Is this thing still on? It better be, because I forgot the domain and hosting account would auto-renew last week. Shit. Now I better justify the cost by actually doing something with it.
You might have noticed that the last piece I wrote was a lot less funny and way more … best way to phrase it? Really fucking depressing.
Truth is a lot of humor is a coping mechanism for pain. Pick any famous comedian and it’s usually not hard to find someone battling clinical depression or struggling to overcome social anxiety or whatever. Making people laugh is a way to get them to like you, and if you’re a guy like me who deals with loneliness and frustration on a daily basis, the ability to create laughter in a smoke-filled bar or from a dumbass blog can give you a reason to get out of bed the next morning and not drive your Jeep off a fucking cliff.
So I’m back. Sex & Bacon is back. Let’s do this thing.
Our next tale is a doozy, so I’m breaking it up into two parts—about another time when I disappeared from someone’s life only to unexpectedly show back up later.
Once upon a time there was a boy named Edwin with a last name no one could pronounce. These days he’s a lumbering hairy beast of a man, one who drinks and smokes and cusses and—not nearly often enough—has sex with women. But at the age of thirteen he was a lanky pimpled beanpole with overlarge hands and feet, a kid whose voice cracked and every insecurity beamed out of his large green eyes. And young Edwin was a church-going boy, forced from birth to attend a local small community church with predictable schedules and a pastor who never gave the benediction before noon.
As a small child little Edwin had squirmed and rebelled in the church pews, earning miniature bruises from the tiny pinches his mother used to reward such behavior. But as an almost-man nearly out of junior high, Edwin had braces and a mullet and a reason to believe in God.
Her name was Jessica.
Fifteen years old, the young maiden was a statuesque beauty, blessed by the angels with breasts that everyone pretended not to notice but in fact exuded a powerful gravitational force that drew the eye at least once every thirty seconds. When her family sat near the front, and they almost always did, the pastor kept looking down at the divine bosoms on display while praising God. Edwin never so much as spoke a word to her for months, but learned everything he could about the object of his desire through third parties.
The young man fancied himself a poet, and if he were Dante, Jessica was his Beatrice. He adored her as a lady of virtue, physically perfect because of her equally unblemished soul. Lo did her magnificent tits heave as she sang 300 year old hymns with the voice of an angel. She never once so much as glanced back at him, but to Edwin she was the only other person in the sanctuary.
So when the pastor announced the formation of a new church youth group for teens, Edwin leaped to his feet and shouted far too loudly that he would love nothing more than to worship and learn and pray with the other young people of his church. His mother was so proud of him that day, never knowing the lad went home and furiously masturbated to the memory of Jessica’s breasts bouncing to the tune of “Come, and Let Us Sweetly Join.”
I had no clue what to expect when I joined the youth group. The only thing that mattered was my lady-love would be there. And she was, dressed chastely—though not even an oversize burlap sack could hide her incredible curves. She was a knockout bombshell in the tenth damn grade.
Trust me, I had zero illusions that I would somehow win the heart of this gorgeous girl. The gulf between a kid still in middle school and a pretty girl in high school might as well have been the Valles Marineris canyon of Mars. (Nerd Translation: It’s big.) But I wanted to be close to her, get to know her. Loving her from a distance was good enough for me, the way a noble knight might adore a lady who was promised to another. Just the chance to study her up close and hear her voice would pay off dividends in the Spank Bank.
The object of my desire attended the very first meeting. Others were there, of course, but I have no clear recollection, for I had the tunnel-vision of an obsessed and horny teenage boy. She sat in a metal folding chair, her hands delicately folded in her lap, knees peeking out of her modest skirt, and she was smiling at and listening intently to the only other person I can remember.
Youth Pastor Steve was a sophomore in college. His mother was the church organist, I think. He had kind of a Richie Cunningham thing going on, kinda dorky but genuinely likable. He could sing and dance, and once when he drove me home in his father’s Oldsmobile (not kidding) I caught him with a New Kids on the Block album in the tape deck, allowing me to believe I was the superior male as an 80s hair metal fan. He didn’t want youth group to be lame, so we mixed structured activities with loose conversations and field trips that often were unconnected directly to scriptural lessons. The idea, I guess, was to build our sense of “church family” by allowing us to have fun together even outside the context of worship.
Other than an eighth grade girl I shared classes with—no thank you—I didn’t know anyone else in the group, not really. We introduced ourselves in a manner that would be familiar to anyone who’s attended an AA meeting, starting with our names.
My heart almost exploded out of my chest in excitement and fear when Jessica cut off my stammering introduction. “Oh, I know you! Hey Jack!”
Jack, who the fuck is Jack? Is what I would have said if it were now-me in the room. But it was then-me and I just kinda mumbled my way through and didn’t really clarify my name. My classmate gave me a weird look, since she knew my name was, in fact, Ed.
Jessica either mistook me for someone else or just had her wires crossed as to my name. I still don’t know. Her voice had this weird southern belle meets Valley Girl quality. She laughed a lot, usually at things that were desperately unfunny and sometimes she snorted. But none of this bothered me a bit because she also liked to hug.
Every moment of physical contact from my crush was an electric thrill, and she was very touchy-feely. A hand on my shoulder, a pat on my leg, a clap on the back, or a tender hug—my favorite by a mile. Her chest-melons pressed against me and I could feel their warmth and shape and tensile strength, all while breathing in her department store perfume as her Prell-softened hair brushed my cheek. Each hug, and there were many, was a fuel for the vigorous self-stroking sessions that I was assured were both a sin and a guarantee for blindness. (I’m a little nearsighted, small price to pay. My damnation is assured.)
My time as Jack was enjoyable, and I never once corrected the ditzy angel about my real name, or that I hated her music or thought her observations on Bible verses were inane or that her habit of giggling and clapping at lame jokes made her look like a toddler watching Sesame Street. You see, not only was she a physical work of art, she was genuinely sweet. Sad stories moved Jess to tears, she seemed to truly care about the people around her, and she volunteered to help any worthy cause, large or small.
I was never more grateful for her volunteer enthusiasm as the day we held the car wash fundraiser. Because that day—Praise Jesus!—she wore Daisy Dukes and a bikini top that could barely contain her incredible gifts. We got into a spray fight with our hoses and her laughter was like silver bells as I showered her jiggling glories. She said my name (sort of) from wet lips. “Jack! Jack!” Viagra had not been invented yet, but if it had I’m sure everyone would assume I swallowed half a bottle.
We began talking, just the two of us, before and after group. Each time I was a little less self-conscious and nervous, and each time she was a little more open and honest. She learned my love of hard rock, comic books, and horror movies. I found out that her home life wasn’t exactly as perfect as I assumed by watching her magazine cover family sitting in church. Jess took every chance she could to not be home when her Dad was there, though she talked around what was really going on. I felt a real connection with her, made ironic when she took me tenderly by the hand and said, “Jack, you’re so easy to talk to.” The image of her as a strange cross between centerfold and marble statue was transforming into a real person, made more beautiful by irritating imperfections and barely-hidden pain.
And because this is my life we’re talking about, it was less than a week later the whole episode came to an abrupt end.
It was my forgotten Walkman with Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet still in the deck that brought me back a half hour after group disbanded for the night. I was convinced that the church would be locked, but also confident I could find a way to break in, based on years of experience as a forgetful latchkey kid. It would be a good 45 minutes before my Dad remembered to pick me up anyway, so infiltrating the sanctuary was better than sitting under a street light and re-reading Swamp Thing #34.
“Yes! Oh yes, God!”
Was some kind of service going on? A woman’s voice was calling out to her creator. And yes, for your information, I WAS that naive. I was only thirteen and I grew up in a house where my parents were either asexual or ninjas, and my only pornography access at this time was my Dad’s “collectible” nudie magazines that featured interviews with presidential candidates or photoshoots of celebrity ladies.
“Oh, oh God yes God yes!” It was a female voice in ecstasy, but the lights were out. I couldn’t see through the weird stained glass windows on the door. Between cries out to God were moans, and on a primal level I knew this was a different kind of religiosity than on Sunday morning.
I heard a man. “Shh … keep it down.” My ear now pressed to the colored glass I could hear masculine grunting in between the female exclamations, along with the sound of two country ham slices slapping together. My stomach turned to ice water. I desperately did not want to see the scene that even a naive kid could imagine, but I was helpless against the impulse to walk over to a nearby window and see if it was latched. It wasn’t.
Pushing leaning window forward, I could only see pieces of the sanctuary as light from the street lamps outside filtered through the stained glass. What I could see was oddly colored. Front and center of the sanctuary, the heavenly creature of my fantasies was bent over, modest skirt hiked up and panties down at her ankles as Youth Pastor Steve thrust into her from behind, each grunting hump eliciting a new cry out to a God she was fervently agreeing with. She was holding onto the altar for support.
I’d like to say that I immediately dropped the window closed and ran away to throw up. But I didn’t leave, I didn’t even blink. I watched the remaining minute or so of the first live fucking I ever witnessed, mouth dry and chest aching and stomach in twisted knots.
Youth Pastor Steve cried out “Wow!” as he came inside the underage girl and she once again assured the creator of the universe that she was in the affirmative. As he began to pull out of Jessica the spell was broken and I jumped away from my perch, the window slamming shut loudly.
I ran into the darkness, away from the church and the youth group and Jessica.