Tarotica Ch 05

Tarotica V - The Heirophant

The Hierophant represents that which is orthodox and traditional even to the point of ineffectuality. The heritage and past symbols are often more important than the practicality and necessity of change needed in the present.

- Tarot Classic, Stuart Kaplan

You may participate in a rite or a ceremony which links the individual with the traditions of a community. You may visit a place of worship, perhaps to attend a wedding. .

- Tarot, Plain and Simple, Anthony Louis

I was a good child – in fact, I was a pious child. So pious that my mother hoped I would become the nun she’d always wanted. Unlike my sisters, I loved going to church. I loved the ceremony of the mass, the smell of the incense, the dramatic stories of Easter and Christmas – I didn’t even mind the shrill winter-cold of the cinderblock church. When I was young, my mother would drive us – herself and whatever children were still around – to town in a ’77 Impala. The car’s heating system never worked well, and only kicked in, really, when we had finally traveled the five miles to town. I remember huddling in the front seat, dressed in my Sunday best, covered by a heavy winter coat and several afghans. Then, it didn’t really matter what you wore to church – it was so cold, no one took their coats off, and, thus, no one saw it – whatever it was -- the elaborate pink skirt, the tight-fitting knit dress – anyway.

It didn’t matter – I loved the lull of the priest’s voice, loved the familiar hardness of the pew, the comforting feel of the missalette. I could voice every response by heart, every hymn almost by the number. When I got older, I wondered, a bit, about the Church’s stance towards women – and the sadomasochistic aspect of the Crucifix and Christ, bleeding, yearning, looking for release – an image of which, in one form or another, I’ve seen in every Catholic Church I’ve visited. Still, I was proud, somehow, to belong to this “first” religion, and I remember one of my CCD teachers responding, to a question about conversion to another faith, “Why would you want to switch? What other religion would you want to belong to?” For a long time, those words held, for me, a significant impact.

When I went away to college, my faith fell away somewhat. I remember one of my close friends and colleagues – she was the product of a Catholic high school, and quite proud of her Irish-Catholic upbringing. About her was an incredible naivete – and yet, at the same time, she had done things of which I had never dreamed – speed, heroin – she knew countless girls who had gotten pregnant (they were Catholic, so they wouldn’t use birth control – but they would have sex). Sometimes, she would go out and drink way too much, and come back to the dorm room absolutely blasted – as would I – but it seemed so incongruous, so strange somehow, for the childlike Molly to be doing the same. Still, she went to Church every Sunday – I think I lasted through the first week of the fall semester. Dutiful, I followed Molly to church, and we experienced Mass together. Still, though, by the next week, I couldn’t bring myself to return. It was not the same church of my youth – it was a strange church, inhabited by strangers – and the creeping hypocrisy of it all was beginning to bother me, somewhere at the base of my spine.

When I returned from school, I went to Church with my mother and family – sometimes there were nieces and nephews who followed us, sometimes not – and I would see former classmates, smell the familiar incense, recognize and rejoice in the familiar cadences of the nearly-programmed responses. There was peace in it, somehow, and, at some level, a spiritual comfort.

One Christmas, I returned for the long winter’s break. We had over a month’s vacation – over a month to spend in my small town, living with my aging parents – no parties, no mental stimulation. The first week home, I napped on the couch, continually – recovering from my finals, from the parties, from the mental stimulation. The following Sunday, I dressed for Church, and my mother told me how thrilled she was to have me home, how much she enjoyed someone sitting next to her in our accustomed pew. We went through the familiar ritual, and I felt myself, again, nearly dozing, until the time came to share peace. I roused myself, hugged my mother, turned to the pew behind – and blushed. I hadn’t noticed, had been so out of it, but Trey was sitting behind us. Trey, my old flame. Trey, with whom I used to fight and fight and fight. Trey, who used to, by turns, excite and infuriate me. Trey, still as good-looking as ever. He smiled at me, his teeth white, his skin – somehow, even in the depths of a Minnesota winter – swarthy and dark. He held out his hand, and I gripped it in return, trying not to stammer, trying to meet his eyes. “Peace be with you,” he said, his voice rolling out in tones as soft as the altar drapery. “And with you,” I responded. He held my hand for one second too long, winked at me, then returned his attention to the Mass. I turned around, facing, again, the Crucifix, the robed priest, the altar. As usual, the cinderblock church was cold, but my face was flushed and my hands felt oddly hot.

At the end of Mass, Mom and I made our way through the crowds of thick winter coats and vaguely familiar faces. Mom greeted nearly everyone by name, asking about their health, their spouses, their loved ones. “Hi, Marion – How are you? How’s Mabel?” she would ask, and Marion would respond a bit sadly, her voice thick with the rounded O’s of a Minnesota accent, “O—hh – not good, you know, just not good.” And the conversation would go from there. I waited patiently, listening to the latest filial health bulletins and hoping Trey had gone. At last, Mom and I made our way to the cold car – the Impala had long been replaced. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, as she took my hand, “I volunteered us to come clean the church this afternoon.” I groaned inwardly, but had made a Christmas resolution to get through the holiday season cheerfully and without complaint, “No – that’s fine. Nobody’s around, anyway – so there’s not much else to do.” We drove the few blocks back to the house, and walked in to the ambrosiac smell of Dad’s Sunday chicken.

After we finished Sunday dinner, Mom and I returned to church, bringing with us Mom’s substantial supply of cleaning agents. The church had the charming, if somewhat comic, name of “Our Lady of Perpetual Help.” I hoped that, at least for this afternoon, the help would not be perpetual. We entered from the back, walking up the aisle after Mom dutifully crossed herself with holy water. With no body heat, the church was even colder now, and there were only a few older women in front, taking stock of their cleaning supplies and doling out chores. We walked up to join them. “Oh, Kristen – I’m so glad to see you home – and here to help,” Betty, the organist, croaked as we came in – Betty could play, but she could not sing, and her voice had the resonance of a rotting, rusty gate. “Let’s see – who’s all here?” she consulted her list, “The Johnson’s – the Bjornson’s – the O’Malley’s.” My heart stopped a beat, and I gulped so loudly I was sure everyone there could hear it. No one paid any attention, though, and Betty continued with her list. “O’Malley’s not here yet –“ she muttered, and, from the back of the church, a voice boomed, “We’re here – we’re a bit late – but we’re here.” And in walked the O’Malley family – Mr. O’Malley, Mrs. O’Malley – and Trey O’Malley. Betty smiled, “Okay, then, let’s get going – good to see you, Trey – I was just telling Kristen – so good to see the young people back.” Trey flashed me a smile, which I tried to return. I’m sure it seemed more of a death’s head grin.

Trey was, quite possibly, the best lover – up to that point in my life anyway – I’d ever had. We had experienced kink together, had tied each other up, had sex, once in a cemetery, on top of a grave. We were both a bit of Midwestern fringe – not quite fitting in, not quite outcasts. Of course, our families thought we were perfect for each other – there are so few Catholics in my small, Midwestern town – my mother was absolutely thrilled. The night of our graduation, Trey had ended it, with an absolute pronouncement. “We’re both going to college,” he said, “And we don’t need to pretend we’re going to hold on to this.” Perhaps for the first time in my life, I was truly, truly heartbroken. I was the one who broke relationships – I was the one who decided when it was over. Not this time. The day after graduation, I stayed in bed all day, claiming sickness and crying myself into infrequent naps. Of course, we had both gone to college – I had dated, danced, drank, fucked – but I’d not quite forgotten Trey. And here he was, smiling at me, a mop in his hand.

I heard Betty’s croaking voice – “Umm, let’s see – Trey and Kristen – since you’re the young ones – maybe you can share the floor mopping, hmm?” The “hmmm” was a verbal tic Betty had never quite gotten over. “Yes,” I heard Trey say, “We can do that – here’s one mop – do we have another? And floor cleaner?” Betty looked over the collected cleaning supplies. Somehow, Mom had gotten swept away with the dust and the chatter and was now cheerfully polishing pews. I could hear her laugh and her distinctive gossip tones. Betty clicked her tongue, and said, “You know, Trey – I think there’s another mop in the cleaning closet downstairs – and I’m sure that’s where the Soilax is, too – do you want to go get it? Let me know if it’s not down there.” “Sure,” Trey said, “We can do that – c’mon, Kristen.” Numb, I followed Trey down the steps to the basement, site of my early religious training – my mind jammed with thoughts of Sunday school and saintly filmstrips.

“So,” Trey said, “How’s school?” I shook my head a little and smiled, “It’s going well – actually, very well. I think I’ll make the Dean’s List this semester.” “Yeah?” he sounded genuinely pleased, “Good for you.” “And you?” I asked, “How’s school for you?” “It’s all right,” he sounded uncertain, “I think I’m just making an adjustment – to go from here to the University of Minnesota – well –‘ I nodded an acknowledgment, and we both stopped in front of the cleaning closet. “Well,” he chuckled, “In we go – brave enough to follow me?” I could never resist Trey’s dares – hence the socks, hence the cemetery. I lifted my chin and followed him. Automatically, the door clicked shut behind us. It was dark, and I fumbled for the light. A hand covered mine. “Kristen,” Trey’s voice was different – the way it used to be, when we lay panting in the back of his car, or sweating in the hay mow of my family’s barn – “I’m sorry – I never should have – I mean – I don’t know what to say – I really miss you. I thought, somehow, I was going to go – be this Big Man on Campus – and – I just really miss you. I’m sorry.” My breath was coming in quick gasps, but I tried not to show it. “No big deal – it’s okay – We did have a good time, though, didn’t we?”

Trey’s hand lifted from the light switch, and he turned me towards him. We faced each other, there in the darkened broom closet, in the church of my youth. “Oh, Kristen,” he moaned, and his hands were on my neck, in my hair, traveling down and under my thick winter sweater. His hands traced my nipples, then bit them with a pinch. “Trey,” I breathed, stepping back, “They’re going to expect us back – they’re going to come looking . .” Trey stopped me with a deep kiss, then leaned against me, towards the door, and locked it. “Trey,” I said, “Have you done this before?” He laughed, and I hoped those upstairs couldn’t hear, “Do you think I would tell you?” After his stumbling apology, Trey’s devilry was back. He leaned against me, in control, and I felt the doorknob press into the small of my back. I shifted forward, and found myself pressed against Trey’s thin, muscled body. I could feel the thick hardness of his cock, and groaned in spite of myself. Trey’s tongue was in my mouth, probing, and I could taste the familiar cinnamon of Big Red. Trey’s hand traced my cheek, my neck, then moved down to my jeans – the zipper echoed, a gunshot almost, in the cleaning closet, “Trey,” I said, “Shh,” he responded, “We’ll make it quick – tell them we couldn’t find the mop,” “But Trey,” I said, even as I felt my cunt getting wetter – wet enough, in fact, to mop a floor, “My mom –“ “Your mom loves me,” he said, and that was true enough. His long fingers entered my open zipper, probing my thick hair and my wetness. I could feel his smile against my hair, “Still doesn’t take you long, huh Kristen?” “Nor you,” I responded, and unzipped his jeans to release his pulsing cock – purple, hard, crying for attention. He moaned softly. I took his cock in my hands, moved my fingers up and down, reached for his balls. His head went back, and I grabbed the opportunity, leaning over to take his shaft in my mouth, his balls cupped in my hand. His groan was loud. I put my finger on his lips.

“I have to have you,” he mumbled. “Here?” I asked, wondering about logistics. “Right now, there seems no better place.” I chuckled. “It’s going to have to be quick.” “I know,” he groaned, “Unfortunately.” He yanked my jeans down, almost a violent gesture, and I tripped forward. Trey caught me, leaned me back against the locked closet door, his cock thrusting towards me, insistent, unafraid, not intimidated by the church, the church altar, the church closet, the church ladies, upstairs chattering like busy field mice. I looked up, saw the dark of the closet ceiling, held tight to Trey’s neck. His pants were down to his knees, and his cock jabbed towards me. I spread myself, wanting him inside again, wanting to feel that thick, hard cock opening me the way it used to. I reached for him, guided his cock into my wetness. As always, the passage was easy, and I stifled my gasp as his cock reached its limit. I leaned against the closet door, my eyes closed. I saw myself, tied up, laughing at Trey’s feather torture – and then Trey, tied up as I scraped my nails down his chest, down his thighs. I felt the grave underneath us, the dank soil as we scrabbled madly against each other. I saw the Crucifix, Christ agonizing in perpetuity, the velvet of the altar robes, heard the moaning of the priestly ritual. All of it melted together, somehow, in kaleidoscopic colors – so appropriate, so wonderful. I tried not to yelp as we got there – Trey first, me shortly thereafter. I could feel the warmth of his semen as it spurted inside of me, spilling, in its old delicious pattern, down the insides of my thighs. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t –

“Trey? Kristen?” It was Betty’s croaking voice, carrying down the church stairs, “What’s taking you so long?” We zipped hurriedly, and Trey quietly unlocked the closet door, opening it slowly, stealthily. “We couldn’t find the mop, Mrs. Peterson – but we have it now.” “Oh good,” Betty answered, seemingly oblivious. “And the Soilax?” Trey looked around him, grabbed a box and a mop and yelled, “Got it – it was just behind a bunch of other stuff.” “Okay,” Betty called, “Come on up and we’ll finish this off.” Trey and I returned to the church proper, mop and Soilax in hand. Together, we mopped the floors, sometimes exchanging jokes and college stories, sometimes just looking at each other and laughing. When we finished, Trey grabbed my hand. “Can I ask you out – while you’re here?” I laughed, feeling the old blush creep from my tits to my face, “Of course.” “I’ll call you.” He smiled and followed his mother out, the church floor gleaming under his path.

Mom and I walked out together. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She asked, stopping to zip one of her clunky, winter boots. “No, “ I said, “Not bad at all.” “And I’m so glad,” she gave me a sideways glance, “That you were able to talk to Trey again – I always thought he was such a nice young man. I hope you’ll see him while you’re home.”

“Well, Mom,” I smiled, “Maybe I will.”