Catholic Chicks … Holy Christ Good God Almighty. While they were busy praying I got busy preying on that notorious Catholic guilt and let me tell you, it’s no myth. The Jews may have invented the concept of guilt, but Catholics took it to a whole other level. As a self-proclaimed prophet once told me while in the grips of a three-day whiskey bender at the Uptowner (and what a place to acquire wisdom that down and out joint is), “Jews feel guilty about letting down their mothers while Catholics only worry about disappointing God.”
The trouble with damn near every Catholic dame I’ve ever dated is that they really like sex. And I mean a lot. But sooner than later that goddamn guilt kicks in and they send you so many mixed signals you’d swear you had spent the night in a blender. I think maybe it’s bred into their DNA or something.
My first serious girlfriend was a raging Cathoholic from Dutch descent and Oh My God, what a blond, blue-eyed bombshell of a teenage beauty she was, a real show-stopper. Imagine Tuesday Weld at 15 and you’re close. Now add my 17-year-old love/lust to the mix and no lie, this little 103 pound sex kitten had me foaming at the mouth like a rabid wolf-hound. She kept me so goddamn tweaked out I almost converted just to get in her pants sooner. I knew I was in way over my head but at that age it’s a blowout – your hormones win every single time. Believe me, being in love with Kathy Van Tiger was kind of like wading into a gang fight with a butter-knife when everybody else is packing chainsaws.
I probably should have married the little vixen but I wasn’t the marrying kind. Matter of fact, I’m still not. So when I packed off to Truman State University in nearby Missouri to major in getting stoned with a minor in co-eds, it didn’t take Katie long to find a more suitable and stable replacement – honor student, son of a college history professor, Hitler youth handsome and even a conference champ varsity wrestler. Katie and Kurt, ‘til death do them part. He was such an all-around good guy I couldn’t even muster up any hatred for the bastard. Now semi-retired, he and Katie recently bought a small farm outside of Omaha with their four perfect children.
In the summer of ‘06, stuck in my hometown helplessly watching my mother wither away from cancer, I would drive past Katie’s old house on East Warren every damn day, even though she hadn’t lived there for almost 30 years. One night, I managed to procure her phone number from a mutual friend and called her out of the blue. She sounded exactly the same – a voice like velvet and the laugh to match. I resisted the urge to get all mushy and nostalgic.
I almost worked up the nerve to ask her if she ever thought about those coming of age sessions of heavy-petting out on County Road K, but I’d bet my Mt. Pleasant Panther football jersey (#3) that she does. I know I sure as hell do. We even had a regular Friday night routine. Unless I had a ballgame, I’d pick Katie up at 7:30 sharp and we’d head straight north on U.S. Highway 218 to Ernie’s Tap in Ainsworth Junction and get trashed on whatever putrid swill Ernie was trying to phase out of his already pathetic inventory. At 40 cents a draw, we could get wasted on about 8 bucks. Ole Ernie’s serving policy was a simple one – if you had some dough in your jeans you were golden. Better still, he never cut us off.
I had to be home at 11:30 p.m. senior year because I was on probation for robbing a corner grocery store, a caper that went wrong from the start. One day, right before our big game against the much hated Oskaloosa Indians, the cops came to practice and hauled me away and the jig was up. So Katie and I were always racing the clock on our dates. Our mobile motel was my mom’s pristine ‘67 Mustang convertible with bucket seats and an ultra-obtrusive automatic T-shifter on the floor right between us. The space limitations were annoying as hell but we were like a couple of circus contortionists. On the rare occasion when I could con my dad into forking over the keys to his Cadillac, we always felt like we had a suite at the Hilton.
After slamming one more for the road, speeds to our private pit of passion were usually in the 90-105 mph range. Mustangs of that era had seriously twitchy handling once you got them up around 80 and as drunk as I usually was, I can’t believe I didn’t kill us both. Poor Katie would turn ghostly-white with fear but for me high-speed danger and sex were practically the same thing. There never seemed to be any cops around and, besides, driving drunk in Iowa back in the ‘70s was like a badge of honor and almost nobody ever got popped. As the kisses got hotter and the windows got steamier, my roving hands were like an octopus. Katie was a good Catholic girl but the lust and the booze trumped her guilt every time. Only then were we free to succumb to the taboo temptations of Christ.
The very next afternoon, there I’d be, faithfully sitting on the steps of Saint Alphonsus Church chain smoking stale Pall Malls while my sweet Katie was inside spilling her guts in the dark to some half-drunk priest who was more than likely fantasizing that she was a HE.
But what did I care? I was raised Presbyterian and as near as I could tell, we didn’t stand for a goddamn thing. Then Katie would emerge looking radiant and refreshed, her spirit now cleansed by God and a couple dozen Hail Marys. We were cool to sin all over again. Guilt-free. So we did. Amen.
