Ostrich Feather Tango

Ostrich Feather Tango            
              
     Francine knocks on the rectory door. Father Antoine greets her. She says, “Father, it is urgent that I speak with you. My soul is at stake.”    
     He says, “Do you wish to confess? If so it must be done properly in the confessional booth at church.”    
     “Please! I’m pleading with you, Padre! Don’t send me away to be possessed by demons. If you love me as a daughter of Jesus perform the sacrament here.”    
     He replies, “Sister Francine, my ear is here for you. But what’s that perfume you are wearing?”      
     “Oh, do you like it? It’s just my ovulation fragrance.”    
     “Yes, it is lovely. But surely you aren’t here to discuss your cycles.”        
     She says, “Not entirely. But at the nunnery, our periods synchronize which results in a PMS party with enough brouhaha to scare a man.”
     “Sister, lately I’ve felt an undercurrent of discord from you. Are you considering leaving the order?”      
     “You are a man of the cloth. My heart flutters and my tongue quivers at the prospect of telling you my bedroom secrets.”      
     He asks, “Have you taken a lover to bed?”      
     “No, but I have struggled mightily with my chastity and the devil has won.”    
     “I have the cure for your affliction. Keep a dollar bill in your dresser drawer. Whenever you do the deed, tear it up.”    
     “Oh padre, that is brilliant! But I must confess my addiction is driven by ostrich feathers.”    
     He asks, “Do they make you ticklish?”    
     I gasp, “Yes! They do, Father.”    
     “Is the sensation unbearable?”    
     “Not at all. It is like scratching an itch. The more I do it the better it feels.”    
     “How long can you stay prickly?”    
     “Until that rush like menthol on skin blows me to smithereens. Such questions, but you are the caretaker of my soul. Oh Abba, my fig leaf has fallen along with my garland of lilies. I sing hymns of praise while in flagrante delicto to trick the convent nuns. But Sister Ann is most pleased with my choral progress. Have I booked a passage to hell?”    
     He says, “As long as you confess your sins to me I will grant you absolution.”    
     I say, “But telling you this makes me feverish and sweaty and I will go home only to sin again.”    
     He takes a deep breath and says, “Leave your burden with me and let me bear that cross for you. But let not a single act go untold and spare me no details for therein lies your salvation.”    
     She rests her voice. “Self-flagellation would have been a gentler form of penance than this for me.”    
     “Sister, why would you even entertain such a thought?”    
     “You are right. The welts would ruin my complexion. If not for that the pain might even prove interesting. Forgive me if my tongue wags too much. You are an innocent victim of my concupiscence.”    
     “My celibacy is in no danger. Even men of the cloth need diversions. You may have saved me from a more regretful physicality.”    
     “I sure could use some of that corporeality. Living in the convent is like living in a brothel but without the sex. A bordello without sex is like summer without ice cream.”