first time, a man who sees the real me… A true  renaissance man…
“Most of the class is just middle class white-bread repeating back to me what they think I want to hear. But you strike me as somehow… more… uhmm, real,” he added as he lifted his glass, and with a glance urged me to do the same.
Holding my breath listening to his every word, I quickly raised my glass to his.
“Here’s to real,”  he said.
“To real,” I added, my face flushing as I began to feel a little dizzy.
We finished that glass and were into one more when the subject of racism arose.
“We have to see racism in ourselves, Cindy,” he said quietly. “It’s a personal thing, a very subjective thing. That’s where it must be rooted out, and when it’s rooted out at its most basic level, that’s when true equality begins. As well as true freedom for the person released from their own bigotry.
“My head nodded up and down as I tried to comprehend what that might mean. “I…I agree,” I found myself saying, “but how…”
He had stood up and walked to his entertainment center, pushed some buttons and “Sade” began to sing. The notes of a beautiful French ballad filled a room that suddenly seemed to go a little dim at the same time the music began. The professor turned from the entertainment center.
“How, Cindy? As one person interacts with another. As just two people, that’s how. You knew that intuitively, I think… didn’t you?” he concluded softly as he reached out his hand to me, his brown eyes softly holding mine.
“I gue… yes.” I said, trying to give the right amount of assurance to my answer. As I stood up I was suddenly aware of the wine’s effects. My face felt very warm, and my tingling body mindlessly eager to float on the soft chords of the French ballad.
“Yes, there is something very special about you,” he said warmly, as his arms encircled me, sending my mind into heavenly realms as my eyes closed and I allowed him to lead me in very slow movement. I soon found myself blushing, my face running red and hot. While we were moving slowly, he was holding me really close. While it was easy to flow along in a dreamy sway with his arms guiding me, I could not mistake the persistent large bulge pressing against my stomach through his thin baggy jeans.
Within a few moments, I felt his hand, which had up till that time rested on my lower back, gently caress and squeeze my thousand-hour behind. I jumped. I automatically pushed his hand away.

He didn’t react. His voice still soft, inquiring gently,
“Tell me, Cindy, what were you thinking just now when you pushed it away?
Ohmagod. Laughing nervously, I stammered:
“I…I thought, he’s got his hand on my…uhh… behind?,”  I squeaked out the last word, with unsure questioning hanging on it. In reality I had thought ‘… on my ass,’ but I didn’t want to sound brazen or condescending… “and I…”
“Go ahead, tell me, Cindy. What exactly went through your mind?”
Help! “Uh… well, uhh,” you… your… hand?” I added with a nervous squeak and dry laugh.
“But the thoughts, Cindy. The thoughts and pictures coming through your mind… Wasn’t it his black hand? Isn’t it that black hand on my behind?…on my pretty silky dress… on my little silky underthings? Isn’t it, after all, a black hand you’re still seeing, Cindy?”
I couldn’t breath. Oh my G-d, please don’t, please don’t make me talk about this.
I pressed my face against his chest hoping the world would just go away with my heart beating too wildly for me to even think. I was so not going to bring my face up. I’d have to drop his class, leave school and maybe I’ll just die when this French woman here stops singing. That would be my way out. Beginning to squeeze my eyes shut in panic, I am realizing that these are my only options.

Then, something wonderful… Redemption! It was actually happening between us just as the professor had said it would. Just between two people on a non-racist plane! It was like a miracle, arriving… right on my thousand-hour behind. I felt his hand and heard my own whimper of grateful exclamation before I could even mentally process what was verbally appropriate. He had forgiven me. My face still pressed to his chest, I welcomed the return of his hand to its rightful place. Eyes closed, I whimpered with submissive penance as his strange dark fingers continued to explore with growing boldness under my sundress.
With this return to our non-racist plane, I brought my face up to his. He looked at me softly; smoldering:
“Cindy, have you ever kissed a black man?”
“Not yet,” I heard myself whisper, as a voice inside my head screamed “slut!”  Half wondering if this meant he was going to have sex with me, I raised my face anyway. Moving my mouth closer to his, I tasted the first of the many interchanges to come, his mouth and thick dark lips providing new territory for my small pink expression to explore.
He immediately began to explore, fondle and caress every part of my backside and thighs with such slow, possessive confidence that I became lightheaded. I heard his moan of satisfaction and felt intoxication wash over me.

I felt his hands on my face, sliding down onto my breasts, to my thighs, under my dress, onto my panties, slowly taking total possession. His hands continued to know every part of me with such slow and deliberate authority that I was having trouble breathing normally. Somehow, a cold, realistic thought overtook me: ‘Break free from this and go home.’ So with my mind on fire and my body barely moving to the music, I turned my face up to his to say something like good-bye. The wanton excitement was becoming palpable, and I was encouraged to feel this pleasure was surely bringing further proof that I wasn’t a racist.
:  “Professor, I…” “Maybe I should go, I’ve never just… done it… Y’know, without dating for a while, and stuff…” He nodded at my words and took my hand.
“We don’t have to do anything, Cindy.” I was astonished to see him looking a little bashful, “and, to be truthful, I just really like being with you.”
He looked at me with the softest brown eyes I had never seen.
“Don’t you like being here with me?”
“Oh, yes, of course!”  the words tumbling out of my mouth with such enthusiasm that as he kissed me, I realized that somehow I was, by my enthusiastic response, saying I was staying. He smiled, and taking me by both my shoulders looked squarely at me, softly imparting to me his sincerity in a pleasant, nothing-to-worry-about attitude,
 “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, OK? You can keep your clothes on.” Before I could answer, he added with a sweet smile and a long look. “Most of them, anyway…” Even as we laughed, I pretended to be angry with a mock attempt to hit him, but I was tingling in places I never tingled in before.

He started to lead me towards the bedroom. I saw myself breaking from his hand, running down the hall and out the door. Instead, I continued to note the swirling excitement of my pounding heart. I don’t have to go all the way. I still have my clothes on. Trembling with excitement, I entered his bedroom.
He kissed me again and somehow the top button of my dress became undone.
“Professor, we, uh, we don’t have to... you’re not going to…”
“Of course not,” he cooed throatily. I thrilled to the Barry White-ness of his voice as the light material of my sundress floated onto the carpet as the alcohol-tinged thought crossed my mind how great I looked in my new bra and panties. As I slowly turned back to him stepping out of my dress, I couldn’t help but be drunkenly aware how delighted I was that I spent so much on my underwear. I was stunned to see how quickly he was already nude and under the sheets. As I faced him wearing only my new lingerie, I hesitated for a moment, but was reassured by the notion that (for today, anyway) I wasn’t going to be taking off any more of my clothes. He slowly lifted up the sheets in an invitation for me to get in. I knew I could trust him, and with a small squeal, scooted under the covers. As he drew back the sheet for me to slide under, I couldn’t help glancing at the strange dark flesh between his legs.

I was now on my back with the soft brown eyes of the professor inches from my face. I craved his full dark lips on mine again, and got my wish. His mouth drew lightly away, kissing my upper lip, my cheek, my neck, as his hands slowly caressed every part of me; his warm, slow fingers grasped and fondled my flesh, making it yield in pleasure wherever he touched me: on my thighs, my buttocks, my breasts, my neck, and back again to my face as he kissed me longer, sending my mind spiraling into euphoric excitement.  Always his hand, like an eager child seeking love but being turned away, would return with increasing urgency to my left breast, his thumb pressing down on my nipple, only the thin satin of my bra between his fingers and my flesh.
His kisses literally took me out of my mind while his arms encircled me. I felt his hands circle around my back.
I heard myself moan rather than speak, “No… you’re not going to undo…  you promis…” as his tongue continued to drive my mouth crazy.
“No, …not to worry,” he moaned throatily as he rocked me, and his fingers just grazed the back of my bra and it was undone. ‘As if by magic’ I thought. ‘I can’t take my own bra off myself that easily.’ I didn’t even feel his fingers on the clasp. By the time I had completed my amazement over ‘how did he do that?’ I saw my bra straps sliding down my arms and being tossed to the floor. I couldn’t help but secretly thrill to hear his exclamation.

“Oh, they are beautiful,” he cried, and his mouth proceeded to devour my right nipple while his right hand squeezed my left breast. This new rush of heady delirium had me crying out with all restraint evaporating. Soon he reversed the procedure of mouth and fingers so each of my nipples responded erectly to his squeezing, licking and sucking. He slowly took both my hands now, crossing them at my wrists so they were being held there only by his left hand. My arms were stretched over my head. He was no longer so gentle, and while kissing and slightly biting and sucking at my neck, he started to squeeze my left breast and nipple with such savagery that I was soon crying out and having to catch my breath. Lightning flashes crazed red behind my tightly closed eyes.

Just when I absolutely couldn’t stand the pain any longer he’d switch to the other nipple; while licking, blowing, kissing and sucking the tortured one back to normalcy. While mending the feel-good pain there, the other was then pinched through the same exquisite torment. With lightning rods of pleasurable pain shooting through my brain, I only knew I didn’t want him to ever stop. Just when the pain became too agonizing, he would make me take a little more of it before releasing and licking my nipple back to a greater and greater pleasure-filled ache. When he placed his hand between my legs I realized I had never been this like this before. I immediately raised up my hips for his probing fingers to grab and drag the thin garment off me. I felt the small satin shwish its way over my knees, the steady demands of the professor allowing me total freedom from my clothing.
He lay down next to me, his fingers taking possession of me between my legs. His lips covered mine as he quickly found my swelling oily button with his right hand. I cried out unashamedly, and found myself beginning to slowly undulate my hips shamelessly as he fingered, grasped and plundered every part of me with such sudden ownership that I was in constant danger of hyperventilating.
What a thoughtful lover he was! He wasn’t going to mount me just then, but would allow me more of himself. Locking eyes with mine, he nodded at the prize I hadn’t yet explored. Between his legs there was something that put me in mind of  a black baby’s arm. A black baby’s arm with a purple plum in its fist. I found myself drawn to it hypnotically. I slid down next to it; this engorged black snake I couldn’t take my eyes off. He lightly took my little hand to this new discovery, silently encouraging me to know it better. My breath started coming harder and my hand trembled as I reached for the swollen flesh on my own initiative. I gave out a low whimper as I squeezed the hardening pole for the first time. I couldn’t stop myself from continuing to squeeze it. By the third squeeze I could no longer get my hand completely around the swollen shaft, and I moaned in protest as his arms started to draw me back up to him. He laughed agreeably; allowing me to stay where I was while he relaxed back on his back.

My fingers grew warm as the proposed recklessness ran through me. The word anything began to make a wanton whisper inside my raging consciousness. My small white hand softly stroked up the shiny smoothness of his ever-stiffening black shaft, finally moving slowly and lightly around the velvety hardness of the dark head. I could feel it respond like a separate being with a life all its own. I didn’t want to let go, and my mind swirled in alcoholic ecstasy with the desire to be ravaged by this very monster.
He was so intuitive he knew before I did what I wanted to do. It was like the professor could read my mind. Placing his hand on the back my head, he gently pushed me in the direction of his lust, adding in a gasping voice:
“Go ahead, enjoy yourself. Get used to it.”
I brought myself to it. The amazing velvet-like hardness of the dark, smooth flesh was intoxicating, and, getting close to the mammoth alien, I wetly took what I could of it into my eagerly opening maw. The shock of the bulbous, rubbery smoothness filled my salivating mouth. The thought that if I engaged in this effort long enough I would actually cause the flesh to orgasm into and onto my suckling service added a danger and excitement to the act that made me weak. I felt a slow, warm swoon start to flow through me as I took a deep breath and sucked the giant head down my throat as far as I dared swallow. I saw the gagging coming. I stopped, took it out of my mouth, caught my breath, took a deep holding breath and tried yet again to encircle the headed guest with as much wet, oral devotion as I could muster. Once the head of the beast was inside, I enjoyed trying to slowly circle my tongue around the huge ball without gagging, and as I slowly swirled my tongue underneath and then around this strange flesh, I welcomed it down my throat; immediately hearing him gasp and moan. I felt the professor’s arms drawing me back up. With my head now resting on the pillow next to him, I whispered:
“…Sorry I didn’t do that very well.”
“It takes time,” he responded in a gasping, strained voice. He turned and started to mount me, lowering his hand underneath himself to guide in his rock hard staff. I felt the poking, stiff velvety hardness press briefly against my inner thigh as his weight began to cover me. Out of my mind with lust and excitement, I threw all caution to the winds and whispered back:
“Can I make it my term project, professor?”
“Gawd!” he cried, as I felt his huge hard wood demand entrance into my barely used womanhood. His hard insistence received more of my surrender. I could feel myself part for his ram, and soon the huge shock gave way to the accepting, all encompassing wet heat that I’d heard about but I’d never really known before. His huge, ever-stiff invasion took over my entire world, and, losing all control, I kept unfolding from a deeper submergence below, slavishly giving more and more of myself to him. His spontaneous cries of pleasure experiencing my almost virginal architecture drove me over the edge. Normal inner consciousness and reason dissolved as I writhed and moaned, impaled by my own ecstatic submission to this giant live invasion - which plundered with a seeming life of its own. An eager and willing vessel; my yielding rewarded me a volcanic pleasure along with the rising, rippling spasms of a physical and mental intoxication which I had never experienced before. I was soaring up into the orgasmic explosion. Then I realized:
‘Holy shit! This is what my girlfriends were talking about! I am finally really gettingfucked!! Oh yes, I’m coming! Oh, this is it! This is it!’ The climax of my orgasm had me losing consciousness, and then into blissful floating...

Now still in the resulting light sleep, I am blissfully unaware of my condition. I can do little except to realize that the sudden and loud knocking on my door is real. This can’t be happening, I think; the afterglow will be ruined!
I knock over the tissue box as I hurriedly dry myself with one quick swipe n’grab a nearby sweatshirt. As I jump into some pants I realize the severe ache from my protesting testes. I get to the door to see a somewhat familiar face.
“Hi, Marty! It’s Nick from church. Remember you said if you weren’t at church to come and get you? Remember?
“No, I didn’t remember,” I said, hoping – so badly – that he was mistaken. Why had I gone and told this rather bizarre individual to “come get me” if I’m not in church? I just want to go back to bed. Now I’m also remembering that I have one-foot-in-shit at church since the moving van incident, and realize I have no choice if I am to be taken seriously there at all. Besides, I can’t let that pastor bum-rap me as someone wimping out of the witnessing I had promised I’d do.
“Yeah, we’re going witnessing at the lake, and we’re late. You remember we agreed that I’d come by and pick you up? When we were talking with the pastor?” he repeated.
He was right of course. My head was clearing. “Oh, yeah, I remember. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I spaced it out. I’m sorry. My fault. Gimme a moment to get dressed.”
“You’re dressed perfect right now,” he says, pointing to his own identical Church sweatshirt. I then realized that I had thrown on mine as I made my way to the door.
“Let me get some shoes on and brush my teeth.”
“Right, cause we’re really late.”
Nick has a particular odor that never fails to surround him, even on Sundays. He works in some kind of industrial cleaning capacity and the smell – while not offensive – is not pleasant either. It follows him everywhere.
As we leave my house I notice we’re walking towards a brand new minivan.
“Nick, what’s this?” I ask, remembering the dented bomber I had seen him getting into after church.
“Another gift from the Lord,” he said, as if G-d was a favorite uncle who was in the habit of handing him these kinds of presents.
“Woah, very nice. Praise the Lord.”
“Marty, last Monday the mechanic told me my old beater had just had it. Needed all new rods ‘n stuff; so like forget that. I just asked the Lord, I mean, I didn’t know what to do; and then about 5pm, the Lord told me ‘Go to Bob’s Chevrolet.’ I had $15 in my pocket, and I drove out with this…”
Silence from me.
“…no money down,” he adds, his exuberance waning slightly.
He brought it up. I can’t resist twisting it in a little, although I make sure my voice remains neutral.
“Sixteen percent interest?” I ask innocently.
“Twenty-one.”
“Oh.”
Feeling guilty for both making him squirm while at the same time jealous of his new ride, I need something to talk about now. I bring up the message I had begun to listen to earlier.
“Jimmy Swaggert had a message this morning on rock music and it’s satanic qualities. I wonder how much of that is actually present in the life of believers, even if we’re not listening to the more obvious satanic stuff.”
Nick had a way of smiling when he felt particularly emboldened. A small upturn of the mouth combined with an imperceptible shaking of the head. I half expected him to say ‘Oh ye of little faith, how long must I suffer with you?’
“Having to worry about stuff like that is OK for your normal believers, regular churchgoers,” he said, “but,” he added with a facial expression that said puhleeze, “not for a prophet.” Nick was of a mind that if you didn’t agree with him concerning his own spiritual gift, you obviously lacked spiritual insight, but he would of course pray for you to attain the proper level of discernment.
I worried briefly that he really was a prophet and knew of the seditious sexual inclinations that had filled my very recent past. Although this kind of hospital mentality hovered in my consciousness just long enough for me to resent the thought; react to it and make me anxious, it almost never broke out into verbal expression. The latter behavior, as everyone knows, has a category associated with it called psychosis.
He turned briefly toward me. “Did I tell you what the Lord did for me a few days ago?
“No.”
“It was a sign from the Lord regarding my spiritual gift. I’ve felt his leading in this area for a while now. I was driving my cab – y’know, my second job – going down the freeway, and the next thing I know, I’m at the airport! G-d just picked me up and put me down at the airport line for taxis.”
“Wow! Praise the Lord!” I said unsteadily. “Uhh, I’m not quite sure wh…”
“Marty, I was on the freeway on my way out to the airport to get on the taxi line, and G-d just put me there. In a twinkling of an eye.”
“Wow, isn’t this kind of like Elijah? Did you see anything, like up in the air?”
“No. it was almost like suddenly waking up, and snap! There I was… at the airport.”
My balls are aching terribly at this point, and my energy level is way down as I reluctantly pass on the urge to comment in a way that might contradict the ethereal nature of his experience.
We park and I see two other men from church standing with the assistant pastor. My spirits start to rise as I remember a couple of others from the previous week’s meeting who said they would come, and apparently have chosen not to. Gloating with this rush of added self-esteem afforded me here to trash those MIA who had dedicated themselves to join us in witnessing last week but now have been found wanting, I say with innocent curiosity, “Where’s Sam and Ron?”
“Not here,” Nick says with a voice barely able to control his own glee over the opportunity to likewise diss those missing-in-action. The lack of commitment on the part of the no-shows will allow us the opportunity to happily tear them apart within a proper Christian framework in the near future. With proper forethought, a prayerful allusion could be made to the parable of the two sons Jesus speaks of. Each one ordered into the vineyard, but only one went doncha’ know...
We approach the pastor, assistant pastor, Bill and Robbie, who each offer us a warm smile and a wave.
“Marty, glad you’re here, brother.”
“Sorry I’m late. I just… forgot. Forgive me.”
“You’re here. That’s all that matters. Let’s pray.”
Standing off to the side of the parking lot, all six of us hold hands in a circle. People walk by and I feel the natural embarrassment, which I simply attribute to satanic imps.
“Lord,” Pastor Phil begins, “we ask you to bless our time here today, that we might fulfill your word to go out into all the world and make converts of the nations. We realize there are many hurting people here, Lord, who need the saving grace of the Lord Jesus, and we pray that we may bring many into the Kingdom, in Jesus name, amen.”
 The pastor was holding my left hand, and Nick my right. It was at that moment that I realized with increasing irritability that many of the little hairs around my belly-button were trying to break free from their pasted state, a result of my hurried one-swipe-dry less than an hour before.
The itch – and the concomitant awareness of it – was becoming almost unbearable, as both my hands were imprisoned in the prayer circle. The assistant pastor was on the Pastor’s left, and the prayers started to be spoken one person at a time as each believer had his turn.
“Satan, we bind you in the name of Jesus.”
“Yes, we bind you Satan,” I chirp in, stamping my foot and swiveling my hip a little in the hope that would break these tiny hairs free from their tormenting semi-imprisonment. They stretched but would not break free of their tormenting state, the pasting tendency of my drying bodily fluid waning oh too slowly with every breath I took. I started to feel panic as I obsess over the itch, and it is threatening to overrun my consciousness.
“You have no place here, devil.”
“We count these people saved in Jesus name!”
“Hallelujah!”
“Glory to G-d.”
“Go, in Jesus name,” Nick adds.
Finally, enduring it no longer an option, I enter the itch, become its substance, ride its river of calling beyond the flesh into the very spirit of the itch, urging its benefaction on. I ride at the head of an imaginary tic-like-itch-worm crying out for greater itch even as it buries its tic-like antennae into my skin. I then pull its mammoth head up, increasing the itch beyond the red-line. I stand, riding the largest itch-worm in all of creation, a master of nature – a lesson served in Jedi mind control.
 It is now my turn.

“Father, we know it is your spirit that saves, not our efforts. Nevertheless, help us, Lord, to be clean on the inside, that we would not be like the hypocrites, Scribes and Pharisees, all clean like white-washed sepulchers on the outside, but inside like unto dead men’s bones and all corruption. Have mercy on us all, and give grace upon all that we do, that none would be lost because of our own weakness and failing. Help us Lord, in Jesus name.” Amen.