R27 The Profane Mardi Gras Annual pre-lenten sacrilege training to indoctrinate seminarians. "There is one day each year, when the only thing sacred is Satan himself." Endless partying. Carnival. Mardi Gras. It is known as a time for `no-holds barred' public celebration in the spirit of total sexual abandonment. It is a time to celebrate an orgy of the flesh, to encourage drunken excitement, to celebrate man's basest sexual instincts, to sin `til you drop, to embrace all manner of perversion. Seminary Sacrilege Training The indoctrination is given by Brother Aloysius, a fallen monk with wicked carnal knowledge. "My chaste sons, fathers, priests, brothers and virtuous seminarians. Today the seminary reverses fields for 24 hours and begins a rigorous cock and mind indoctrination. This is to prepare you for the dark side lust and riotous sex partying on Fat Tuesday, the last day before the first day of Lent. For one day we abandon chastity and modesty, replacing them with our most secret sexual desires to their farthest extreme. We expose the hidden perversions and blasphemies of the soul known secretly to most men. We share our darkest nature and our hardest cocks with friends, and strangers also bearing huge cocks. We climb naked onto the Cathedral altar and stand before our brothers and the gilded tabernacle doors. For this day only, the rule is for selfish, self-centered sex, Albolene and poppers. We suck and beat off to pornography, which is now our scripture." Busload after endless busload of religious college students mix their semen with ours on the slippery marble altar, among maniacal screams for Satan to show himself and join this orgy of lust." For today, the profanity on Bourbon Street becomes our bible verses. Satan rules all cock and becomes our god. Wickedness rules. We swill our whiskey and sell our souls to the gods of cock pleasure. Today we explore our spiritual thirst and lustful hunger. We realize the miracle that our lustfulness combined with our spiritual thirst are two sides of the same coin. I ask you now, my seminary fathers, sons and brothers, to slowly disrobe. This is the end of the beginning. So be it. THE FAT TUESDAY RITUALS Nine PM: Three hours to go. Fat Tuesday. The hour of the blackest dream, between the darkness and the dawn. A curl of Satan smoke hangs suspended above a hundred glass pipes, and drifts within the sanctuary space. Rows of monks and friars and hermits and brothers and seminarians; of older priests in black satin robes; hundreds of young jockstraps, straining to hold their cum burdens aloft. All deeply inhale and settle into thoughts of perversion. Satan courses throughout their veins for the first time. He is welcomed with deep sighs of profanity. Hail Satan! Enter and corrupt me as you will. Parades pass closer, louder and happier. Masturbation swells the Sodom streets, beating, stopping, starting, blowing air ropes. In some parades, all hell explodes from drunken revelers, blessing clergy and laity with crucifixes large and small dripping holy water. Immense, imaginary cathedral doors flung wide just three hours short of midnight. The stench of Burbon Street . Sweat, booze, cum... become's a lover's perfume in the hours of the frenzy. The freak parade. The Satyr's dream. The ultimate collision of the Church with her greatest bacchanal. Cock lust explodes upon the night in a marriage of sexual and spiritual union. For the moment the Goat reigns supreme
ready to implode within itself upon the witching hour. Within the glowing temple, Albolene penises morph to Priapus God Cocks. Who among us controls the sweet bate addiction? Gangs of feckless boys and giant leather men suckle priests into divine submission. Perfect cocks cradled in the hands of the beautiful and the gifted. Ten PM: Two hours to go. The battle of Sodom and Gomorrah rages in the Big Easy. Men in fitted togas living out the oxymoron. Each gay pub sports a tray of jewel-encrusted chalices, overflowing with bread and whine (sic). Sacramental semen on the shiny, slimy, lacquered bar... as if it were the altar of God the Cockstar. Anointed Lust. The Volcano of Cum. The Monastery. Gleaming marble floors slippery with thick ropes of cum. Seminarians freed by the hundreds from their cells, shooting their princely batter over and over with any and all comers. The sweet smell of poppers overwhelms the pungent incense. Priests pack every confessional, giving absolution for sins still in the making. Suck, jerk, cum on the novice initiated by a priest on the marble floor. Hear him beg to suck the crucifix and scream for his perverted fantasies. He sells his twisted soul so that he may better sin. Calling out to tear apart his mind, heart and cock with lust. Eleven PM: One hour to go. I beg to learn each twisted mindless sin, for sin now owns my cock. More and more, oh God take steady control of my mind. "I SELL MY PRIESTHOOD, MY SOUL. I GIVE MYSELF TO THE ONE, HOLY, CHURCH... WHERE COCK IS GOD, MASTURBATION OUR TRUE RELIGION, CUM THE HOLY COMMUNION, OUR SIGN OF THE CROSS IS MASTURBATION, AND PORNOGRAPHY OUR HOLY SCRIPTURES." Reflections dance from stumps of purple candles for the blackest mass. On golden tabernacle doors and the one, gleaming altar of his gleaming Dresden thighs. Reclining on the sacred altar, the ultimate gift... my surrender. Selling my soul was worth the price. A cyclone in the mind, glossy flesh trembling for the unknown. "HERE. HERE TONIGHT WE CORRUPT. BRING ME THE FAIREST SEMINARIAN, THAT HE MAY BE INDOCTRINATED INTO THE SACRAMENT OF THE FAT TUESDAY DEBAUCH." The sweat, the sight of men sliding down the taut ripples of my belly, giving refuge in the endless flow of sweet clear liquid. My precum ooze, the eternal ejaculation. The endless god-lube fluid of my shaft. The liquid gold that glides me through the blinding light of lust, inside the darkest night. My mind is now delivered unto him who knows us every man and what he needs. Midnight. The lust is smote in an instant by the penance of a newborn Lent. The mind stirs, a mighty power rebuking its own thoughts, not knowing between the truth and dreams. It suffers the dismay, the faint embarrassment of a bacchanal gone beyond its prime that has overstayed its welcome. POOF! The dream is gone, disappearing like a vapor. Gliding like some wounded Titanic from hell, into the blackness, slipping swiftly into the watery abyss as each remaining light recedes. Lifeboats drift away and disappear, unoccupied, unneeded. All is vanished. THE BIG EASY. ASH WEDNESDAY. A BLACK SMUDGE ON EVERY CHASENED FOREHEAD. REMEMBERING A DAY THAT MAY HAVE NEVER HAPPENED. ETERNAL LUST THAT NEVER WAS EVAPORATES. FORTY DAYS AND FORTY NIGHTS SLIP GENTLY ONTO OUR SHOULDERS. THE TIME FOR PENANCE ARRIVES AND SLIIPS INTO OUR SOULS. Silence reigns. The cycle repeats.
