Raise the cross, raise the cup

If churches were also whore houses I would go to church a lot more often. As it is, I rarely go. Weddings and funerals, weddings and funerals.

I imagine the women being priests and whores at the same time and as I lay in their gentle embrace they would tell me tales of Jesus and God.

In my moments of ecstasy they would ask me if I repented, if I really accepted the teachings of God and I would scream out, "Yes, yes, YES!"

"Oh, God, I do, oh, sweet God I do."

I picture it kind of like church but also like an IHOP where people come by and offer you pancakes while you're merrily humping. "Can I get you something, sir?" (They would call me sir in spite of the fact that I hate to be sir to anyone.)

"Yes, please. A short stack with a pot of coffee. I have a long night ahead of me."

If doggie style I would place the short stack on the back. If missionary I would dump the cakes onto the chest and eat them with great gusto and slurp with sad debauchery.

The one thing I would never do is stick my penis in a blind hole that had a sign nearby that said, "Cocks go here for salvation" with an arrow pointing to the hole. That's where the Catholic priest sit waiting. Waiting for a host. Waiting for salvation.