I Went To Church For Confession

Once more for old time's sake

Bless me Father for I have sinned. 

Last night I drank three peach cooners and a quart of tequila. I went out for a walk in the local area to continue my junkie-spotting project. And while I was out, I decided to start a fictional Substack for a character who was a writing teacher—one of those crabs who tells people how to write for money. I decided to start a blog and charge people for knowledge and monthly posts about how to make money writing online about how to make money writing online. 

Yes, please go on, Son. 

That’s it, father. 

Isn’t there more?

The old man sounded disappointed, which isn’t surprising. Let’s say he’s a semi-good priest so he doesn’t actually fuck the altar boys but just subtly wanks over the confession stories and some of the C.I.L.F.S* in his congregation. That being the case, he’d have to develop at least a slightly warm sales process to get me to put forth more oral material for his holy wank bank. 

I could tell him about the Hello Kevin moment I had when I drunk too much coffee and thought the boiler in the basement was one of those SAS: Who Dares Wins TV guys so I grabbed one of my rifles and ran out of the back door and accidentally shot the housekeeper, Margherita who was hanging out clothes.  

But it took such a long time to clean that up. And who would trust a priest to keep it shcnuck?

Not I. 

And yet, being in a church feels strange. I mean, I’m fine about the odd pictures of Jesus gradually getting murdered and the deep whiff of frankincense which took me right back to my Roman Catholic days as a kid. I wasn’t an altar boy so I don’t have any church trauma, unless you count the trauma of extreme boredom.

Still, I had to pinch myself to check if it were another one of those gay religious dreams where I end up sucking the priest off for some vintage wine and the freshest sourdough or that fucking wafer they give you that sticks to the top of your damn mouth. 

But it wasn’t. Thank Christ.

And a few minutes later I’m in this dark cupboard with this little cheese grater window and this weird old bastard in a costume breathing heavily and asking too many questions. 

He asks me how long since my last confession and I ask if he means the self confession during the tantric practice of Vajrasattva or specifically church based.  

He goes quiet for a minute so I just launch into my story. 

It all started with my aunty Maggie. I did my version of the Shawshank Redemption. I had this picture of Gary Lineker the footballer on my wall and each day I’d take it down and begin chiselling away with a plastic spoon I got from the local Chinese.

Eventually, the last plaster gave way and I got a full view of the bathroom.

On Thursdays, my auntie Maggie used to come over and play Cluedo and drink Benedictine with my parents and then stay over. And Maggie always had a bath before bed. And I was ready for that and—

The priest coughed loudly from the other side of the box. It was a foul cough that sounded like he’d eaten a milk-filled squid for lunch. 

Look I don’t think I need to know the whole story. Just the gist of it is fine. 

This fucker needs to make his mind up. But, like, whatever.

To cut a long story short, I watched her get undressed and flip out her size 68ddd melons and I wanked like Ronaldo, Father.  And the bonus was, she got in the bath and flapped her massive clit back and forth like she was beating an egg and— 

Yes, yes. That’s fine. Is there anything else you’d like to confess?

And I just start to feel like this fucker is cutting me short. I mean, make your fucking mind up. You are the one who wanted something. Or was that just me, in my head?

Anyway, I told him about the apartheid joke I’d made to a white South African guy in my writing group and how in the same group I’d inferred that all Americans eat white bread anal glue sandwiches for breakfast. Then I told him about how once, in my twenties, after I’d been awake on meth for two days, I’d become curious about how wide I could stretch my anus so I’d lubed myself up with organic avocado oil and sat on a piano which doctors couldn’t remove and which was still up there twenty years later. 

You must be joking. Is this a joke to you? Are you wasting my time? How could anyone get a piano up their bottom?

And I had to explain it was a fucking miniature piano. I mean ffs, father. These religious nuts are fucking delusional.

*Catholics In Lacey Fishnets

I went on to tell him about how I slept with a 78-year-old woman at a disco once after I ate two brown euros and thought she was Judy Dench.

Then I told him about the time I used paper from the Old Testament to roll Cheeba cigarettes while I was on camp with the Air Cadets.

That was too much for him. The old bastard lost it and kicked me out. He said I was far too evil to repent. He didn’t even give me any Hail Mandys to say.

I mean, confession with limitations? What’s the damn point?

And honestly, the church needs to update its marketing anyway. How do you expect to recruit young people when you have pictures of the gradual murder of your leader on the walls? And those fucking wooden benches. Get some recliners with cup holders you smurfs.

Then again, you don’t wanna end up with one of those modern churches with the bands that have drums n shit. Ya gotta keep some of the gothic stuff at least.

On the way up the street, I looked back, gave the priest the finger and yelled at him.

You’ll be fucking AI soon, you bastard.

Don’t you go thinking AI can’t do the job of a priest, you fucker.

It’s coming, father!

Mark my words.

It’s COMING!

A lightning bolt came out of the sky and struck me right in the core of my very left gonad, and I squealed a most heavenly squeal that awoke all of the cells in my body and I experienced a state of utmost purity and love.

I wept and wept for fourteen seconds. Then I went home and masturbated over the events.

And I vowed to never again mix peach cooners with tequila.

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