Bikinis at Mass

Posted: May 22, 2013 in Fiction, Words inserted

Bikini Story (Out of hat, Monday Wk 2)

In walked two girls wearing nothing but bikinis. I noticed both as I, Father Toner, raised the host on Sunday mass and asked God for his blessing upon our many sins. Both stroke up the middle aisles and slid into the front pew.

“Hey there, Daddio,” the blonde called out to me, curling her ringlets around her fingers.

The other one, a brunette, pulled her tootsie-pop out of her mouth. “You’re cute, you know that, you in your fancy shmancy robes. Bet you’re real smart too, smart like Harry Potter’s owl.”
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“Hush!” Sister Maria said. “Both of you! And put on some clothes, both of you.”

“Oh c’mon, sis,” Blondie said, “we know what’s beneath that wool shroud of yours: a red lacy girdle. Ain’t that right, Daddio, ain’t you seen that girdle….and plenty more.”

Trembling, I dropped the body of Christ onto the altar and dabbed at the sweat beading on my forehead. I forgot my place in the reading and called Jesus “Zsa Zsa.” Both girls slid out of the pew and sauntered up to me, carrying a purple water bottle with the word “Hooters” written across it.

“Come take a sip, Daddio,” the brunette said. “Ooooh, you must get thirsty up here under these lights… and hungry, hmmm?”

The blonde ran her fingers through my hair and whispered, “Hungry for love, heh, Daddio?”

“Well, sure,… yeah I suppose that, uh, well—“

“Daisy, feel these arms.” Both girls were now squeezing the muscles of my upper arms. “What a man! What a hunk!” Their hands descended south. “Ooooh, I want a piece of this Toner monster.”

“Ladies,” I said, “the Lord and I do so appreciate your coming to worship in this sacred house of God, but the bikinis, the flesh….”

“Oh yeah well, you know,” the brunette said, raising her tootsie pop for emphasis, “didn’t want to come here with my period blood-stained jeans, now did I, Daddio.”

“Oooh no, no of course not, couldn’t have that.” The sweat was now dripping in a stream off my forehead onto the altar. I reached for the chalice filled with wine and swigged deep, until I realized that this wine had been consecrated into the blood of Jesus—blood!—and I spat a spray of wine onto Sister Maria in the first row.

“Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph,” she cried, dabbing at the wine on her face with the hem of her gray habit, “may God strike you down with a paper hambone.”

“Paper hambone?” the blonde asked.

“Corinthians 6:13: ‘May Yahweh strike dead the Sodomites with the force of a paper hambone.’ Read your Bible, little girl.”

At this point, as my nostrils filled with the sweet strawberry scent of these young girls, I had blocked out Sister Maria. I closed my eyes and swayed to the organ music, swayed to the touch of Blondie massaging my shoulders—“that’s right, Daddio, I’ll make you feel right”—and swayed as the other bikini body came up close behind me and wrapped her nubile arms with their downy hair around my rather large waist, the three of us swaying as I began to sing, “I I love you like a love song, baby.”

The slap cracked me hard across the face—hard as a snot rocket hitting the pavement.

“Father! Father Toner!”

My eyes shot open to see Helen, 86-year-old Helen, on the altar beside me, leaning heavily on 82-year-old Peggy, the two of them brushing dandruff off my shoulders.

“Where are the bikinis?” I asked. “The girls, the strawberry scent, the flesh.” I swiveled around in a panic. “Oh God the flesh, that young young flesh.”

Both Helen and Peggy stared up at me with me their milky cataract eyes. Helen cupped a hand behind her ear. “What’s that you say, Father Toner? You’ll have to speak up.”

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