Kinky Confessions

I stared at the phone and chuckled. Her Pittsburgh accent came out when she wasn’t paying attention. I hung up and hoped she could get back to sleep, but the phone rang less than a minute later.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Sara’s sleepy voice said. “’S everything all right?”

“Yeah, sorry. I know it’s early there. I should’ve waited.”

“You’re a real asshole. I was sound asleep until you scared the shit out of me. I thought someone was in the hospital or something. Are you sure you’re all right? Is Christy?”

“We’re all fine. You wanna go back to sleep and call me later?”

“I’m already awake. Fuck. What time is it?”

I glanced at my watch and subtracted. “A little before seven, your time.”

“D’you know what day it is?”

“Do you?” I laughed.

“Sunday. Asshole.”

“Okay,” I said evenly.

“So, whaddya want? Hold on. I’m’a start coffee.” She set the phone down and returned about a minute later. “D’you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” I said. “It’s too early.”

“Especially for a Sunday. And I’ll cut your balls off if you scare me like that again. Now, what’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait till a decent hour?”

“Eh, not much. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Aren’t you a saint. But I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, you’re right. I really wanted to call and complain.”

“’Bout what? Princess problems?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Although… more like Catholic birth control problems.”

Sara chuckled, dark and completely devoid of sympathy. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’d you do when you did? The pill?”

“Jesus, no. I got an IUD. No muss, no fuss. And no daily reminder that I was gonna get fucked, by life or just some random asshole.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry.”

“Why? You never fucked me. You never fucked me over, either, which is a minor miracle. Anyway,” she continued, “if you don’t mind me asking, did you and the little princess finally get down to business? Sounds like you did, if you’re worried about birth control.”

“We did,” I agreed. “And her idea of ‘birth control’ is the rhythm method.”

“Natural Family Planning,” Sara said. “That’s what they call it in the Church. It’s more than just the rhythm method, but I don’t know how, exactly. The priests gave these pamphlets to couples who were getting married. I was too young to care and had bigger problems anyway.” Her pause was as good as a shrug. “Is that what you wanna complain about?”

“Yeah. I’m not happy with it, whatever it’s called.”

“Don’t like schedules and having to pull out?” she chuckled.

“No, but it’s more than that. It’s mental as much as physical. I mean, I worry about what happens if I ‘forget’ to pull out. And what if she gets her dates wrong? She has a little calendar she uses, but I don’t know if her math is right in the first place. What if she added wrong or forgot to subtract or something? I worry about this crap every time we have sex. Okay, not every time, but before and after. The rest of the time, too. It’s exhausting!”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Sara said after a long pause. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“Till I’m blue in the face. Her girlfriend did too, and she’s an actual scientist.”

“Hold on… Wren? I thought she was some kind of PR person.”

“Her other girlfriend, in San Diego.”

Sara laughed. “How many girlfriends does she have?”

“As many as she wants.”

“My kind of woman. And… it sounds like she’s a swinger already.”

“She sort of is. More about that later. Right now I’m complaining about her birth control.”

“Sorry.” Her sarcasm came through loud and clear. “I almost forgot.”

“I’m sure you think this is funny,” I griped, “but it’s really starting to bug me. It’s all I think about sometimes, and we’ve only been sleeping together a

week. She doesn’t want kids yet—”

“And you believe her?”

“Yeah, I do. She can’t lie to me. But still… if she doesn’t want kids yet, why won’t she get on the pill?”

“Catholic guilt.”

“Seriously? It can’t be that bad.”

“I don’t think you understand what it’s like. For girls, especially. They tell you to obey the Church. Obey your parents. Don’t ask questions. Do what you’re told. And they make you feel like it’s your fault if you aren’t pure and innocent. Everything’s a sin and you should feel guilty about it. Nothing you do is good enough.

“But they don’t really care. It’s all about appearances,” she added bitterly.

“They ignore cuts and bruises as long as you’re wearing a pretty dress. And they blame you for all the bad shit that happens to you. Never mind that your father’s a piece-of-shit drunk. But hey, he’s a man, the head of the house.

You’re supposed to honor and obey, and feel guilty if you don’t.

“The priests are the worst, though. They do some awful shit, while the Church covers it up and pretends nothing ever happened. No one does a thing, about any of it, even when it’s staring them in the face. They’re all fucking hypocrites!”

I didn’t know what to say.