The Words - An Autobiography

Pagan Rites

Much to my mother's dismay, I began attending church services less and less, then hardly ever. It was impossible to trump my wife's naked body on Sunday mornings, especially now that I saw her so little during the week when our time spent together was too often that of feeling her naked warmth as she slid into bed in the dark. So, technically, I didn't see her at all those nights. We had sex. She made sure we never missed a day. And I came, often after she'd already fallen asleep. But I couldn't claim that I saw more than the silhouette of her form, and we spoke no more than our mutual professions of love for one another - perhaps several other endearments.

So, Sunday mornings, she arranged herself on our bed in a provocative, naked display as I began dressing for church. She was not trying to discourage me; she insisted, simply providing options, such as the opportunity to hear her cry out God's name and that of His son, rather than hearing the words from some old hypocrite in a robe from the pulpit. She promised that she would be having an honest religious experience, whether she believed that anyone of either name existed to hear her. And did the man in the robe even believe a word he said? She was skeptical.

More Sundays than not, once I'd aborted the idea of church and strewn my suit, shirt, tie, and underwear on our bedroom floor, we were rarely more than partially clothed the entire day. My wife was insatiable on Sundays, determined to catch up for those orgasms she'd have had during the week if she hadn't been too tired to remain awake as I'd continued to enjoy her body at her insistence. So, Sundays, all day, and most Saturday evenings and afternoons, we had sex as often as I was physically capable - given the limitations of my male anatomy. And she was amazingly talented and persuasive in encouraging my depleted anatomy, "One more time?" While I'd been certain, I'd already reached my body's limit several times earlier. Thankfully, there were those other acts that we'd once claimed weren't sex. Those I could happily provide her without such limitations, and she had no apparent end to the number of sweat-drenched orgasms she could enjoy in a day.

As for those days during the week when she spent most of the day wearing clothes, she was invariably practical and utilitarian in dressing for school. She wore minimal make-up, no, in fact, none. She wore her hair, which she generally washed only on weekends, in a ponytail. She wore her black-framed glasses rather than fuss with her contacts. She wore flat, practical shoes and what she called her 'old lady' underwear since Fred didn't care and wasn't showing them off to anyone else, just in case I was concerned. Then jeans and a top that varied according to the weather.

She showed her underwear to Fred?

Not yet, but she wore her 'old lady' undies as a deterrent should she ever have the sudden urge to flash him. Otherwise, she might raise the poor man from the dead.

She was joking, I assumed, but I agreed that she might raise Fred, given the record-breaking Sunday marathons when she'd raised me from the dead when I thought I must be. And just as likely as her raising Fred, 'old lady' undies or not, was for all the living men in her presence to simultaneously clutch their chests and drop dead of heart attacks. I could hardly imagine that she was not a distracting presence in her classes, even in a lab coat.

Sundays, and Saturday afternoons when she finally gave up on studying - that I was discouraged from encouraging - my patience was always well rewarded. Since I was able to cover the rent and utilities for our apartment on my salary, that left nearly all the stipend she received for living expenses as discretionary cash, with which she began to purchase lingerie, come-fuck-me shoes, and make-up. Experimenting with her hair, she returned to bed one Sunday afternoon with a rainbow-colored gelled Mohawk in a pair of outrageous high-heeled pumps, appearing to be nearly seven feet tall. She wore nothing else but body paint, shortly smeared on my body and our sheets, with multi-colored handprints forming frenetic collages.