After a long afternoon of delivering the sacraments to the three city hospitals, Father Antony Secco took a short detour on his way back to the rectory of St. Jude Thaddeus. It'd been several days since he heard the young musician's confession, but his words still echoed in the young priest's mind. This fantasy fulfillment agency called It's Just Sex! sounded like just what he needed. He dropped a quarter into the pay phone and punched the number he'd memorized.
The voice answering was crisp, male, and ultra professional. "Thank you for calling
It's Just Sex!
How may I direct your call?"
"I would like to arrange a—liaison."
"Certainly, sir. Are you familiar with our procedure?" Without waiting for a response, he continued. "We accept all major credit cards, money orders and, of course, cash. No personal checks. The first step is to schedule an appointment. Is there a particular day or time that is most convenient for you to come to our offices for the interview?"
"Well," Father Secco coughed, "that's going to be a problem. In my line of work, I cannot be seen on your premises. I was hoping we could take care of the formalities by telephone."
"I see. There is also the matter of the requisite laboratory work—the blood tests to ensure..."
Father Secco interrupted, "That won't be necessary, son. I want no physical contact."
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask that you leave a number so that I can have Ms. Harris call you back. I do not have the authority to waive policy."
"Will you instead schedule an interview, and I'll call during that time slot? Friday afternoons are best for me."
"Very well, sir. Friday afternoon at three o'clock. May I have a name for our records?"
"Thaddeus," Father Secco sputtered. "Um—Antony Thaddeus."
"Thank you, Mr. Thaddeus. See—well, hear—you on Friday."
Father Secco hung up the phone and, whistling a favorite hymn as he walked the last six blocks, thought about his plan. Saturday mornings were so incredibly dull in the confessional. St. Jude Thaddeus was the only parish in the state that still used the little booths. All the others had long since switched to a more open, face-to-face practice. For three solid hours he sat in that dark, cramped closet just waiting for someone to step in to its neighbor. All told, maybe eight or nine parishioners sought the sacrament of reconciliation each week—and they were the same people with the same boring, venial sins. He wanted to hear some juicy confessions—carnal sins. No one ever seemed to confess the sins of the flesh. In fact, the young musician's recent explicit confession had been the very first of its kind that Father Secco had ever heard. It whet his appetite.
* * * *
Two days later, Father Secco stood at the same telephone kiosk and punched the same number. The same voice answered. "Thank you for calling
It's Just Sex!
How may I direct your call?"
"I have a three o'clock telephone appointment with Ms. Harris."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Thaddeus, isn't it? One moment please."
A female voice came on the line a few moments later. "Mr. Thaddeus, I'm Sonia Harris. So nice of you to seek our services. I must say, we've not yet had a client who did not want physical contact. How exactly can we help you?"
"Well, Ms. Harris, I'll be blunt. I am a priest—a Roman Catholic priest—and I have been so bored while hearing confessions that I've actually fallen asleep. I want to spice things up—to hear a seriously sexy confession every so often—perhaps on a regular basis, if all goes well."
"I understand completely, Father, and I believe we can help you." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Under the circumstances, I will waive our requirement for blood tests and its associated fee. Is there any particular type of sexual confession you would prefer?"
"Not really, no. Anything's better than the dry, old sins I hear each week."
"Very well, then," she laughed. "As soon as your payment is received, we'll get started. I'm assuming you would prefer to mail it in?"
"Astute of you, Ms. Harris. Yes. I will put a money order in today's mail. Bless you."
"We're happy to be of assistance and," she added with a sultry chuckle, "to have your blessing. Please give me the time and place, and we'll be all set."
* * * *
Saturday morning finally rolled around, and Father Secco completed his early morning routine with a spring in his step. He could hardly wait to get into the confessional for a change. There were already a handful of the regular penitents waiting in the pews nearest the chancel, but he did not look at or acknowledge them. Some were from other area churches. They came to St. Jude Thaddeus for the pretense of anonymity that the old confessionals provided.
Might be understandable
, he mused,
if they had anything really nasty to confess
.
