The Horny Exorcist

Father Michael Madigan is an old friend. We grew up together, went to high school together. I went to work selling used cars. He went to divinity school. We were young studs, and fucked anything that walked or crawled. Father Madigan (we call him Mike) decided to become celibate. It must have tough for him because he was the biggest whoremonger I ever met. He always had at least three girl friends at a time. One for weekends, and two for the middle of the week. He'd rotate them out if he got bored with either one of them. Of course she could dump him too if she thought he was too worn out to be of much use in bed. He didn't take his women to the opera, to a concert, or even, God forbid, to a Red Sox game. They just grabbed a bite to eat and fucked.

One day he told us, my wife Jeannie, and myself, he was going to divinity school. He had actually been accepted at Harvard Divinity School. This was great because he could stay with us in Cambridge. Mike was a very good looking guy. The girls were always after him. He was slim; looked like a GQ model.

He graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Divinity and was assigned to a parish in the Boston area. It was there he began to do what priests usually do. I myself am not Catholic. So I have no idea what the censor, holy water, and bells signify. But I do know what confession is. Confession is one of the most beautiful sacraments in the Catholic church. If not abused. If you know what I mean.

Mike had dinner with us every Saturday night. I don't know if priests take a vow of secrecy, as if they're working for the National Security Agency (NSA). To get a top secret clearance from NSA they do a background check, going all the way back to your childhood. They even interview the doctor who delivered you, making certain the doctor isn't a Commie or a Middle Eastern terrorist.

But some of the stories he told us were hilarious. Like some hooker would come to confession, tell Mike how many tricks she turned during the week, and then do a few Hail Mary's. Or a pimp would tell Mike he would be contrite, about the number of hookers he beat up for not bringing in enough cash. If a hooker ever brought in a personal check, her pimp would literally kick the shit out of her. That resulted in a few Hail Mary's. And Our Fathers.

Mike believed in the Devil. Or Satan. His belief in Satan was deeper than his belief in God. He understood God works in mysterious ways. But Mike saw what Satan was doing every day to his flock. Wives were cheating on their husbands. Husbands were cheating on their wives. Men were engaged in insider trading on Wall Street. His politicians were bribing judges, and judges were taking kickbacks. Normally Mike accepted all this in a day's work, as they say. Nothing unusual. How people could live with themselves wasn't his problem. He would simply say, 'your sins are forgiven', and dole out a few hail Mary's and Our Fathers.

One Saturday night, after dinner, he told us an unusual story.

After mass one Sunday, a woman came up to him. Her name was Katie, and she looked like shit. "Father Mike, I need your advice ..." Katie was married to a drunk, but most of the women in his parish were married to drunks.

"Sure, Katie, what's up?"

"It's my sister. Bertie. I think she's possessed. She's changed ..."

"How so? Tell me about it."

"Normally Bertie lets her husband beat her up. You know, he'd have a few drinks, then start yelling - be out of control - punch her out. "

"Go on ..."

"I was there with her last Friday. He got paid and stopped by a pub on the way home. He was drunk as usual. He slapped her across the face, and tore her blouse off. Her tits were just hanging out ..."

"Hanging out ... yes, I understand."

"He called her a whore."

Mike was listening. "Bertie's husband was reaching for the cast iron fry pan ..."

"Then what?"

"Bertie kicked him in the balls. And when he bent over in pain, she kicked him real hard in the head ..."

"Good for her", Mike said.

"But, Father, Bertie has never been violent. She wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Interesting ..."

"And Bertie is not a kick boxer." She continued. "Usually she'd take the abuse. Not even report it ..."

"Where is Bertie now, Katie?"

"She should be home. She didn't go to mass today."

"Why don't I drop by and talk to Bertie."

"OK, let me come with you. It's better we both see her."

They arrived at Bertie's house in Dorchester. A typical lower middle class home. Bertie was sitting in the kitchen having a beer. Which was odd, because Bertie did not drink. She was in her slip, one strap off her shoulder, her big boobs almost falling out.

"Bertie, I brought Father Mike to see you."

Bertie looked up, smiling, at Mike. "How're they hanging, Father?" Her voice sounded strange.

That's how you greet your priest? Mike thought it best not to hug her.

"Can I suck your cock, Father? I hear you got a big cock ..." Bertie asked. Bertie had never talked dirty before. Never said 'cock'.

He did have a big cock, but hadn't fucked anyone in the past five years. No one had ever sucked his cock.

"Katie, may I talk to you in private?" Mike asked. He was shocked.

"Sure, Father ..." They went outside.

"Is this Bartie's time of the month?" he asked.

Katie shrugged and shook her head.

"Katie, she doesn't have Tourette's Syndrome because I don't see her twitching. Her foul language is called coprolalia. They taught us that in divinity school. It's relatively rare. But asking to suck my cock is something else ..."

"Why? Didn't anyone ever suck your cock?"

"Katie, you're missing the point. People ask me to pray for them, to give them absolution, not to suck my cock."

She thought that over. "Personally, Father, I think giving you a blow job will make a woman feel closer to God than Hail Mary's."

"I need to talk to Bertie again before I leave. I might have to ask the archbishop for his opinion. This is very serious."

Bertie was smoking and coughing. She was having a second beer.

"Father, she doesn't smoke ..."Katie whispered in his ear.

Bertie grinned at Mike as he came back into the room. "I'm so horny." She said. "That piece of shit husband of mine hasn't fucked me in ages." She took a drag on her cigarette. "He uses me as a punching bag. But those days are over ..." She coughed again. She was choking on the cigarette.

Katie whispered again. "She doesn't usually talk like that. She's a submissive wife who usually lets her husband beat her up. " Mike could see the black and blue marks on her arms and throat.

It took Mike two days to get an appointment to meet with the archbishop in Brighton. He explained to the archbishop what Bertie said, and the unusual situation. He cleaned up the language a bit, in deference to the archbishop.

After an hour meeting with the archbishop, the consensus was - Bertie has to be possessed by a demon. Demon possession is not unusual because, in the Bible Jesus cast out lots of demons. That was his full time job. Today Christians get rid of demons by hanging a woman by her fingernails over an ant hill. Or making her drink castor oil. Nothing is fool proof. But most demons hate castor oil.

Mike asked Katie to come with him again. Bertie was lying on her bed, masturbating. She had a big dildo shoved up her hairy cunt, and she was plunging it and out with a vengeance. "I wanna come so bad ..." she was murmuring to herself. "I'll kill that son of a bitch ..."

"Bertie, Mike is here ..."

"OK, give me a few minutes... " Finally her hips performed a wrestler's bridge, and she climaxed. She slowly turned her head towards Mike, her forehead covered with perspiration, her hair matted. "Hey, Mike." Her voice sounded much deeper. It didn't sound like Bertie.

"Hello, Bertie, we need to talk."

"Did you change your mind about the blow job?" It cackled.

"Not exactly. Maybe later." He was kidding.

She sat up in bed.

"Come into the living room," he said.

Bertie slipped on a tattered house dress, and paddled barefoot after Mike. She didn't bother to button the dress. They sit down, Mike in a straight backed chair. Bertie sat on the edge of a recliner.

Mike looked deeply into Bertie's eyes. What he saw wasn't Bertie. It was alive, but it wasn't Bertie.

"What is your name?" Mike asked.

"Who wants to know?" It replied.

"My name is Mike. I am a priest ..."

"Do you suck cock???" It asked.

"That's besides the point," Mike replied. "This is not about me."

"OK. Sorry," It said. "Where's your stupid crucifix?"

"It's out in the car."

Bertie opened her house dress. Her big boobs spilled out. "Do you like my tits?"

"Very nice," Mike had to admit. He loved big boobs. He felt himself getting hard. He needed to keep his cool if he expected any cooperation from this demon, or whatever it was. Bertie opened her legs. She was naked under the dress. "Like what you see?"

Mike was trying to avoid looking at her pussy. But it was a lovely cunt. "Yes", he admitted.

"Wanna fuck?"

"No, I can't ... I'm celibate," he regretfully had to admit.

"Bullshit. I've fucked a lot of celibate priests. Even the Cardinal ..."

"What is your name?" Mike asked.

"Call me legion ..." It laughed. "That was in the Bible, remember?"

"Yes."

"What's in a name? A label. I'm a spirit, not a thing."

Mike nodded.

"I'm a good demon, you need to understand," It said. "Not a bad demon ..."

Mike looked puzzled.

"The evil is in your church. Look at your 'flock'. They're stabbing each other in the back. They lie, they cheat. They commit adultery ..."

Mike had to agree. "Why don't you get a real job, Mike?" It seemed to like him. "You ought to get out of that den of iniquity." He was getting career advice from a demon?

He didn't have an answer. Mike had no calling. God never spoke to him. He was becoming a voyeur and a pervert, a guy who like beating off to confessions. He could tell when a woman was fingering herself, telling Mike all the dirty things she did during the week. How many times a day she masturbated. Mike was a young man. He had a raging libido. He seemed to be always horny. All this lurid talk drove him up the wall. He could even hear the sloshing of her pussy.

"Well, I like being a priest," he told the demon. "People look to me for counseling, I perform weddings. I'm a man of God ..."

"That's crap and you know it. Most of the weddings you perform - your wives end up being battered."

"OK, OK. You win," Mike had to agree. "Can we make a deal?"

Negotiating with a demon wasn't something you learn in divinity school.

"Sure, what do you have in mind?" The demon was curious. Receptive.

"Give me Bertie back. Let her be her old self again."

It thought about Bertie's future. It liked Bertie. Bertie was a sweet, submissive woman.

"I can't do that," It replied. "I can't let her go back to being beat up by her old man ..."

Mike was listening.

"I have a better idea," It said. "I will give Bertie courage, I'll teach her to look out for herself." And it added, " I'll help her find someone who will fuck her brains out." The Demon spoke like a Bostonian.

This was spot on. Give Bertie a new life. "Then you can have her back ..."

"Agreed," Mike said.

"Bye, bye, " it said.

It was gone.

He noticed Bertie had a glow to her.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mike?" she sweetly asked. "Sure," he said.

"Let me put something on first." She went into the bedroom and came back wearing a blouse and skirt. She had put on some pink lipstick. She looked radiant.

***

"So then what happened?" I asked Mike. We were having dinner a few weeks later.

"She became a Buddhist," he replied laughing. "She started meditating and was more calm. She called it mindfulness. More at peace with herself. We miss her at mass, but she's always welcome to come and visit."

"What about her dirt bag husband?"

"Funny how fate takes a hand," Mike said. "It was on a Friday night, after he had a few drinks at the pub. He was drunk as usual. It was raining, and as he was staggering across the street, he got hit by a car. The driver wasn't drunk. It was an older guy, who looked like he was going to cry, the police said."

"Did she ever meet anyone new?"

"Yep. She met a guy, a musician, at a jazz club. She actually went to high school with the guy. They are very much in love. At least that's what she tells me. I hopes he fuck her brains out."

I had to marvel at how our lives are sometimes not up to us. There has to be Someone who carries us when we're too weak to plod through all the shit.