His Eternal Authority
By sean mcnulty
Masterson stepped back to loosen his clothing and that’s when it became clear that Katrine was the other body involved; and she too was emancipating herself, detaching the straps of her brown overalls. Stinson held back behind the bush. They hadn’t seen him. And he wasn’t sure how they would react if he approached suddenly roaring Hello. As green as the boscage that shielded him about a great many things in the world, he was yet informed enough to recognise the significance of these unravelling garments. Best not to reveal himself. Best to wait until they were finished. No. Best to leave. Yes, best to leave. But no. Then they would hear him. And wonder how long he’d been standing there. No. Stay silent. Yes. Composure now.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Father Masterson’s bare behind. Last night in the hotel, the intoxicated wolf priest must have forgotten the angel-faced one was there and at one point he got up and staggered arse-naked across the room to Stinson’s horror. Now here was Masterson’s arse again, blushing red, and shimmying feverishly; and his hands didn’t know what to do with themselves, the arms thrashing all over Katrine’s body at first like the tentacles of some spooked octopus until finally settling into a gentler movement; then his right hand slithered up Katrine’s frontage in search of a breast to cup – but try as his hand did, it found no breast to cup; and Stinson concealed a snicker as he watched the wolf priest’s stray mitt thump around sloppily inside Katrine’s jumper. The consternation was short-lived and his hand just moved along until it found a clutchable breast – such was the priest’s stunning focus in the throes of lust.
With every thrust and moan that followed, Stinson felt the urge to bless himself. Look to the heavens for absolution, would he? No. He would not. He would not budge. And no judgement of the two crossed his mind either. Even though he knew the wolf priest was definitely on his way to Hell, he knew that would occur long before seeing this improper display unfold. And Katrine: he hadn’t imagined her pleasant and pretty self taking part in such squalid behaviour, but right now, watching her willingly allow her body to be ravaged, Stinson became increasingly, perhaps inappropriately, ready to give these carnal sins some leeway. Give them a break, Lord, he said to himself. Sure they’re just having a wee bit of fun. Out here. In the alley.
He was also struck by something else as he observed the motion of limbs. The fibrous push and pull. All that squirmy stuff. The pink flesh like a fire ascending. As it filled his eyes, the angel-faced one found himself suddenly fascinated with the morphology of things, the interconnectedness of bodies in an endless meeting of bodies. He had not thought such paroxysms of form possible. Particularly the barely-covered and cavorting human form you might find in a dark corner of night-time. Such as the one he had now found. The size difference between them, he remarked to himself in his bewitched thoughts, is now negligible as they have absorbed each other’s skin and muscle. Once Katrine was a cherub against the brawn of Masterson, but in the mesh their bodies made together, her head sometimes rose over and above his, almost protruding out from the side of his neck. To his mind then came the unfortunate souls currently residing in his bedroom back home. What were their names? Gwen – that’s it – with the little head. And Lionel – yes – with the bony frame. They might also be locked in libidinous ecstasy this night. In his very own bed. How exciting!
Oh my, what would St Thomas say about all of this? St Thomas being his eternal authority. It would likely disturb the old philosopher’s vision of a pleasing order in things. But maybe Aquinas would have another perspective? He might too see the strange beauty Stinson was now seeing. After all, there must have been freaks around in Thomas’ time. Ah, there was that word. Freaks.
This would have all struck Aidan Stinson as very ghastly. If Aidan Stinson had been sober. Aidan Stinson was not exactly that.
There was a great peace in his heart as he watched Masterson and Katrine finish off together, groaning out in unison; and the little beads of sweat on their skin, gleaming in the backyard light, looked like a certain little type of fruit sweet from his childhood – what were they called again?