DISCARDED DRAFT DIARY OF A COFFIN DODGER CHAPTER D (1)

CHAPTER D (1)

Und Pippa tanzt Und Pippa tanzt (And Pippa Dances) (1924)

by

Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

ArtVee Public Domain

I strolled across the back paddock of the Reverend's property towards the shed.

Strips of insipid coloured paint peeled off the wooden walls of this building and rusty-brown stripes, like streak marks on a pair of undies, stretched across the pitched corrugated iron roof.

I went for a stroll on the orders of my oldest sibling, the eldest sister. Dear Daddy had appointed her as executor of his will. A position that sent my eldest sister on a power grab.

She had appointed herself the go-to person for legal matters relating to her dear father’s death, his funeral arrangements, and the winding up of his estate.

She and my two youngest sisters were the deluded members of the family. They marinated their lives in cloying views of their darling daddy, living them out by visiting him at his house for birthdays and sharing events like Christmas and Easter with him.

I don’t know what hallucinatory hijinks those three sisters concocted to reconcile their saintly delusion of a darling daddy with his sordid reality. Nor do I care.

I heard about the visits to the Reverend S.B. when I had catch-up meetings with these three sisters at coffee shops somewhere in London during the years after I left the family home.

I had a duplicitous purpose at these meetings. I wanted to gather information strong enough to have the Reverend S.B. arraigned before a court on charges related to his sexual abuse of children.

But the bastard had now died, and the legal pathway had ended.

My eldest sister made no suggestion of a catch-up meeting when she phoned me in the evening before my visit to the shed. Instead, she barked when I answered the phone,

'You are to go to the shed tomorrow, enter it, have a look at its contents, and sort them out...'

She then hung up.

I felt like phoning her back and yelling, 'Get stuffed! You miserable bastard! Do the friggin' job yourself!'

However, as I picked up the phone to return the call, I said to myself, 'There's a way to work this to my advantage,' and put the phone down.

Though pissed off by losing the chance to take the Reverend to court, the contents of the shed offered me an alternative way of dealing with the Revererend. An enticing possibility of finding items to enhance his media presence, but not in a good way.

Keep the media pot boiling, following the reporting about his death in the motel room a couple of months ago. With this thought in mind, I obeyed my sister's orders.

Law enforcement officers had notified the family, via my eldest sister, the day before I visited the shed, that the property was now ours to enter. Hence my sister's phone call.

They told us within minutes of his death as the Reverend lay stretched out on the floor of the motel room, we must not enter the property until they had completed their search of the house.

Law enforcement officers seized the computers, sex dolls, videotapes, children's toys, electronic storage devices, lubricants, and sex toys scattered throughout the rooms of the house. They also discovered a studio in the basement and removed video and sound recording equipment.

I heard about these items and their seizure during a meeting at my eldest sister’s house.

Law enforcement officers had asked us to meet them there a week before they gave us permission to re-enter the property. They wanted to know if any of us knew anything about the items they had seized or the basement studio.

I did not hesitate when I denied knowing about the items, let alone the studio.

I noticed a couple of law enforcement officers watching my deluded sisters when it came their turn to answer the questions.

The sisters hesitated before denying any knowledge of the items or the studio. But, as my sisters said nothing further, law enforcement turned their attention to other family members, who, without hesitation, took the same position as me.

At that meeting, law enforcement officers said they had seen the shed, located across the back paddock, about eight hundred yards from the Reverend’s sanctified mansion of sin, from the back steps of the house.

They said they didn’t need to enter the shed. They had built their case for the crimes the Reverend had committed from what was in the house and from other sources. The contents of the shed were surplus to their requirements.

My deluded sisters, during our meetings in London before the Reverend's death, told me that 'darling daddy' had visited my eldest sister's place many times. These occasions were social visits that occurred as my eldest sister's young daughters arrived home from school. This detail made my skin crawl.

As did staying in my sister's house for longer than was necessary, knowing the Reverend had been there. While my sisters offered refreshments as the meeting broke up, I split. I left a trail of gas across the room as I departed.

I smiled as I strolled across the back paddock on the day I entered the Reverend's property. I recalled the look of disgust on my eldest sister's face as I exited the meeting at her place while tea and cakes were served.

A cheerful memory that gladdened my heart as I reached the shed and looked back over the paddock.

Like the Reverend’s soul, this paddock, between the back of the house and the property's western boundary fence, revealed little that was edifying.

No structures stood between the shed and the house. In Australia I had seen spaces like this paddock littered with car bodies, scraps of metal, tumbled down sheds and sheep wandering between random pieces of machinery.

However, in the Reverend's back paddock, weeds, grass, and brambles sauntered unobstructed by such diverse signs of human and animal enterprise.

On this, my first visit to the Reverend's property, I saw nothing that made me regret not having visited either the house or the Reverend while he was alive. A view reinforced by the Reverend's behaviour towards me and my siblings.

Decades ago, when as a child I lived at the family home, mum attended meetings of various women's groups at the local Arts and Craft Hall. She went to these meetings of an evening once or twice a week.

During her absence, three of the Reverend's mates called at our house.

After they rang the front doorbell, the Reverend let them in and greeted them with jocularity. The sounds of their voices chilled me, a similar feeling to falling into an icy cold snow drift.

With leaden footsteps, us kids, me, my siblings and kids who were sleeping over, none of us older than thirteen, filed into the bathroom.

Before the mates arrived, the Reverend had filled the bath with warm water and laid out nightwear on our beds. 

When the Reverend and the mates reached the corridor leading to the bathroom, the Reverend left the mates lounging in the corridor while the Reverend continued walking to the bathroom. He left the door open after he entered the room.

In the bathroom, he supervised us as we undressed and then washed us as we sat in the bath. I find it difficult to forget the way his hands lingered over my body as he washed me with a washer and soap.

After we stepped out of the bath, we picked up a towel from a chair near the open bathroom door and walked toward the mates.

Who, when we were within arm’s reach, snatched the towels from a child's feeble grip and wrapped the towel around them.

With a child's arms pinned to their sides, a mate kept the towel in place with one hand. The other hand slipped underneath the towel. The mate whispered threats to the quivering child as the mate's hand slithered over the body of the child.

Depraved behaviour by men who had given their lives to Christ during one or other of the Reverend’s come-to-Jesus or burn-in-Hell rallies in the auditorium of the car park cathedral. Abusive behaviour, these mates also inflicted on the children of other church families.

I met these children on a Sunday at the cathedral. They were my childhood friends. We met away from the intrusive presence of adults in a toilet or a storeroom. There we cried and shared hugs as we talked about how we let Jesus down and must love him more.

Because we had not let the light of Jesus shine in our lives, we agreed we had to be punished by these men, sent by God, like Moses calling Pharaoh to account. As church members, these men had committed their lives to Christ and were therefore qualified to be God's emissaries.

On the nights of the mates' visits to my house, as I sat in the bath waiting for the Reverend to wash me, I watched him standing at the doorway looking down the hallway towards the mates.

Mates, who once they moved their hand from underneath the towel they had wrapped around a child, chuckled as they yanked the towel away.

As the child stepped away, the mate used his hand to give the child a sharp slap on the child’s bare backside before dropping the towel on the floor. Where the Reverend picked them up, and took them to the laundry before mum arrived home.

Some evenings, after the Reverend washed me, while bound in a towel by a mate, the mate turned me around to face the open bathroom doorway.

I wanted to keep my eyes squeezed shut and not stare at the Reverend as he stood, with his hands on his hips, in the open bathroom doorway. My eyes though jerked open with shock as I winced in pain while the mate's fingers pinched and squeezed various parts of my body, which, as a child, I was too ashamed to name out loud.

My memory has scars from what I witnessed as my eyes flicked opened.

A sick grin slimed its way across the Reverend's face while a child near me yelped, following a slap. A child who sobbed as they ran naked to a bedroom.

As I grew older and learnt the meaning of words, I used four when talking about the man known as my father: the Reverend Sadistic Bastard.

In our rooms after we fled from the mates, with our backsides stinging, we put on our nightwear and crawled into bed. There I cried myself to sleep, feeling a pain in my soul, my spirit, and my body that time never healed.

The Reverend granted the privilege to the eldest sister of bathing by herself after the other children on every night of the week. On the evening when the mates visited, by the time she went to have a wash, the mates, and the Reverend, had retired to the Reverend’s study.

In the evenings, when mum did not attend meetings of her women’s groups, she supervised bath time. On those evenings, I knew the light of Jesus shone through my life. He had put me in His good books as the mates were nowhere to be seen.

Now, as an adult, I know the mates’ behaviour is down to them.

I have shed the guilt I felt for letting Jesus down as a child. I no longer see the mates as Christ’s punishers but as frigging bastards and the Reverend S.B. as a predatory arsehole.

As an adult, I joined community groups naming and speaking out against the predatory and enabling behaviours of men. I thank Jesus and the God he worshipped for women like my mum. Women who strive to protect children from the enablers and perpetrators of the sexual abuse of children.

I carry a great sadness that a motor vehicle accident several years ago robbed me of my mum’s presence.

I don't feel sad, though, about the physical absence of the Reverend S.B. An absence I welcomed as soon as I, as a young adult, left the family home.

Now I had to re-engage with the sordid bastard’s putrid presence.

But unlike my childhood, the engagement is now on my terms. I have power over him this time round. A power reinforced by the fate of the shed and its contents.

This chapter and the next will narrate what I found in the Reverend’s shed. I will also discuss the slicing and dicing the Jesus Crew did, again, to the life of Mary. A victim/survivor who, along with Joseph and Jesus, worshipped the God with no name, not the God of the Christians.

A God of male-centric values who condones male violence toward girls and women. The Christian’s God who considers women and girls to be chattels of men. The God who agrees with the notion of ownership of women and girls’ fertility rights by the Christian churches the girls and women attend.

The God worshipped by the Reverend S.B. and, for a time, by me.

As a mid-morning sun beat down on the shed while I took a first look at it and studied the latch and padlock securing the wooden door, I wondered what the shed contained regarding Reverend S.B.’s journey with the God of the Christians.

A shed that also contained secrets, I thought. Like the Reverend's clandestine studio in the basement of his house.

Not a small garden shed like the flat-packed ones a DIY store sold. A shed with sufficient space for the Reverend to hide further evidence of his duplicitous nature.

The walls were about nine feet high, with a similar-sized space between the two side walls. And about twenty feet separated the entrance from the back wall of the shed.

Therefore, of a size and a distance from the house to contain whatever the Reverend did not want visitors to his house to see. And if visitors had made their way to the shed, the padlock on the door kept the contents safe from prying eyes.

I looked towards the house, where my three deluded sisters were sorting out the house contents, as I thought about locations for a key to the padlock.

There were no places, like a pot plant, near the shed to hide a key. Or a door mat beneath which a key might lurk. I therefore turned and walked towards the house.

However, as I approached the back steps of the house, leaning against a wood pile stacked to one side of the steps, I saw an axe.

I decided not to enter the house. Instead, I picked up the axe and returned to the shed, where I gave the door several awesome whacks.

After I had belted the door so that it no longer represented a solid wooden edifice, instead its now many pieces spread around the entranceway, I dropped the axe onto the ground and stepped into the shed.

I curled my lips in disgust at the dissolute detritus of a fucked-up life as I gazed along the bench that ran along the unlined, windowless side wall facing the house.

A life lived by a Christian minister and a Gospel preacher.

Piled on the bench were porno magazines and videos, children’s toys, video cameras, and flashguns, cartons of lubricants, videocassettes, empty wine bottles, sex toys, and boxes of a wide variety of condoms.

Mixed in with the garbage that revealed a mind-fucking wallowing in the pits of human depravity were newspapers, church newsletters, ring binders, photo albums, and documents.

The lot lit by timid rays of autumn sunlight stretching out a hesitant light, like the nervous fingers of a child's hand, through layers of dust covering the two windows on the unlined wall opposite the bench and a window that spread across the width of the shed, on the back wall.

I decided not to clean out the shed. I had another idea as I gazed at the flammable nature of the objects on the bench.

With Guy Fawkes Night a couple of months away, I had time to build a bonfire with the shed and its contents as its centre. A fate worthy of the depraved contents of the shed. A bonfire built to keep the media pot boiling by drawing attention to the Reverend's property.

One of these flammable objects, a blood red ring folder, caught my eye as it had the company logo on the cover. It lay beside a soft drink can, one of several I had seen scattered amongst the sordid stuff scattered across the bench.

Out of curiosity, as I had decided not to clean out the shed and therefore, had stacks of time to waste, I picked up the drink can and shook rodent poo off the folder.

While doing so, several business cards and Polaroid snapshots spilled out and drifted onto the floor.

The snapshots were pictures of the penis-bulged Reverend S.B., shirtless, dressed in swimming trunks, posing with semi-naked young women.

I don’t know whether any of these items related to the Reverend’s indiscretion that had him thrown out of the company. Neither do I care.

Shaking my head in disgust, I left the items on the floor.

Taking the soft drink can and folder with me, I walked to a chair standing inside the shed doorway.

After I sat on the chair, I opened the soft drink and sipped it as I read the folder.

The initial sections were about the business practices of the company the Reverend S.B. preached for, which I wrote about in the previous chapter. These sections excluded the involvement of women and girls in the outreach mission of the company.

In the latter sections, however, women and girls were called to serve the Christian’s God and enhance the company's profits through a sexualised mission.

This service came via a prayer led calling from the company’s CEO.

The company's executives proclaimed this man to be a divine vessel into which the God of the Christians had poured spiritual insights based on prayer and the CEO’s reading of the Bible.

Spiritual insights calling on girls and young women to display their vocal talents for Christ.

However, that was not all that these females were expected to display.

Being typical duplicitous, sexual-predators, the men at the head of the company wrapped the CEO’s calling to girls and women into the gift of sound studios set up in each car park cathedral.

In these studios, women, and girls attended singing classes conducted by members of the cathedral’s male choir.

With the teaching completed, the older women joined the women’s choir while pre-pubescent girls and younger women gave solo performances on the preacher’s platform at the front of the auditorium.

Hence, this cohort of females became the focus of attention for the throng of happy clappers in the auditorium.

As the folder spelled out, this focus 'strengthened the steps of older disciples on their Christian journey as they sipped the wine of God's love for mankind.'

These ‘older disciples’ AKA an elderly grandfather or an elderly uncle had the bog-standard heterosexual pornified male mind that flicks into flights of sleazy fantasy whenever these men look at younger women.

When young females stood on the preacher’s platform, these older guys had time to run their seedy Christian sanctified eyes over a pre-pubescent girl’s or young woman’s body.

A strategy that stripped these younger females of their personhood by degrading their worth to nothing more than a consideration of their physicality. A degradation performed by the older blokes in the audience as blood flowed through their loins.

These older blokes had a company blessed opportunity to park a lingering stare on any aspect of a young girl’s or woman’s body that fed these blokes' drooling fantasies.

In other contexts, these older males are called out for what they are: dirty old men.

This de-humanising, un-Christ-like view of younger women, given the imprimatur of male authority by the CEO and executives, created an acceptable Christian environment for those older blokes to mind-fuck the females on the preacher’s platform as a prepubescent girl or younger woman sang her heart out while singing Jesus songs.

Though the company executives coded the language of this section of the folder by dressing it up with selective quotations from the Bible, one word encapsulates it: grooming. Conning the younger women of these car park cathedrals into a display of young female bodies as a lascivious feast for the sin laden imaginations of the older members of the congregation.

As the older guys had accumulated considerable wealth, the opportunity for an unchallenged lingering perv on a bit of female eye candy during a hellfire or Jesus service helped open these blokes’ wallets.

I swore at the depraved bastards who thought that what was in that folder connected with Jesus Christ and the God he worshipped, the God with no name.

Enraged, I stood up and hurled the folder and the can of drink towards the shed’s back wall and turned to leave the shed.

However, I stopped when I saw a sheaf of documents lying on the bench near the doorway. The documents caught my eye as they bore the title 'Sermon on the Magnificat.'

Intrigued, I paused and thought, ‘What the hell is the Magnificat?’

The Reverend had never mentioned this in any of the services he orchestrated in the car park cathedral that I attended.

Again, out of curiosity, I picked up the sheaf of papers, shook off the cockroach poo spread across the top sheet and picked up a can of soft drink.

Taking these items with me, I then returned to the seat by the door.

I sat down and started reading the sheaf of papers as I toasted the bonfires of Guy Fawkes night while drinking the soft drink.

To my surprise, the Reverend was on the same wavelength as me.

Up to a point.

About twelve months before the Reverend S.B.’s death, I was in the Newspaper section of the local library. I picked up a broadsheet newspaper from the rack of papers, put the paper on a table and sat down.

I opened the paper to the non-fiction book review section and read a review of a book with the title, ‘Who was Jesus Christ?’

Amongst the claims in the book, the reviewer of the book mentioned a statement by the book’s author that the Christmas star that shone over Bethlehem was a fabrication.

I muttered, ‘What a load of fucking bullshit!’

When I read that review, I held to the belief that the Reverend drummed into me as a child. As he regarded the Bible as divinely inspired, I must do the same. Some of the Sunday School teachers and youth leaders at the car park cathedral where the Reverend preached took this idea a step further and claimed the Bible was the literal word of God.

But, as I read that review in the broadsheet newspaper, I felt a sense of peace.

Which was weird as the feeling came not from inside me.

As I sat feeling as calm as I have ever felt, I thought I heard a voice whisper, ‘What if that claim is correct?’ I have no other way of explaining how such a fundamental change of gears in my worldview occurred. Because of that feeling of calm, I did not feel frightened or perturbed by this uncanny whispering.

My mind moved to a disturbing consideration because I did not block out the line of thinking that followed.

Creeping through my mind, bringing with it a light whose source I have no explanation for, came the urgent suggestion, 'Well, if that text is a fabrication, what other texts are in the same boat? And if so, what does the phrase 'divinely inspired' mean?'

My attendance at the Reverend's hellfire or Jesus performances in the auditorium of the car park cathedral reinforced that rock-solid belief in the Bible as divinely inspired.

However, my attendance at services after the Reverend got booted out of the company and stopped preaching in the auditorium was sporadic.

He preached for a while in another hellfire or come-to-Jesus set-up, but it was more sedate than the operations run by the company.

I attended a few of these services.

Services held in a plain, unadorned building. The music came from an organist playing a pipe organ.

Only the congregation provided the singing.

The Reverend preached from a pulpit centrally placed at the front of the building's interior. In the centre of the back wall, about halfway up, facing the pulpit, was a large clock. Between the clock and the pulpit, in rows, on hard wooden pews, sat worshippers, never more than a couple of dozen older people.

Sometimes a worshipper, at one or other of the services, stood up, closed their eyes, raised their arms towards heaven and sprouted lines of gibberish. But that was a rarity in the services now conducted by the Reverend.

Without the razzmatazz of the services at the carpark cathedral, the Reverend struggled to get the worshippers enthused, let alone awake. Snores from the small group of worshippers clumped together on the pews in the centre of the church sometimes interrupted his sermons.

Though I still clung to the belief that the Bible was divinely inspired, a point of view from which the Reverend continued to preach, I found the services boring and eventually stopped going.

By the time the Reverend had left the sedate set-up, a few years after starting there, and began preaching at a mainstream Protestant church, I had left the family home and did not attend any of his services.

My belief in the Bible as divinely inspired, though, remained a bulwark against life’s ambiguities.

A bulwark I was prepared to defend. Attested to by many fiery arguments, over the years, with house-mates in the houses we rented. House-mates who were on a one-way ticket to hell with the innumerable blasphemies and heresies they sprouted as they attacked my spiritual barricade, or so I believed.

A spirituality I joyfully displayed as I read the Bible in the living rooms of the houses I shared with them while they smoked joints and read mind-corrupting, Marxist-ungodly inspired texts. Books and articles they claimed were needed for the essays they were writing or the university lectures they were preparing.

Though, for whatever reason, I had drifted away from regular attendance at church services, I kept the lamp of Christ’s forgiveness burning in my soul by whistling Gospel songs as I went about the house chores assigned to me by my house-mates. Whistling that led to bevies of insults. Abuse, which I prayerfully and gladly accepted as I regarded it as martyrdom for Christ’s sacrifice for me.

However, that change of gears in my mind as I sat reading that newspaper book review in the library shook my thinking.

I blew that bulwark of the Bible, being the divinely inspired word of God, (as well as any lingering ambiguity over my Sunday School teachers' and youth leaders' viewpoint), to smithereens.

A new chapter in my life opened up as I began a faith journey with the Jesus Christ, who broke bread with women and men in Galilee and the God he worshipped, the God of no name.

After the Reverend’s death, as I now sat inside his shed, I stared into space and pondered what I had read in the Reverend’s sermon on the Magnificat.

I had stopped reading the sermon in a state of shock and placed it back on the bench.

The Reverend had moved, as I had, to a position where he was critically appraising the Bible’s texts and not considering the Bible as the divinely inspired word of God.

In the pages of the sermon, the Reverend used biblical texts, with their beauty and ambiguity, as the basis of his sermon.

Further, not once had he used the phrase, ‘The Bible says,’ to provide those texts with an imprimatur of male authority.

A far cry from how that mantra figured in the Reverend’s sermons he preached in the car park cathedral’s auditorium where he proclaimed,

‘The gutters reek with the sins of the iniquities you are breeding in your beds. Turn or burn. Listen to the Word of God. The Bible says all ye who….’

And variations thereof he thundered in the hellfire or Jesus shakedowns that were a hallmark of his preaching style at the car park cathedral.

That style of preaching was so far removed from what he had written in the sermon and a sermon he preached, going by the date at the top of the sheaf of papers, in the mainstream Protestant church, which did not have a history of conducting turn or burn performances, I thought, what the hell is going on?

Had the Reverend S.B. stopped being depraved and conniving?

Had he removed his mask, and his public persona now reflected underlying values and attitudes that no longer expressed a mindset focused on the sexual predation of children? Unlike most men, had he renounced violent intrusions into the lives of women and girls as markers of his life journey?

Then a blaze of clarity, like a light bulb switching on in my mind, shone a scorching beam on the Reverend's hypocritical shenanigans.

My blood ran cold at the Reverend’s sneakiness and treachery.

Like scores of men throughout the world, the mask was immovable, and what lay underneath remained a cesspit of violence towards women and girls. With the Reverend, this violence bore the sickening, slimy moniker of 'sexual depravity.'

My arms started shaking.

Frightened I might drop the drink, I put the can on the bench.

Everything fell into place.

I looked around the shed and wondered how on earth did I give serious thought to the idea that the Reverend had changed?

The Reverend had never undertaken the journey that Joseph took which transformed Joseph's life.

Like millions of men across time and cultures, the Reverend had never answered the call of the God of no name to cease his violence towards women and girls. Like most men, he had never experienced the liberating power of transformed relationships with girls and women, as Joseph did in his relationship with Mary.

As my gaze wandered over the piles of perverted filth lying on the bench, I saw that the Reverend S.B.’s journey with the God of the Christians in the mainstream Protestant Church continued to be lit by the guiding light that never flickered: access to girls. And, with access gained, he sexually abused them.

I shook my head and thought the fucked-up Reverend S.B.’s sanctimonious parroting of a so-called Christ filled life knew no limits.

When the company sacked the Reverend S.B., he lost access to the girls who attended the car park cathedral.

His sermon on The Magnificat showed that, by his ordination into the ministry of a mainstream Protestant church, he was prepared to do anything, say anything, accept any Christian church’s protocols and carry out any of those churches spiritual rights and practices if it meant girls were again within his reach.

I don’t know why he left his preaching position at the more sedate hellfire or Jesus church.

Maybe the group that ran that church also asked the Reverend to leave.

Or perhaps the girls in that church were too bony, had acne, weren’t the right height, weren’t plump enough, or had moved into an age group where the girls lost their appeal to the Reverend S.B.

The sort of opinions I heard whispered in the conversations I overheard the mates having between themselves as I drew near to them when I was younger than thirteen.

As a child, I didn’t know what those blokes were talking about as they stood in the hallway outside the bathroom, ogling the children who walked towards them. Children whose tiny hands held towels by which they covered their bodies from the mates' intrusive stares.

As the mates' conversations were a puzzle, they stuck in my child's mind.

As an adult, however, I unravelled their sickening meaning.

I don’t know, and I am not looking for, what the Reverend’s foul, girl’s-life-destroying preferences were.

Possibly, the preaching in the mainstream Protestant church broadened his chances to explore those preferences after he left the more sedate turn-or-burn congregation. However, only he, those who enabled the Reverend's sordid lifestyle and the God of no name knows.

Men designed and implemented the few checks and balances put in place in faith-based organisations, companies, or cults designed to protect the souls, the spirits, and bodies of girls, women, and male children.

Men who will not look into their dark souls and confess to themselves how the throbbing power of their phallus seeds their minds with fantasies when a control-driven lust-drenched opportunity presents itself to abuse their positions of compassion, accountability, and trust to access a warm hole, either female (or male).

A few of these heterosexual men may resist that power.

But the majority will find it hard to resist the seductive call of that power when their dick's focus of attention zeroes in on an opportunity to dance inside a young, fresh female’s warm hole.

By not recognising this power, these men look for a cause for the sexual abuse of children beyond themselves and other men.

The regulations they, therefore, write, with their ‘not me or him’ attitude towards this heinous abuse of ecclesiastical authority, are riddled with loopholes. The sort of regulations a truck could be driven through regarding dealing forcefully with the clerical abuse of children.

The inadequacy of these regulations, with their compromised checks and balances, means that the sexual abuse of young women and girls is undertaken by men, like the Reverend S.B., who will mouth whatever words are necessary to whatever religious leader or congregation in whatever faith-based organisation those men determine will give them faith-based and therefore, society-enabled guaranteed access to girls and women.

A sickening smooth, well-practised over centuries exploitation smeared with the veneer of social prestige that goes with being a cardinal, a bishop, an associate pastor, an apostolate, a preacher, a pastor, a lay preacher, an elder, a seminarian, a brother, a presbyter, a minister, a priest, a monsignor, an abbot, a monk, a deacon, an archbishop, or a pope.

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