The Cardinal and the Choirboy
This is a piece of fiction, the characters and events depicted are purely the products of my imagination and no similarity is intended to any real events or persons. Any such similarity is completely coincidental.
Thanks to my friends HCFU (Freedom, Nick and Thorns) for their constant encouragement. Especial thanks to Freedom for reading it through for me before I put it out to be read.
None of the above is responsible in any way for any imperfections in this story, that responsibility rests solely with me.
And finally: If you shouldn't, don't. If you don't like it, stop. If you want to flame me, you're wasting your time.
Comments and constructive criticism are welcome at:
The entire story is copyrighted © to Mr_Malaprop 2005 - HCFU
The Cardinal and the Choirboy
Okay, so he wasn't a cardinal but the thought was there. And I wasn't a choirboy either. It's a bit of a misleading title really - it came to me just tonight as I sat down to remember. It was such a memorable time and I'll never, ever forget him, he was my first love.
* * *
I was 9 when Father Matthew died. I know this because his funeral happened a week later on my tenth birthday. It was sad as he'd been our parish priest all my life, he'd been our parish priest all my parent's lives as well. Forty years in one parish, it's a long time; that sort of thing doesn't happen any more. He had baptised both my parents, he had heard their first confessions, given them both their first communion, prepared them for confirmation, had married them, had baptised their only child, me. Later he had heard my first confession, he had given me my first communion and now here we all were present at his funeral. I was honoured to be one of the altar boys for the day. We were a close knit community, many tears were shed and mine were amongst them. Father Matthew was a kind and understanding man and we all missed him.
After that there was a long interregnum with lots of local and not so local priests popping in to say mass and sometimes just the deacon or Sister Mary Margaret giving communion from the reserved sacrament. After about 10 months, so I was getting on for 11 by now, Father David was appointed; a young man, this was his first parish after just one curacy the other side of the city. He raised a few eyebrows amongst the older parishioners, so set in their ways, but the youngsters of the parish all adored him on sight. Me more than most, although I didn't fully understand why at the time.
I carried on as an altar boy but now it was a lot more fun. Father David spent time with us, always as a group - he was careful never to have favourites. He played soccer with us, he arranged trips to see soccer matches, he took us ice skating - he was really good, too; whilst we wobbled and fell over he sailed around the ice looking grand. In the summer he even took us on trips to the big city centre swimming pool. On those trips he always had at least two other adults with us; I didn't understand why at first, all that came a little bit later.
When I went up to Secondary School I went to the Catholic Comprehensive but as it was in our parish I still saw Father David at school, he came in to do some sessions in Religious Education, he and some of the other local clergy took it in turns. He told me later that he hated it, he didn't like that sort of teaching.
Things were different at the big school, there were a lot more people for a start and the work was harder - and puberty started happening to us. To be honest I was quite unprepared for this, I was very sheltered at home and sex was a definite taboo subject. I knew that my mother had a very difficult time when she was pregnant with me, not that even the word pregnant was ever used in the house! I knew that she was not able to have any more children, she always seemed to be ill as well. My father was devoted to her and to looking after her and whilst I knew they both loved me I also felt, when I was old enough to start to understand these things, that they also resented me a little, as if it was my fault that mum had become so frail. Of course, although I couldn't see it at the time, this made me more isolated as the hormones hit.
The other thing about the new school was showers! All those nude boys running around and washing themselves - I was in awe of them all and still, for a while at least, I didn't understand why.
Then, just as I was wondering about it all, the big brouhaha broke out about the abuse in the children's homes in North Wales and then there were reports of happenings in the Church in Ireland and in the USA - priests accused of molesting boys. These things were not, of course, discussed at home but I picked up on them from the news and places like that. I didn't understand many of the words used and I daren't ask but a little bit of research and I found out all I needed to know and more. Masturbation, oral sex, anal sex, rape, coaching, buggery, indecency, gross indecency with a minor - all the terms got explained if I looked in the right places. By this time I was 12 years old, my hormones were kicking in, I loved looking at the boys in showers and I adored Father David who was so kind to me.
Practical knowledge of masturbation came soon enough, though I didn't come for a while yet. It was my guilty secret, for a while I thought I was the only one who had ever done it but soon learnt otherwise, just like I learnt the street language about wanking and fucking and licking and sucking and all the other words, many of which I still don't like today.
At first when I was wanking it was just for the feelings but then I started to think of other things, other people . . . the boys in the showers with their willies and balls bobbing about in front of them. Oh, the curve of Peter's buttocks, or the hairs around Martin's dick, or the way Paul flicks the blond hair out of his eyes - and then one night, as I lay there stroking away, I thought how earlier we had played soccer with Father David - oh, the sight of Father David's legs!
That was a new high in the guilt stakes for me. If it was a sin to masturbate, as one of the priests who came and helped with RE said, then surely to fantasise (though I didn't use that word at the time) about a priest whilst doing it must condemn me to eternal hellfire!
One of the major problems with sin, as the church has found to its cost over the millennia, is that it is so darned attractive! It seemed that in Father David I had found an object worthy of my veneration - I was terrified but I was infatuated, this man meant everything to me. And I knew from the news reports that parish priests were doing it all the time with altar boys and choristers and boy scouts. I was determined that if Father David was going to do it with anyone, it was going to be me! I was already devoted to him but now I became obsessed.
“Can I help set up for Mass, Father?”
“Do you want me to stay and help you clear up, Father?”
“I was just passing on my way to the shops, Father. Is there anything you need?”
“Would you like me to wash your car for you, Father?”
“Would you like me to cut the grass for you, Father?”
And then there were the trips to the swimming pool. Father David always changed very discreetly, I was beginning to understand why but I really resented it. For myself I had thrown discretion to the winds. I'd strip off with a boner just in the hope that he'd see and fall as passionately in love with me as I was with him. He soon got the message and made sure he changed at the other end of the room from me - which I think I saw as a challenge!
I stepped up the pressure in the confessional.
“Is it really a sin to masturbate, Father?” I used the proper term, not sure that he'd know the schoolboy slang. He was very generous and didn't condemn me for doing it at all, he just warned me about doing it, doing it, doing it too much. When I asked for a definition of “too much” he glossed over and just said it was bad to become obsessed with anything that takes our mind off God.
A couple of weeks later another question occurred to me.
“Does it make a difference what I think about when I am masturbating, Father?”
“If you were thinking evil thoughts the church would say you were compounding a sin.”
“Well, I know most of my friends think about girls when they are doing it, but I think about . . . erm . . . boys, Father.”
Okay, so I chickened out, I so wanted to say “I think about you and your legs when playing soccer and your bum when you're getting changed at the pool and what your dick might look like if I ever got the chance to see it!”
I also wondered what it might taste like and what it might feel like up my bum if he ever wanted to put it there - and idea both revolting and incredibly exciting to a 12 year old. After my research I knew all the theory and had purloined an old screwdriver with an appropriately shaped handle from the bottom of my dad's toolbox with which I practised assiduously, using mum's handcream as lube. It was agony but if Father David should ever ask me to bite his pillow I wanted to be good and ready, so I persevered and managed it in the end, in my end - and got so I really liked it.
After my confession of gay feelings Father David didn't change his attitude towards me in the slightest. He didn't reject me and, most regrettably, he didn't come on to me either. He told me that the church's official line was that same sex relationships were 'inherently disordered' and that anyway many boys had feelings like that at my age. Some grew up to be heterosexual, others bisexual and others homosexual or gay. He told me that whatever the church might say he believed that God loved all people equally and wouldn’t reject people over things like this.
I can't tell you what a relief that was, but still he made no indication that he wanted a mad, passionate sexual fling with one of his altar boys.
Then I realised I had a rival! Peter of the curvaceous buttocks was another one of the altar boy team and was trying to monopolise MY Father David's time! At the baths I caught him doing the same stuff as me, the poor priest must have been demented trying to escape the attentions of two rising thirteen year olds, as he was trying to find somewhere safe to change.
I was furious with Peter, we had been friends for years, for all our lives, but those days were over, he was my enemy now! We were both quiet, studious boys. Neither of us was particularly academic but we got by, sort of middle of the middle. In fact we were so close academically that we were in many of the same classes, which made things even worse. I soon cottoned on that he felt the same towards me as I did towards him - we couldn't verbalise our rivalry but still one day these two quiet, well-behaved, studious boys picked a fight with one another in the playground. We were evenly matched there as well and had succeeded in giving one another a black eye each by the time we were hauled apart by two teachers and sent to see the Headmistress.
Oh, that caning had still been allowed! It had been banned a few years before so our parents were sent for - they were old friends, of course having been to the same school together years before - and then we were both suspended for three days. Both sets of parents threatened us that if there was a repeat we would not go on the upcoming parish trip to Lourdes, and if we couldn't go then they couldn't go, nor could Peter's brother and sister. Emotional blackmail or what?
Father David heard about it all, of course, and his 'disappointment', for that was the word he used, was probably the hardest thing to bear. He also took us off the altar rota until our black eyes had gone - then he gave us each a pretty stiff penance when we were next in the confessional. I don't know about Peter but I really felt I'd let Father David down.
We behaved ourselves, though we still weren't friends, then it came time for the Lourdes trip. Father David and the two sets of parents had been plotting and informed us that not only would we have to sit next to one another on the coach ride through England and then France we would also be sharing a room when we got there. We were told that we were foolish to throw away a lifetime of friendship and that we were expected to act with a bit more maturity. We were both furious but we had no choice - our parents we might have tackled but the prospect of Father David's 'disappointment' was too much for either one of us to bear.
Worse was in store, though the adults all say this was happenstance and in no way planned, but the room we were given just had one big double bed! We were going to have to be in the same bed together for three nights!
We had thawed a bit towards one another on the trip across France so were on almost friendly terms again but this was too much. That first night we got into bed, each at an opposite extreme edge and didn't even say goodnight. I lay there for a long time wanting to wank but not so Peter knew about it but I was tired after a night and a day travelling so fell asleep whilst still thinking about it.
When I woke in the morning Peter and I were cuddled up together in the middle of the bed and his cock was hard in my hand. I didn't know what to do, if I let go would he wake and think I'd been messing with him? If I kept holding it, and how I wanted to keep holding it, I knew I'd want to wank it then he'd surely know I'd been messing with him. The only thing to do seemed to be to let go, I decided to do it ever so gently, even if it did feel wonderful in my hand.
Ever so slowly I started to let go, to take my hand away.
“Noooo! Don't stop.” It was fierce but hardly more than a whisper. “If you do me I'll do you.”
His eyes opened and his hand moved to touch my dick through my shorts. I think we both sighed together. We threw the sheets back, he pushed my shorts down and I undid his pajama bottoms. We were both hard, both hairless, both eager. I pulled off my t-shirt so I was naked then lay on my side so I could watch him as I wanked him off. It felt wonderful to have someone else's dick in my hand, I marvelled at how silky smooth, how hard and soft it was.
I stroked it slowly at first watching the foreskin slide back and forwards over the head, Peter put a hand on my back and smiled up at me. I speeded up a little. “Hold it tighter,” he whispered. I tightened up a bit and speeded up some more, too. He closed his eyes and gently bit his lower lip then I felt his dick twitch in my hand and he sort of made muffled grunting sounds. I lessened my grip but carried on stroking a bit, I knew what I liked and hoped he did too. He sighed and put his hand down to stop me. He opened his eyes and looked up at me.
“That was awesome, thanks. Now lie down and I'll do you.”
I lay back and put my hands behind my head as he got on his side next to me. He took my dick in his hand and just held it a bit.
“You've got a really nice one,” he said.
“Thanks,” I whispered back and giggled, “so have you.”
He took his hand off my dick and very gently caressed my balls, it felt electric. Then he put his hand back round my dick and started slowly, just like I had with him. I would never have believed that having someone else do it would feel so different, so amazing. He picked up the pace a bit and then the feeling hit me - oh God it was so wonderful! He knew and he slowed down then it got too sensitive and I had to make him stop. He left his hand around it.
“Did I do it right?”
“Peter, it was wonderful, thanks!”
We lay there quietly for a minute or two more then there was a tap on the door and Father David's voice, “Breakfast in ten minutes, boys.”
“Thanks Father, we'll be there.”
It was Peter that came up with the bright idea. “Shower together? It'll be quicker.”
We peed together and showered together, we even washed one another's hair and got down to breakfast only a couple of minutes late.
It was a long and busy day, we were tired by the end. We had kept sneaking glances at one another from time to time and had made sure we sat next to one another whenever possible. We even held hands for a minute in the shrine itself. The five adults immediately concerned were obviously delighted that we were friends again. Father David cornered us at one point, he didn't ask anything, he just put a hand on each of our heads and said “Bless you both.”
As I say we were tired but that wasn't the only reason for our eagerness to get to bed. I know I was hoping for a repeat, and I thought Peter was too. I was right. As soon as we got in the room and locked the door we looked at one another wide eyed - “Do you want to do it again?”
“Oh yeah! Do you?”
I nodded and with no more words we were stripping off. When naked we got into bed and just held one another for a while.
“Peter?” I whispered.
“Can I kiss you?”
To be honest I don't think we were very good at it to start with, but we soon learnt; experience is a great teacher. We kissed, we played, we kissed, we wanked, we kissed some more, we wanked some more - it was a long, tiring, wonderful night. And the next morning, when once more I woke with Peter's lovely dick in my hand, I could play with it as much as I wanted and I knew he wouldn't mind.
I can't remember much about the second day except being inseparable from one another and holding hands whenever we thought we could get away with it, but the third night was another memorable one, it's the one I gave in to yet another temptation, or perhaps the one when I had the courage to pass another milestone in my early sexual career. We were cuddled up gently playing with one another when I had this sudden overwhelming urge to kiss Peter's dick. I kissed it, then I licked it, then I kissed his balls, then I licked them then I took his dick into my mouth. I was a bit worried about doing it, I didn't know if I'd like it, I didn't know if he'd like it. Almost as soon as I started I knew he loved it and for me it just felt totally natural, like the most natural thing in the world, almost as if I'd been born to do it! Funnily enough I wasn't too keen on him doing it to me just then - I brought him off okay, more than okay he told me later, and then I just wanted to hold him and be held; a little later he wanked me off and it was wonderful to be kissed and wanked at the same time. My mum and dad weren't much for hugs and cuddles, they never had been and now I couldn't get enough of being held.
The next morning Father David woke us early as we were to go to a very early mass then get back on the bus and head home. When we emerged all dressed and packed Father David beamed at us, he was happy that we were happy. In a way I was panic-stricken that he knew what we had been doing but I also knew that Peter was, for the moment at least, the most important person in my world, if this was a betrayal of Father David then so be it.
Much of the time we were holding hands on the bus on the way back, with a coat spread across our knees to hide it. Later he was sleeping resting his head on my shoulder. During the night when we were cuddled up together on the seat I checked to see no-one was looking then kissed his sleeping head lightly, he snuggled in and put his arm across my tummy just as Father David walked past. He ruffled my hair and smiled down at us. God bless, he whispered.
I think he was glad that at last he could get some peace.
* * *
Peter and I are still together, it's been 5 years now. We've had our up and downs in that time, one time we didn't speak to one another for a week! We've never really been “out” at school or home but recently, even though we are still a little under-age, we have started going to gay clubs, just occasionally. We sneak a bit of sex when we can and have taken to going off camping together on our bikes whenever we can just to get some privacy. We left school at 16, we did okay but are both more technically minded than academic. Peter is training to be a spark, an electrician, and I am training to be a gas fitter and plumber. In the next few years, if we can afford it, we hope to get a flat together and later, when we have a few years experience behind us, start our own home maintenance business.
As for Father David, he is still our parish priest and he is still the same kind and wonderful man we were both in love with way back then. In a way we couldn't have chosen a better man to look up to. He may never be a cardinal but in our eyes he's already a saint. He invited us to dinner at the presbytery tonight, just the three of us. It was a great evening, simple food and good company. We've been sort of out to him ever since Lourdes although it's never been discussed, even in the confessional. Tonight we sat on the couch in his private sitting room holding one another's hand whilst Father David fixed the drinks and fussed.
Later, as we left, he said “I'm very proud of you two, you're fine young men.” He put a hand on each of our heads, he had to reach up a bit to do it now.
“Bless you both.”
© Mr_Malaprop 2005