Harry´s Blog

In memoriam Monsignor Otto Mauer

The street was almost as narrow as an alley. The widely separated street lamps were just puffs of haze in the darkness and of little help in making out the house numbers. Squinting, I found what I hoped was the right number, stumbled over the shadowy steps, righted myself, hesitated a moment and then rang the bell. I didn’t have to wait long before the door was opened, at first a crack, and then wide enough for me to enter. A bent old lady ushered me in with a grumble. What was remarkable about her were her “garments.” She wore a nun’s habit. This can’t be the place, I thought and made an excusatory motion of exit. But she would have none of it, muttered something Latin perhaps, grabbed me with hard hands and firmly led me into a reception room and sat me down. How can I describe the impression she made on me, not exactly unkind, but reprimanding in a maternal way. At her disappearance I looked around. The room, softly-lit and simply-furnished, gave an impression of absolute cleanliness. The nuns were spick and span. I knew that. The walls were decorated in the expected manner, a crucifix, a print of the Virgin in blue with white headgear and Christ in red and white with bleeding heart exposed.

When the nun failed to return, I rushed back to the foyer and tried the door. It was locked. After fumbling with the knob and lock for a second, I hastily made my way back to the chair I had been sat in. Just in time. The door opened and a priest stood at the threshold and blessed me. As I opened my mouth to make an inquiry, he too disappeared. Aha, I thought to myself, I have accidentally wandered into a mission in the shabby section of town, But why this odd welcome. It was almost as if they had been expecting me. Hadn’t they noticed my clothes? Did I look as if I wanted shelter or a handout? I attributed their mistake to either poor lighting or poor eyesight, I patiently waited for someone to come so that I could rectify it.

Then the door opened again it was neither the priest nor the nun. A young girl stood at the threshold and beckoned me to enter the adjoining room. I gave her a questioning look and shrugged my shoulders. Up went her eyebrows and she flirtatiously beckoned again. I shyly nodded no, and at this she beckoned more vigorously. I noticed that she was wearing a nightgown, a rather scanty one with nothing under it. All that beckoning was bringing her anatomy into marvelous motion and having an effect on me,

With dry mouth, fluttering heart and shaky knees I followed. I found half a dozen young ladies clad for slumber and all wearing crucifixes. I must have wandered into a home for wayward girls. If I were found among these girls there would be trouble. I already saw myself behind bars. The girls gathered around me and acted as if they hadn’t seen a man in quite a while, “Choose,” they chorused. I put my finger to my lips and said, “Shush, what if sister should hear.” At this they tittered and repeated the word “choose.” “What’s the matter, are you afraid of Sister Sadistica?” asked one. They took no notice of my consternation but continued laughing. At least they didn’t seem intent on rape or a gang-bang since they were asking me to choose. I’d choose a girl and then throw myself at her mercy and plead with her to get me out of that place. I picked the girl who had first beckoned to me. She proudly led me to a. room in which there was a crucifix on the wall, a bed, a washbasin, and, of all things, a bidet.

As soon as she closed the door, I asked her to please get me out, but she just shook her head. why had I chosen her if I didn’t like her, she asked. I said I did like her.

Whisk, off went the nightgown, and there she was, clad with only a crucifix. I was petrified (in more ways than one). What a marvelous aphrodisiac apprehension is! To hell with sister, father or the very devil if he happened to be on the other side of the door. She helped me with my clothes (I couldn’t have gotten out of them alone). Buttons and zipper were barricades that I couldn’t have hurdled. It was done before we hit the bed. A shame - over so quickly. After gratification my courage left me. I was trembling as I told her my fear of being found with her. She smiled and stroked my back as if I were a novice and said that it was all right. I should just lie there and relax. She was beautiful I said (trying flattery as a weapon) and that if she helped me get out, I could meet her on the outside.

Then I received the greatest shock of that shocking evening. The door opened and in peered the old nun, the one who had been referred to as Sister Sadistica. But instead of shrieking for the police and setting to my naked backside with her rosary, as I expected her to, she merely asked if everything were all right. My partner cheerily replied that everything was indeed all right. At that, the door closed again. It was necessary for my bedmate to massage me in order to revive me. But it takes more than fear or shock to put a healthy heart and set of glands out of commission. This time happily things lasted a bit longer, and as I was thus preoccupied, I again wondered where the hell I was. Perhaps I was in a special club for sadists who like their sex with a dash of Catholicism. But if that were so, I shouldn’t the young ladies be dressed in habits rather than merely the madam. But as things worked up to a crescendo, I forgot these distractions and concentrated on business at hand.

Afterwards my little bedmate let me rest a while before she asked for a contribution. Under the circumstances, I didn’t mind being generous, and after hygiene had been performed and clothes put on, I was ready to leave. Not less confused, but feeling a lot better, I was given over to the nun who ushered me back into the first room.

The priest appeared promptly, and when I asked him where I was, he gave me an astonished look,
“You mean you didn’t know about us, my son,” he said.

I shook my head.

“So you came to the right place by accident,” he said smiling.

“I certainly have no complaints,” I said. “All I would like is an explanation.

“And you shall have it. Today we are modern. We are, as always, fighting the forces of evil, and our fundamentals haven’t changed. We still oppose promiscuity, divorce, birth control, abortion and self-gratification. But we must be realistic. For the young the Mass has had to be spiced up with jazz and pop music. Hymns sung by hip priests and nuns are on the hit parade. And we have to use the communication and advertising media like any organization. We are, to be blunt, competing. If we stress all the donts, we know that the young generations will be lost to us. Sin is so easy these days. Therefore we must fight evil with Prostitution. Prostitution has always been chastity’s ally.

Since we can’t eliminate it, isn’t it better that we regulate and control it? Isn’t it better for our young men to come to us if they must? And aren’t the girls better off under our aegis than on the streets or being exploited by gangsters? And what brothel can continue to exist when we are in competition?”

I nodded my head.

“You have sinned, my son,” the priest continued. “Would you like to make a confession?

-Herbert Kuhner