Well well well, where to start with this one…?
I made another $1k on this trip to San Francisco. Unfortunately, it was not easy money.
I had three sessions yesterday. The first was a Roman Catholic priest who really needs therapy, in my opinion. He had a shitload of shame and guilt about seeing me, and it came out in various ways, starting with the simple act of showing up for his session.
(for the record, I don’t judge a priest who wants to see a sex worker, for wanting to see a sex worker. They are adult men with natural needs that must be met.)
It shouldn’t be complicated. I understand it’s in a congested urban area and sometimes finding parking is a challenge if you don’t want to pay big bucks for a parking garage, but come on! My hotel was in downtown, right off the freeway, and he had my address and room number!
He was 25 minutes late, so I started to text him and email him, asking if he was okay and if he was still keeping our appointment. Eventually, I got an email from him saying that he was downstairs and his cell phone died, and he “couldn’t remember” my room number. He was “borrowing” someone’s smart phone.
I went down to look for him, and he wasn’t in the lobby like he claimed! Huh?
Are you full of shit, buddy? I wrote to him.
He materialized 20 minutes later with his cell phone in his hand, wanting to keep the session. But now, I’m stressed out and rushed, because I had another session scheduled for later in the afternoon.
I kept the session, and I let him have it, once I learned he was a priest. When he undressed, I saw he was wearing a medal of St. Anthony and also a scapular.
“Wow, haven’t seen one of those in years. Keeping it real! Catholic, huh?”
He blushed and looked embarrassed: “I’m actually a priest.”
“No shit? Currently? A full priest? Ordained?”
I started to grill him a little bit, to see if he was lying. I asked him about Catholic stuff. Many years of Catholic school gave me an adequate but completely mediocre education…but boy, did they fill my head with theology. I know the entire mass by heart, and so, so many prayers.
The dude was legit: seminary, eight years of Latin, six years of classical Greek.
When I ascertained that he was really a priest, I landed on him like a ton of bricks. Readers will know that I am not a fan. The nuns don’t make me very angry, but the priests do. All of them. It’s nothing personal, I just think they’re awful. The only ones I have respect for are the ones who devote their spiritual path to serving out in isolated monasteries, with only other priests around. That’s sacrifice and dedication to God. I can admire that. The rest of them are in it for the power. And we all know what they do with that power. It’s not a secret anymore.
“You’re lucky you didn’t come to me wearing your collar, priest. I would have made you fucking eat it. I wonder if I should make you eat those stupid dog tags.”
I’m not going to lie: I rode that man like a donkey. I wish I could see a video of that session, because I was in fine form. He really brought out my sadistic side. I was extremely cruel. Usually when I top I’m not that mean, because it’s not my personality, but I was mean to that priest, and it was completely authentic. I was surprised at how angry I was with him.
I made him go to the mirror and slap himself. I made him tell me the things that he hated about himself. He smelled bad, and I humiliated him over that, too (I was surprised—clergy members tend to be pretty fastidious, I’ve noticed. But this one needed a shower).
“Saint Anthony, huh?” I mocked as I beat him. “Let’s hear some prayers, priest. Let me hear you pray. Pray to your patron saint for the pain to stop. Let’s hear it. Grovel to Saint Anthony, and let’s see if he gives you some mercy.”
I was paddling the shit out of him with my heavy wooden paddle. I beat the hell out of him.
“You know why I hurt you so much? It’s because I DON’T RESPECT YOU.”
WACK WACK WACK THUD THUD THUD
“Roman Catholic, huh? Church that likes to burn women? Do you have a flock, priest? Do they know that you’re a filthy degenerate? Do you make them call you ‘Father’?”
His ass was hamburger.
“You know, there’s a long history of masochism in our holy Church. They’d falgelate themselves walking on the road to Wittenburg. Does this pain make you feel closer to God? Do you feel closer to God right now, you pervert? Are you going to devote this pain to God? Consecrate it?”
I was bullying him. I was bullying him hard. There were tears in his eyes.
But he still had his erection.
“I’d drown every one of you in the river if I could. I’d do it with my own hands. A little baptism that you wouldn’t rise out of. Full immersion, like a protestant. Till you were dead like an unwanted kitten in a bucket.”
WACK WACK WACK
“Do you see the face of God in me now, priest? Cause I FEEL like God, when I hurt you. Did you ever wonder why you chose to love a God who is such an awful sadist? Do you think He loves you? Think He loved Isaac? God loves it when you suffer. It makes his dick hard. Let me hear you call on God, priest. Let me hear you pray to God when you have a bleeding ass and a hard cock.”
WACK WACK WACK
“I can’t do that,” he whispered, and he was crying for real now.
No mercy. Not for these guys. Sorry. No mercy in the war against priests. These assholes with the magical powers who control access to heaven for the rest of us. Who do they think they are? Fuck em. Fuck em up the ass sideways, without lube. Protestants suck too, but at least they don’t have PRIESTS running around WITHHOLDING AND CONTROLING SALVATION from decent Christians.
Galileo, I thought, I devote this episode of clergy harassment to YOU, homeboy!
The Priest’s dick was still hard, and he didn’t safe out, so I kept going.
“Hear any confessions recently, priest? Makes your cock hard to be privy to so much information, especially from women, amirite? People coming to you when they’re scared and guilty, because they need absolution? They NEED it, so they won’t go to hell? And they all crave your approval, cause you’re the guy with the magic powers? Mister Six-Years-of-Greek? Let’s hear some Greek! Get Greeky for me, baby!”
WACK WACK WACK WACK
Readers, strap-on is not something I like to do in session (although, natch, I’ve done it…I’ve done it with boyfriends and it was fun, but with clients, it’s too personal), but if I had my big fake cock strapped on, I would be fucking this guy. I’d be making him blow me. It would be an episode of Facial Abuse.com.
He came so hard that he screamed at the end.
Then he asked to use the shower.
I did something I’ve never done before, and WOULD never do with almost any other client: I denied him.
“You come to me stinking, you can go back home filthy. And I know you want to have a shower to wash away the pain of the guilt. Marinate in it a while. You ever come to me again smelling like BO and ballsack, I’ll turn you away at the door, and it doesn’t matter how good your money is. A shower takes less than 5 minutes.”
He left, and I had to scramble to get ready for my next session, which was AWFUL.
More on that tomorrow.
P.S. Here’s another example of his guilt coming out as hostility: he brought me a bottle of wine.
(Obvs, I could not drink the wine. I opened it and poured us both a glass, and then didn’t drink from mine.)
“That’s nice!” you say. OF COURSE IT IS, right….?
BUT…it was a bottle of $2-Chuck. Two-buck-Chuck.
Now, I would never judge anyone for bringing budget wine. Or even for drinking two-buck-Chuck! Two-buck-Chuck can be FINE, but it’s to be drunk at home with your spaghetti after a long day. I am not a wine snob. You can get perfectly decent wine for everyday consumption for less than $10 at your local Trader Joe’s.
BUT…you do not GIVE a bottle of $2-chuck as a gift. You don’t.
You can bring budget wine, less expensive than $20 or even $16 depending on where you live in the country….but if you can’t afford that much for a bottle, you SHOULDN’T BE GIFTING A BOTTLE. This isn’t Christmas Secret Santa at the office!
I know priests don’t make a lot of money, at least at this Priest’s level. But they do not live in poverty, and, if he wants to give wine as a gift, he can pony up enough for decent house table wine.
He bought that bottle to me as an expression of his insecurity and disrespect. He didn’t drink any himself, but gave it to me.