PROSPECT -- Embattled librarian Eve Foucault resigned abruptly Wednesday night after Cincinnatus County Public Schools Superintendent Roy Fraser told a packed school board audience she would not be offered a contract for the 1994-95 school year.
Foucault's dramatic resignation ended a two-month standoff between the 24-year-old Howell Elementary librarian and Prospect Parents for Decency, which in October accused Foucault of stocking inappropriate books and promoting Satanism to children at the school's annual Harvest Festival.
"I wouldn't say that I'm happy about this outcome, but I'm satisfied that Superintendent Fraser and the board have come to the right decision for our children and the community," said Amy Johnson, president of Prospect Parents for Decency. "I consider Miss Foucault a tragic figure, certainly a deceived young person, but she brought this infamy upon herself by insulting Christian values and defying the school community she served."
Foucault left the meeting in tears without answering questions and did not respond to phone messages seeking comment this morning. Her attorney, Delores Apple of Charlotte, said Foucault was "literally the victim of a witch hunt by the Prospect Baptist Association," and called the decision to deny her client a contract "proof that Prospect remains mired in 17th-century bulls**t."
Frasier's announcement came after Howell Elementary Principal Fred August told the board he had reversed his previous decision and would remove all copies of "The Good Little Witch" from the school library. Later in the meeting, Jane Eastway, chairwoman of the Howell Elementary PTA, read aloud a letter from the group promising to present its plans for the 1994 Harvest Festival for public review.
The 1993 festival became the focus of widespread community outrage after this newspaper published a letter to the editor written by Johnson, a 26-year-old mother of two and the wife of the Rev. Max Johnson, youth minister of Prospect First Baptist Church.
Amy Johnson, who represented Cincinnatus County in the 1989 Miss North Carolina Pageant, previously made headlines when she accused Foucault of purchasing and circulating copies of a children's book that promoted a Satanic religion known as Wicca. At the Harvest Festival, Foucault organized a "witches broom race," in which students wearing black paper hats raced around an outdoor course while holding a broom between their legs. In her letter, Johnson called the festival "a public insult to Christians" and announced the formation of Prospect Parents for Dignity.
"We are experiencing a civil war in America," Johnson said after Wednesday night's decision. "God is on one side and Satan is on the other. In New York City and Hollywood and Raleigh and Charlotte they laugh when they hear a truth like that, but we march on. We know first-hand that sin surrounds us, and the Devil wants nothing more than to slip inside us when we least expect it."
-- "Librarian resigns school job under PPD pressure," The Prospect Beacon, by Steve Black and Emily Du Bois, Jan. 6, 1994.
***
Oh, I've certainly had my eye on Amy Johnson for some time -- since before she was Amy Johnson, in fact. Back in those days her last name was Perkins, and the other kids called her "Amy Perky." It wasn't a reference to her personality so much as to her incredible breasts, which developed early and remained both luscious and firm well into her thirties.
Were they perfect? That's an unusual question, I suppose, but one I've often pondered. Because, yes, Amy Perkins' breasts were so awe-inspiring that one couldn't help but notice them, and having noticed them, one couldn't help but remember them, think about them, project them. Had God made them any larger they would have lost their shape, their gravity-defying projection. Had He shaped them differently, or hung them lower, or graced them with smaller nipples, less prone to arousal, would they have burned their way into the memory and secret imaginations of so many of her classmates?
Hell, forget her classmates. Imagine what those breasts, attached to such a beautiful, fresh teen, did to the older men in Prospect. How many followed their fat matron wives on expeditions to Belks just for the chance to ogle smiling Amy Perky behind the fragrance counter? How many closed their eyes and drilled those matrons hard while images of the innocent-but-provocative perfume girl bouncing across the cinema of their minds?
And so, with nothing but time on my hands, I often wondered: Were they perfect, her breasts, all perfume? Because one time she hugged me, and I felt them pressed against my torso like living, animate creatures. And they burned into my memory, leaving still-painful scars.
So yes, I determined. Amy's breasts were perfect.
Perfect for sin.
Perfect for sin because they evoked its mystery, expressed its power, and cloaked all of it in shame and bitterness. It's not quite sin without of that conflict, so in that light, Amy's breasts inspired sin. Perhaps she knew it. Perhaps they inspired it in her as well. Perhaps she wondered, as I often had, why God would curse her with breasts so certain to arouse the Devil in any man. Or woman, for that matter.
Which was why, when I finally brought her under my power, when she finally lay spread-eagled and naked on that round wooden table, bound tight at ankle and wrist, knees bent beneath the surface, her downy pubes hanging over the edge, wet and vulnerable, oh how my attention wandered there.
Middle-aged now, her breasts rippled and swung with each thrust of my cock into her sopping-wet sex. But rather than add my load to those who had come before me, so to speak, I pulled out of her at the last moment, my right hand gripping the base of my cock hard enough to dam the semen coursing upward while I walked to the head of the table and positioned its tip above her face and aimed for her chest. When I released my grip, sperm shot forth with impressive force, releasing contraction after contraction to fall on her once-perfect but still inspiring breasts.
Call it a tribute.
Satisfied with my work, I took my still-wet cock and rubbed it across Amy's lips. Instinctively, like a nursing infant, her mouth opened, taking me in. O how I enjoyed that moment, that visual.
The former head of the Prospect Parents for Decency, and our famously pious State Senator, bound naked to a table, covered in cool sweat and warm semen, blindly and contentedly sucking my sticky Satanic cock in the dancing firelight.
Anyway, that little Halloween ritual was the first of our encounters. It wouldn't be the last.
***
The first year was probably the most challenging. Sen. Amy Johnson was a heavily scheduled woman. Man does not live by bread alone, she liked so say, but Amy was a person who by all appearances lived solely by Blackberry. The device kept her schedule when it wasn't attached to her ear, which was most of the time, and she fiddled with it obsessively. I considered it almost an extension of her expansive will, Amy's own magic wand. Through it she kept dozens of people across the state jumping, motivated and perpetually agitated along the various strands of her web. Senate committees, various state boards, the state Baptist Convention, and now half-a-dozen national "values" groups relied upon her direction and leadership.
And then there was her husband, the aptly named Max Johnson. In public she always deferred to his "steward leadership" of their family and the Prospect First Baptist congregation, but it didn't take a gifted observer to understand that both those worlds revolved around Amy Johnson. In fact, Max's success in life could be fairly attributed to three convergent facts:
1. Max enjoyed the largest penis in Cincinnatus County, and I do mean he enjoyed it, at least in his youth. It seemed so alive to him, so separate and single-minded, that in his teens it actually felt like a companion, an independent entity. But Max's penis obsession, along with his mother's overwrought erotic horror of it, conspired to make him both enormous and enormously ashamed; 2. Max was, by nature, profoundly queer, perpetually rationalizing his overwhelming temptation to sodomy or desperately seeking God's forgiveness for his most recent furtive coupling; 3. In marrying Amy, and in surrendering to her power in their private life, Max was able to remain safely closeted and plausibly heterosexual.
So when Amy determined in college that Max would go beyond faith and declare a calling to the ministry as a condition of their marriage, he did it. And when Amy saw a path that could take him past the other associate pastors and straight to the top of the Prospect First Baptist hierarchy, he took it. And when Amy decided that the local Baptist association was shirking its steward leadership duty to the larger community, he saw to it that all the local churches understood what their social policy agenda would be for each coming year.
