Angelique and the Priest

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My name is Angelique Tornetta and my mother is French and my father is Italian and both are hot-blooded. I have inherited my mother’s small bones and slim body and my father’s full mouth and tan skin and my dark hair and eyes from both of them. What I have not inherited—and I’m glad of it—is any hot bloodedness whatsoever. I think I know what that refers to and I’d like to state that at sixteen I’m pure and fully expect to remain so for all eternity. We live in Manhattan My father is the art director of an advertising agency and does art photography as a hobby, and my mother is a psychologist with her own practice and a propensity for reading romance novels. I am a junior in a girls’ Catholic high school in the East Village, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, run by the Immaculate Sisters of Mary, an order of nuns that still wear habits. In my opinion, every nun in the world should wear a habit. I mean, how sneaky is it to have a woman dressed like an office worker standing next to you in a subway car, suddenly turn and say, “Button up that jacket,” and you know immediately it’s a sister because sisters are the only ones who care whether you button up your blazer or not. And then, too late, you realize that of course she’s a nun as she doesn’t shave her mustache. It’s only September Başakşehir escort bayan and we haven’t been in school very long when Sister Adoration of Mary tells me that Father James wants to see me after school. When I leave school, I walk over to the church office and his secretary is expecting me. Father James shows up a couple of minutes later. “Come into my private office,” he says, and I follow him in and wait until he’s seated before I sit in the chair in front of his desk. I’m a little intimidated by Father James as I’ve confessed to him many times so that he knows my darkest sins. He’s also good looking, which I don’t think a priest should be. “Handsome as the devil,” my mother once said of him, and the parish ladies always flutter around him, like butterflies around pollen. I make sure that my skirt is covering my knees and my blazer is buttoned up and that I’m sitting with my knees pressed together, which is what the sisters have taught us all through school. We in no way want to be mistaken for wanton public school girls, none of whom are ever going to heaven. His white teeth flash as he speaks to me. “I understand from Sister Immaculate Heart that you’re not planning to go on to college, Angelique.” “Yes, Father,” I said. Escort Bayrampaşa “Your grades are outstanding, top of your class. If it’s financial assistance you need, I’m certain you could get a scholarship.” “It’s not the money,” I tell him. “I want to be a nun.” He starts to smile and then revokes it. “I don’t hear that much anymore,” he says. “In fact I’ve never heard it from a student here. At least not once they reach high school; it’s still somewhat prevalent among fourth graders.” “God wants me to be a nun.” He cocks an eyebrow. “And you know this how?” This is my secret, but since he’s a priest, I feel like I have to tell him. “St. Joan of Arc appeared to me in a dream and told me that being a warrior nun was my destiny. It was very real, Father; she was dressed like a boy and had her hair cut short, kind of like Justin Beiber when he had bangs.” He’s silent for several moments. “Was this the only time she appeared to you in a dream?” I shake my head. “No, one other time she did. That time we rode horses together.” Father swivels his chair around so that he’s facing a window looking out on the fire escape next door where three potted plants look completely dead. He’s shaking a little and I think maybe he’s overcome that I’ve actually Beşiktaş escort talked to St. Joan. When he turns back around, he seems to be eying my clothes carefully, rather like the sisters do to see if we’re improperly dressed. I’m never improperly dressed. “Excuse the personal question, Angelique, but I assume you’ve kept yourself pure?” I don’t mind that question at all. It seems like somebody is always asking me that question. “Oh, yes, father. I’m absolutely pure.” Father James gets up from his desk and walks over to the door and shuts it. When he turns back, he asks me to stand up. I do as he asks and stand facing him, making sure my posture is perfect. “Take off your jacket, Angelique.” I unbutton my blazer and take it off, folding it and placing it on the back of the chair. “Take off your blouse, Angelique.” It seems like a curious request, but he’s a priest and knows what he’s doing. I unbutton my white shirt-blouse and fold it on top of my jacket. “Remove your undershirt, Angelique.” It’s a tank top, but I don’t bother to correct him. “Take off your bra, Angelique.” I wear a bra two sizes too small to make my breasts appear smaller. When I remove my bra, they pop out in a sinful way. He eyes the Band-Aids I wear across my nipples so that they won’t show in my clothes. I have nervous nipples that are always popping out for no reason. “And please remove the Band-Aids – carefully.” I pull them off and, just as I was afraid, my nervous nipples are sticking out. He walks up close to me and, with the back of his hand, begins to lightly brush his skin back and forth across my nipples.

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