TALKING OF GIRLS

Why would any free and honest lass want to listen to one word from a pompous missionary?

TALKING OF GIRLS

There's no more beautiful environment than a sunny day on a South Sea Island, the sort that hardly ever exist in the real world but are all around in certain genres of fiction where naughty men fulfil naughty dreams with soft-skinned dusky maidens and their skimpy skirts.

And on such a splendid island the Very Reverend Cedric Goldfish sat in a chair crafted from palm fronds and sighed as sometimes three, sometimes four and occasionally five semi-naked native girls, each as beautiful as the day, wafted him with fans crafted from the same kind of palm fronds as those he was luxuriously sitting on and breathed the elixir of innocent breath on him.

“That's the way to do it, you sultry maidens,” he boomed, “give me more of your munificence and I'll tell you more truths from the Good Book and...”

“Of what, sweet Master?” cooed one deliciously proportioned goddess winking at him with a forbidden n****e.

“And how isit Truth?” enquired a second as she placed a bronzed hand on his upper thigh.

He stuttered, then: “I'll tell you of the beginning of things... of a wise word ordering the start of everything, and of the first man and the first woman and a beautiful garden,” he began, just as you'd expect a Bishop to begin any kind of conversation with nubile young delights, starting his story at the very beginning as he saw it and intending to move remorselessly on, attributing all failure to original female sin.

“And the Fall?” frowned another maiden, her dark eyes ravishing and her brow slightly frowning. “You'll even mention the Fall?” she repeated, knowing his tales.

He sighed. “There are no gardens here, just nature in the raw,” he murmured, indicating the surrounding verdant island landscape with the wave of one hand. “It would be wrong to speak of gardens, not here, not in this Paradise.”

“Or wicked women being disobedient when it comes to fruit?” suggested a third wafting angel, gently stroking his bald pate. “We have heard such tales and see them for what they are...” she added. “They are fiction, all of them, gossipy fragments designed to eat into our minds and make us feel the guilt we haven't earned.”

“You? Guilt?” he almost exploded. “There is no guilt here! Just love.”

“Not quite,” murmured one with a nod and a wink.

“We are here for sex,” whispered the first. “That first woman, the one you daren't name, wasn't she in that garden for sex too? Wasn't that the gift that drove her spirit? The sun shining in the evening, low and red in the sky, the tequila at her elbow in a crystal glass and the shadow of her brave man falling on her, naked as she and just as beautiful, and the glories of that first orgasm...”

“You might find him beautiful, but I certainly wouldn't!” snorted the Very Reverend Cedric Goldfish. “I'm a real man and can't see any beauty in other men,” he added, not wanting to upset any of the maidens as they duskily fanned him with gigantic fronds fallen from the surrounding palms.

“You mean you're not gay?” smiled another maiden, swivelling her hips until he felt a stirring in his groin.

“I'm a man of God,” conceded the Bishop.

“God has left you here, dear man, so why not remove your uniform?” suggested a lively lass with bronzed skin and a twinkle in her eyes. “Remove your shirt and trews and take off that daft collar of yours! Join in, man, join in! For on this island we need neither god nor preacher though we may need a clown, and it seems to me that you are dressed for that part!”

“After all, in the heat and with the sounds of the seas so close, what man needs so much protection from the elements?” asked a bare-breasted refugee from the Bishop's most disgraceful fantasies.

“All right,” murmured the Bishop unable to resist, and he pulled his surplice over his head, followed by a jumper and a shirt, a clerical collar and a cummerbund. Then with theatrical hesitance, he dropped his trousers. Dark grey, they were, and woollen, and they created the very image of a charcoal pool at his feet.

“What pretty boxer-shorts,” grinned one maiden, and she reached out and felt their silkiness. “And how soft to the touch,” she purred.

“This island is perfection,” sighed the Bishop, aware that he was almost excited and sitting back down on his living chair and sighing deeply. “And to think … I came all this way to teach you of a better life.”

“By your own reckoning there is no better life,” giggled three of the girls together, and seeing that his chest was bare and his legs over-pale, they draped themselves on him.

“But I came to recruit you...” he blubbered. “I came to tell you of my God … of Heaven and Hell...”

“And instead we are recruiting you,” sighed a tall girl with the longest tresses of gleaming hair that he had ever seen. “We are drawing you into our Paradise... you must stay here for ever, and you can take each of us if we are willing, each and every one of us, and do whatsoever you please with us, for we are greatly skilled in many ways...”

“What ways?” he demanded.

“The ways of love...” they cooed.

“I would … I would ….” he whispered. “I would go to the ends of the Earth with you and take all of you by your many hands, would exhaust myself on the sands of your beaches, one after another of you until I don't know whether I'm coming or going...”

“Coming. You'd hardly be going,” smiled the tall girl.

“Going? But where to?” he asked.

“Back to the lands of darkness and doubt. Back to where your vestments and your bibles rule your life.” she purred.

“Away from Paradise,” sang the others.

“I need,” he wept.

“You need?” they asked.

“Please … I need … I really need....”

“What?” they chorused. “Not your silly old god, surely?”

“No. No, not him, not now... Just a glass of wine and some fish and chips,” he wept, “and the scent of love...” he added, uncertain of what he really meant.

“Of sex,” giggled one of the maidens as she….

Reviews

[Chinmay]

The words in your review made me laugh loudly. I'm finding your writing more and more interesting. There seems to be a touch of erotica, or similar to that thing, in your works, as far as I've read.Lastly, your writing is extremely gripping.

[Peter Rogerson]

Thanks for your comment. I wouldn't call it erotica exactly, just my belief that a spade should be called a spade... and there's absolutely nothing wrong with references o perfectly natural bodily functions.

[Peter Rogerson]

The ending, my friends, is in your hands