When it comes to matters of heart I find myself at loggerheads. Somebody said ‘Listen to your heart before you tell him goodbye…’ Well, I think Shiri didn’t give heed to this advice when she walked out on me.
I listen to my dark heart and know that Shiri was my only ‘real’ thing I have ever had. It would be a while before I move on. But since my periscope must rise to watch the moon and stars every night I have ran BACK to the home I fled—the sweet arms of Sr. Batel. However, deep down I know that this is just lust.
Sister Batel called me on Friday evening as I was coming from conducting the Member’s Day evening mass. She asked if I wanted to know what really the fruit of Eden was—old habits don’t die easily. How could I turn down such a lucrative proposition? Who would anyway?
One thing I like about Sister is that she’s adventurous, cunning like the cobra of Eden, skilled and surprisingly a mistress of the game of forbidden shenanigans. I always wonder why she took such talents to a defunct vocation where it’s only priests who lust after her, men denied such delights and forays by vocation. For God’s sake, she could be a socialite—a beautiful woman with large derriere, silicon pumped boobs and no brains (according to the Nairobi Urban dictionary—hawking her southern sector to stinking rich corporates, wannabe steroid-pumped celebrities, and Viagra-slurping politicians.
I met Sr. Batel at a seminar in Rome in 2009, year of the Lord, and since then we have been in an on-off-on liaison. We both know the consequences of our secret affair, but who still reveres papal supremacy and infallibility? She is a black Jew from Laikipia, Kenya, whose descendants found Canaan among the Maasais after wandering in the 1940s in the Habasweni desert, North Eastern Province of Kenya.
My heart goes to this babe when we are at the Operation Holy Iniquity. If only she knew that her howly jolly joystick has never been touched by the hands of gods…!
We were at that point of no return where sirens scream ‘I’m coming babe’ when my phone rang interrupting the archetypal orgasm that was to be.
When I glanced at the caller ID, I saw a graffiti that said SECURED CALL on the screen. I almost shuddered with resentment. Damn the infernal gadgets. Knowing better I wouldn’t dare think of letting it ring for long leave alone ignoring it if I loved my dear evil life as much. Still, I didn’t pick up, aware of the consequences, until I felt the damn dam burst its walls inside Sr. Batel’s sauna and emptied my hot seed.
“You need to get that one,” Sr. Batel told as me her lower body shuddered sensually.
I was in time just as the last ring threatened to end when I grabbed the phone and hit the connect button at the same time dismounting Sr. Batel.
The caller did not need to identify himself for his voice echoes like thunder to the ends of the world. Just a call from him and you know you are fattening your bank account with every breath you take, but dangerous missions where everything is at stake.
But it was not a mission. He was the bearer of bad news—Angel Michael was dead.
Copyright ©Vincent de Paul, 2016. All rights reserved. Read more at Flashes of Vice