over the bathroom sink, jammies around my ankles, vertical Woody in hand, when the bathroom door (which I am sure I have locked) bursts open. Jesus save me, it’s the Reverend’s wife!
We both stand there frozen for a second in what I assume is abject shock for her as much as for me. Neither of us moves. Though there are no train tracks anywhere near our house, I believe I hear a train whistlehonk mournfully in the distance . . . a cold coyote calls . . . a cricket chirps . . .
“Who’s watching my sister?” I ask feebly. It’s all I can come up with, dick in hand.
Her colorless face is suddenly flushed and her eyes are pinpricks of blue fire. She moves aggressively toward me and I flinch and hunker down, ready for the righteous blow I am sure is coming, already conjuring up explanations for the rather compromising position in which she has stumbled upon me. But the wallop does not come. Instead, my eyes still squeezed shut against impending doom and/or severe embarrassment, I feel, for the first time in my life, a hand other than my own wrap itself around poor, shunned Woody and start stroking the little guy for all he is worth. Her hot and labored breath is on my neck as she works her unexpected magic, and although he hardly produces the emission of stallions, Woody makes me proud by shooting his meager load into the sink and I shiver with pleasure, confusion and, yes horror. I look down just to make sure I’m not imagining things, and it is indeed the Reverend’s wife’s hand swaddling my quickly deflating member. Without a word from either of us, she turns and bolts from the bathroom, slamming the door shut, and I am left there with a mixture of nakedness, shock, guilt, wonderment, fear, euphoria, shame, distress, joy, chagrin, confusion, excitement, insecurity, virility, daring, defeat, triumph, awkwardness, self-consciousness . . . did I mention joy? I feel usurped, stunned, in peril, and completely at a frigging loss to explain what has just happened. I actually say under my breath, “ ’the fuck was that?” I stand there for a few minutes trying to decide the next best course of action, pajama pants still around my feet, shrunken wanger hanging limply against the cold sink. That was nuts! Did that really just happen? I can’t pull all the disparate pieces together to make any kind of senseof this unlikely equation. ME: a kid/jerk that no girl seems interested in and whose only sexual release has been self-stimulation of the old beanpole + SHE: Adult woman, churchgoing, pious, a mature member of the real world = HER HAND on my little Woodland Hills whitesnake, stroking it into ecstasy.
In a fog, I pull up my pants and bolt from the bathroom to my bedroom to get back into bed so I can think about this and try to process it. Does this mean I am no longer a virgin? I’m pretty sure it means something along those lines, and I punch the air in a salute to my newfound manhood. Then comes the guilt. I begin, mentally, to go through the screaming matches as the Reverend and I face off over the attentions of this suddenly desirable and comely woman. I hear my mother crying and berating me for the destruction of her church. I fear the inevitable condemnation by God. She is, after all, the wife of one of His servants. Could I actually go to hell for this? I see newspaper headlines spinning at me with that cheesy effect the old TV cop shows used to use—
HORATIO “BOBBY” COTTON: PUBLIC DEGENERATE NUMBER ONE!
GEEKY KID MAKES CHURCH LADY WHACK HIS MOLE!
HE SAW, HE CONQUERED, HE CAME. THE DEBAUCHED LIFE OF BOB COTTON!!
Oh Jesus!! I try to breathe through it to calm myself and then begin conjuring up possible explanations to everyone peripherally involved as to how this could have happened in the first place. Could I possibly explain it as an accident? She rushed in, seriously in need of the restroom, stumbled, tripped, mistakenly grabbing my wiener on her way to thefloor; I tried to pull away,
We both stand there frozen for a second in what I assume is abject shock for her as much as for me. Neither of us moves. Though there are no train tracks anywhere near our house, I believe I hear a train whistlehonk mournfully in the distance . . . a cold coyote calls . . . a cricket chirps . . .
“Who’s watching my sister?” I ask feebly. It’s all I can come up with, dick in hand.
Her colorless face is suddenly flushed and her eyes are pinpricks of blue fire. She moves aggressively toward me and I flinch and hunker down, ready for the righteous blow I am sure is coming, already conjuring up explanations for the rather compromising position in which she has stumbled upon me. But the wallop does not come. Instead, my eyes still squeezed shut against impending doom and/or severe embarrassment, I feel, for the first time in my life, a hand other than my own wrap itself around poor, shunned Woody and start stroking the little guy for all he is worth. Her hot and labored breath is on my neck as she works her unexpected magic, and although he hardly produces the emission of stallions, Woody makes me proud by shooting his meager load into the sink and I shiver with pleasure, confusion and, yes horror. I look down just to make sure I’m not imagining things, and it is indeed the Reverend’s wife’s hand swaddling my quickly deflating member. Without a word from either of us, she turns and bolts from the bathroom, slamming the door shut, and I am left there with a mixture of nakedness, shock, guilt, wonderment, fear, euphoria, shame, distress, joy, chagrin, confusion, excitement, insecurity, virility, daring, defeat, triumph, awkwardness, self-consciousness . . . did I mention joy? I feel usurped, stunned, in peril, and completely at a frigging loss to explain what has just happened. I actually say under my breath, “ ’the fuck was that?” I stand there for a few minutes trying to decide the next best course of action, pajama pants still around my feet, shrunken wanger hanging limply against the cold sink. That was nuts! Did that really just happen? I can’t pull all the disparate pieces together to make any kind of senseof this unlikely equation. ME: a kid/jerk that no girl seems interested in and whose only sexual release has been self-stimulation of the old beanpole + SHE: Adult woman, churchgoing, pious, a mature member of the real world = HER HAND on my little Woodland Hills whitesnake, stroking it into ecstasy.
In a fog, I pull up my pants and bolt from the bathroom to my bedroom to get back into bed so I can think about this and try to process it. Does this mean I am no longer a virgin? I’m pretty sure it means something along those lines, and I punch the air in a salute to my newfound manhood. Then comes the guilt. I begin, mentally, to go through the screaming matches as the Reverend and I face off over the attentions of this suddenly desirable and comely woman. I hear my mother crying and berating me for the destruction of her church. I fear the inevitable condemnation by God. She is, after all, the wife of one of His servants. Could I actually go to hell for this? I see newspaper headlines spinning at me with that cheesy effect the old TV cop shows used to use—
HORATIO “BOBBY” COTTON: PUBLIC DEGENERATE NUMBER ONE!
GEEKY KID MAKES CHURCH LADY WHACK HIS MOLE!
HE SAW, HE CONQUERED, HE CAME. THE DEBAUCHED LIFE OF BOB COTTON!!
Oh Jesus!! I try to breathe through it to calm myself and then begin conjuring up possible explanations to everyone peripherally involved as to how this could have happened in the first place. Could I possibly explain it as an accident? She rushed in, seriously in need of the restroom, stumbled, tripped, mistakenly grabbing my wiener on her way to thefloor; I tried to pull away,
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