This morning like every morning, I walk again from my family home to the church. I was vanquished again by my mother's cries. However, I wish I could have tasted for some more minutes, the mild voluptuousness of my fabricated dreams but I had to serve the mass, victim of the abusive morality of my tender mother. I dare not go beyond this tiny rebellion and I succumbed, as always, to her tears she knows how to use, knowingly, as vulgar instruments of blackmail.
I dress myself hastily with that black cassock and the ridiculous surplice which ornament it, trying to calm the impatience of reverent vicar who had awaited me for several minutes with an inquisitor stance.
Then I proceeded mechanically, to the various rituals of the mass, activating the small bell, raising the chasuble of the officiating priest, turning the pages of the missal full of hieroglyphs, answering to the litanies in Latin, fainting devotion but diving again in the tender dreams interrupted abruptly by my mother. My mother who would have died of sorrow to discover the precocious lubricity that accompanies my dreams of young man in gestation.
The moment of communion was for me, the time of recreation of this mysterious Eucharist ritual of which I did not yet, seize the whole logic.
This morning, like every morning, I stare at the strange mouths of the parishioners of St-Félicien, the most devoted that came there every morning accompanying my mother, and the new ones, the repentant or the mislead that I saw for the first time kneeing over the step of the Holy Communion. I had pleasure to imagine, to invent for myself, torments for them to endure, liquids or exotic condiments to mislead their gustatory expectations.
I presented the pattern under their chin collecting the little crumbs falling from the Host, reverend vicar was offering them without great conviction, and I amuse myself of their particular way of eating, of devouring, of licking the flesh of Christ.
Reverend vicar was too absorbed to take off the small host from the silver plated chalice, he could not see the large opening on the blouse of Madam Gagnon who let discover a dark cavern between her voluminous breasts. I perceived all these details and I maliciously displace the salver from under the chic of the lady and the little chunks of the host felt scattered in the inviting cave. I imagine myself diving my small vicious hand in this mysterious cavern, searching for the remains of the body of Christ, dispersed all over her flesh moistened with sweat, hanging up to the prominent nipples; and my fingers where agitated with frenzy in this secret den, preferring to the remains of Christ, the quest for the pleasures of Hell.
Then I diverted the eyes towards another adventure, the lovely little Suzy. Hardly younger than me, still a little girl, she let us perceive, from under her transparent corsage, suspicious little nipples, almost imperceptible.
I approached the salver to her chin and lean it to it, she turned away under the cold contact of the salver, she fixed me, scared away, of her two globules of an astonishing whiteness. The host had missed her small sensual tongue and had crashed sluggishly on the salver, and her tongue remained there offered to my taste.
I would have liked to bite her, to swallow her, to crunch her, I would have liked to titillate her small rising nipples, to insert my head under her skirts and I closed my eyes believing that it was true. I fantasized like so, on the imaginary raids of the cold salver which came to dabble under her blouse, her skirt, and her reactions of small terrified but artlessly curious animal. I carried her all conquered, stripped from her clothes, in the deepest abysses of my lustful dreams interrupted unexpectedly by the nervous movements of the reverend vicar.
I initiated her first love frolics, she who was still too young to understand.
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Tales and legends, translated from french, february 1997) ©
1997 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
homage to (Botticelli, Perugino, Montegna, Velasquez, Coxcie, Bronzino)
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