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I Got Something To Tell You

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I Got Something To Tell You
Lapsed catholic woman finds need to confess.

By MarthaMcKinley -

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I m driving back to see my priest, from

the college parish.  Yeah, this catholic girl needs deliverance from
some major guilt. No, let s see; how many years has it been? It hit me
yesterday, as Robbie & I were driving home. Oh, Gawd! Oh Gawd!

Why shouldn t I worry? This probably

changes things. No. It definitely changes things! Every thing. I had
sex with Bart, a married man. Get it, you rash brain. I m a married woman who
just had sex with another woman s husband. And not simply another woman,
but one of my friends. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn t.

There we were. Robbie was driving. I

glanced over at Robbie, driving us home, tapping on the steering wheel and
belting out the words to Billie Joel s Only the Good Die Young coming over the
radio. You Catholic girls start much too late. Did Billy Joel know, too?

The irony of it all. I was one of

them: a graduate eight years ago of St. Margaret s Academy, an all girls high
school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame. In my four years there, I had had
negligible experience with boys-just a handful of dances in the gym at the
neighboring Catholic boys school. I never had a boyfriend. I was never even
confident enough in myself to flirt, for I never found the girl looking back at
me in the mirror to be anything but plain.

In college, no one had even asked me out

until my junior year when Robbie did. I was so flummoxed, so flattered, so sure
it must be a charity act that I spent the next two years at Macalester in
perpetual gratitude, satisfying his every need. And right after graduation,
with a BFA in painting, Miss flat chested and shy, but virgin no more Mary
Johnson married Mister handsome, self-assured, going places Robbie Dwyer.

I d rather laugh with the sinners than

cry with the saints he sang, glancing over at me, suggestively.

Did he do it, too? Did he have sex with

Robyn in the hot tub after Bart and I got out? It was entirely possible. In the
four years since we were married, he had confessed to at least a
half dozen women who turned him on. The Swedish lab tech at work with
the impossibly long lashes. The buxom Australian hostess at the Sunshine
Factory, our friday night watering hole. The neighbor from Kenya
with the wide hips and muscular buttocks bulging out her short shorts as she
dragged the sprinkler across the lawn. The Vietnamese manicurist, where I
got my nails done, with the alluring-demurring smile on her face. My God,
he had a fantasy girl from almost every continent. At least he was ecumenical.

But had he ever acted on any of these

urges other than acting them out in our bedroom? For whatever reason, his
fantasies turned me on. They were so absurd, and far from making me suspicious,
when he brought them up in bed at night, I wanted to play along. I became the
big-bosomed Aussie who smothered him with her tits, or the wide assed African who
yanked on his hose. We would start assuming these roles in all seriousness, but
soon be laughing so hard that Robbie would get massive, I would become sopping
wet, and we d fuck fast and furious until we came in great gasps. Then we would
kiss and hug, saying all those wonderful words of love to each other, before
falling asleep entwined.

You know, it s amazing when you find

yourself. All my scholarly life I had struggled with reading, writing essays,
taking multiple-choice tests. But one thing I loved to do-and was good at-was
rendering landscapes in pastel: layering wheat fields with raw sienna, coating
barns and silos in brilliant cad red and alizarin crimson, foliating giant
cottonwoods with varying shades of sap green, and stretching cobalt shadows across
lawns and patios, bending them up walls of grand white farmhouses.

I guess, in retrospect, it was how I

sublimated my sexuality as a teenager. Years later, post art school-and after
having given up on Catholicism-I discovered the co-existence of the creative
impulse and drive for sexual gratification. It was then that my artistic
successes began. People seemed to respond passionately to my new work.
Collectors bought four, five, or six of my pieces. Each new series-the Dakotas,
the Mississippi-won me acclaim at venues in Minneapolis, Santa Fe, Denver, and
Chicago. I almost couldn t make enough for all the enthusiastic gallery owners.
The result was gaining a measure of confidence, not only in art, but in love,
which I had formerly never known, and which seemed so natural for others, like
Robbie, Bart, and Robyn.

Oh my God, I forgot about Robyn, the

red-haired nurse-midwife whose house we were just leaving. Robbie fantasized
the most about that little spitfire-at least, she s the one who seemed to
augment his cock the greatest. I remember his last Robyn dream, a mere week
ago: he and she were wrestling at the pond s edge after they emerged from a
skinny dip on a sultry afternoon. They had started slinging playful insults at
one another, until one literally slung a handful of mud, at which point the
real fun began. Soon they were coated with a burnt sienna glaze and needing to
go back into the water to wash each other off.

It made sense, that fanciful notion of

his. Water was their thing. Robyn got covered in amniotic fluid when her
patient s water broke, and Robbie worked as a field biologist with lake
flora and fauna. Two science types, always with liquid things to talk
about. We had left them in their element, soaking in the hot tub, when
Bart and I got out to look at one of his new pastel paintings-our
element.

Robbie drummed on the steering wheel.

You know that only the good die young Tell you baby Only the good die young

I was feeling really clammy now. What if

he and Robyn did fuck in the hot tub? Would that be better-for me? After all,
if he did it, why couldn t I? Or did it spell the end of our marriage? Were we
going to become one of those pairs of swinging couples whose relationship
divided along fault lines? Little things that once seemed endearing
qualities-my need to have everything in its place at home-would become an
annoyance to him and an excuse for fleeing to Robyn. Or his insistence in
correcting my retelling of a mutual experience-that I formerly had allowed with
amusement-would become the hurt driving me to Bart and the consolation of his
touch.

Jesus, what have I done? What have we

done? We? Maybe we didn t do anything. Maybe only I did? And Robbie s
trust in me will be shattered forever.

I reached over to touch his head, to

pull my fingers through his dark, dark umber hair, with waves as luscious as my
grassy prairies at sunset. He looked over and smiled, his gaze penetrating my
eyes briefly before it returned to the road. I love when you do that,
Georgia, he teased, using the name of the artist, Georgia O'Keeffe, whom I had
been the most influenced by in college.

He hadn t fucked Robyn after

all. Great. Now I m the fucker.

I love doing that, I replied. You

know how much I crave your textures!

Did I sound like the same me? Could he

tell anything from the dampness of my fingers?

We ll be home in ten minutes, he

proclaimed. "Can t wait to be in bed with you.

Suddenly feeling queasy, I replied, Are

you wide awake? I m so tired, I think I m going to close my eyes for
a bit.

I m fine. Another good

song!" And he was off, singing in perfect pitch, "But you gotta
keep your head up, oh-oh, and you can let your hair down, eh-eh

Maybe he s too exuberant? I bet he did

do it?

Do it.

Do it.

Did I really do it?

Did we? Bart and I? Do it?

Oh, Father Duffy, it's times

like these when I miss those confession sessions

Bart and I had dried off in front of

his fireplace. The bromine from the hot tub was so strong we had taken turns
rinsing off in the shower. With towels wrapped around us, we ascended the
stairs to his studio and his magnificent nudes. If I relished the feel of
textures through my fingers, my eyes delighted in the virtual touch of the skin
tones in his paintings: strokes of raw sienna melding into caput mortuum,
Indian red into purple violet and Thalo blue. His pastels had been
blended with infinite patience, layer upon layer of pigment to create arm,
chest, torso, groin, giving the effect of a radiance emanating from within.

For someone not in possession of the

endowment, he painted the most sensuous breasts-with thick areolas
and erect nipples-seemingly emerging from the paper, begging to be
sucked.

I touched his arm to point out, on a

nearby easel, the pair of lovers he was finishing, a man standing behind a
woman, their hands holding five passion fruits against her chest. Excitedly, I
inquired as to how he got her skin to glow with such warmth of golden ochre and
crimson. He nestled my elbow in his palm as he eased me toward the painting and
explained his artistic process.

It was fun having another artist to talk

with, to puzzle out problems of color and value, to compare favorite painters
and art philosophies. In college, I had been so head
over heals involved with Robbie, that I did my course work, rushed
back to the dorm to be with him, and didn t give myself the time to make
friends, let alone hang out with established teacher-artists in the art
department. My BFA degree had landed me a graphic arts job with Minnesota Life,
a glossy recreation magazine, and I spent over a year doing computer artwork,
but again, no real artist contacts-and no art opportunities. When my school
loans were nearly repaid, and Robbie was making enough for both of us to live
on, I went back to painting with pastels. Within two years, I was showing in
the Twin Cities; then, six months later, in three other major metropolitan
areas. That experience brought me into contact with other artisans, most of
them women, all of us doing different subjects. We exhibited together on
occasion, got together for group-show receptions, but I never really developed
an artistic kinship with any painter-until I met Bart.

He leaned into me as we conversed, and I

maintained our inertia by pressing back. He took my left hand in his, and
slipped his right arm around my back, supporting me as we talked about his
lovers faces; the aura of contemplation; the mysteries of connection,
communion, and commitment.

I told him how much I liked the piece,

and he hugged me with appreciation. And that s when we should have stopped. I
could have inquired about the adjacent painting, the woman with the large guava
facing the viewer and the man turning away with his smaller one. But I didn t.
His hug felt so good. As did the wine, our soak in the hot tub, my
newly-found confidence.

We rotated toward each other. He brought

his lips to mine, and, rather than turn to accept his kiss on my cheek, I met
him full on with my own. As our embrace progressed, intoxicatingly, I encircled
his lanky waist and felt our towels drop away. With his manliness expanding
against my belly and his hand raising tingles up my spine, I devoured his lower
lip, squeaking a little in excitement when I felt his tongue enter my mouth.

With both hands he lifted up my tiny

breasts, his fingers running over my nipples, as ripe as his painted
ones, then pulled each with gentle traction, making them ache all the
more. I moved off his mouth, and began kissing his chest, lightly brushing the
russet hairs with my lips in an ever-expanding oval. Initially passing over his
nipples, I returned to suck each to hardness and heard him groan as I bit down
on them tenderly.

His finger pads moved down my spine to

buttocks, backs of thigh, up to hipbones, and, twisting his hands around, his
finger nails grazed across to my pussy tuft and up my abdomen to my back again,
in a repeating hypnotic loop of arousal. When my tongue repaid his kindness,
creating a saliva trail down his midline, my cheek butted into his erection. I
turned deftly toward the large head, now deeply violet and glowing as hot as
his figures skin tones.

Clumsily, we maneuvered our entangled

selves to his model stand, and found our way to sitting upon the shag carpet
remnant atop the platform, my mouth locked around him, my juices oozing into
the rug. His hand found my slot, and as I drew my teeth up and over his rim, I
felt his fingers close around my clit, pinching it rhythmically to our
breathing. My shrieks of pleasure were stifled by taking more of his cock
deeper in my throat, and, as I rocked onto his hand, he began thrusting into my
mouth.

I m gonna come, he whispered,

urgently.

Having climaxed once already, and about

to scream again, I was fully prepared to grant him his pleasure. Within seconds
a hot bolus shot into my mouth, and this time I gurgled with delight as his
flood of warmth quieted my cries.

One hand circled my head, his fingers

pushing through my perspiring hair. The other, perfumed by my cunt-flower, was
rubbed against cheek, neck, and shoulder, all the while he praised my
beauty in muffled tones. I regained my resting breathing tempo, but all I could
mumble was, Wonderful, wonderful, as his cock slowly deflated in my mouth.

You guys up there? Robbie had hollered

from the bottom of the stairs.

Just gazing at some nudes, Bart had

called back, so nonchalantly, I thought that perhaps I had been
dreaming all the while. But of course I wasn t.

Bart and I had hurriedly wrapped our

towels around us. He went ahead of me down the stairs, as I ducked into their
bathroom to do a bidet-cleansing of my mouth, then joined everyone
below to get dressed and prepare for our departure.

We re home, announced Robbie. Let s

get right to bed. I love it when you re brominated.

I awoke from one nightmare to go back

into what I feared was another. What Robbie pronounced was true. Being
brominated meant that by soaking in the hot tub, I was disinfected everywhere,
and his tongue could explore my private place with relatively impunity. Any
other time, his suggestion would have made me forgo my nightly mouth care, but this
evening, I delayed our entry into bed by flossing and brushing-with lots of
toothpaste. That would cover up any telltale tastes, but I didn t know if the
delay would allow my brain to become re-engaged in love making.

Robbie and I have been very honest with

each other. Well, I felt I have been completely honest, and I trusted full
revelations would have been forthcoming from him. So as we pulled the sheets
over our nakednesses, I wondered if I should bare all?

Do I tell him, I asked myself? Did I

want him to tell me-if there was anything to tell?

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