A Word About Nuns.

So….Catholic Nuns, then. 

I saw and experienced a range of nuns from the fairly young…..say, late 20s, to the ancient and wizened….let’s say upwards of 70. 

Now, entering the cloister, or taking the veil, isn’t a quick process. It starts with being an inquirer, then an  aspirant, then a postulant  then novice, followed by being a junior sister, (for at least five years) then a Solemnly Professed Sister which is, theoretically, for life. It can take 11 years to get through the process. 

The stage at which they start living as nuns - including celibacy - seems to vary a little Order by Order, but starts for sure at. Postulant. 

Now…..imagine if someone told you that as of now….right this second…that was it. No more sex. Not even masturbation, but you had to confess sometimes in front of the whole community every sexual thought you had…and if you fell from your promise and actually masturbated. 

The most primal, basic urge is denied, and yet……

Perhaps that’s why some (most?) of them become somewhat hostile when dealing with a group of hormonal, horny adolescent girls…and boys. They know what it feels like since that’s what they felt like, and some of them still feel like.

I do wonder though….how honest are they? I mean really. What if, (and don’t laugh) I was a nun? I’d given my life to God, had gone wherever the Order sent me, done whatever work they trained me for….teaching…nursing….whatever….would I, I wonder, think that a quick fiddle in my cell at night was ‘medicinally necessary” for the good of my mental health? 

A couple of younger nuns come to mind. Now, the ‘proof’ I have is circumstantial although there is the tiniest bit of physical proof as well. Nuns have names bestowed on them when they take their final vows. The Bishop (who, remember is also Catholic and supposedly celibate) gets to run his gnarly hands through the hair of young women and in so doing he gives them a biblical name. Sister Margaret…..sister Michael…..sister Assumpta…..etc. So, Sisters Michael and Beatrice then. 

Sister Michael must have been an ‘inquirer’ in her mid teens. She was by far the youngest ‘full penguin’ I ever met. She was fresh-faced, wide eyed, and actually a real laugh. Plus, under that black habit, I was fairly sure was a really attractive body. 

And that’s not all. My sense of smell is highly attuned. And I mean highly attuned. Schroedinger’a cat wouldn’t have worked on me for a second. I could have told instantly whether the cat was dead! Anyway, as I knelt in the chapel for mass, I had received communion (probably sinfully) and Sister Michael was standing in the line next to me. I smelled vagina…pussy…cunt…quim…whatever you want to call it. Clear as day! And it wasn’t mine. Each little movement wafted a little more of her intimate scent my way. Oh it wasn’t strong by any means, but it was definitely there. No doubts. No questions. Sister Michael was either a) very, very wet, or b) going commando that day with a possibility of c) both! 

You will never see an erect nipple on a nun. The heavy underclothes and the habit make sure of that, but when Sister Michael talked, as she had to, about masturbation, you could see the colour come to her cheeks and if you looked carefully, the dilation of her pupils, and nostrils. There was no doubt whatsoever - she got turned on talking about this, and she talked about it frankly and openly. Oh she gave the standard company line about masturbation being a sin that “…makes the Virgin Mary weep, because it once again crucifies her blessed son, and nails him to that infamous gibbet.” All the nuns that did sex Ed used that exact same line so it must have been ‘company policy’, but while Sister Assumpta almost vomited as she talked about it, Sister M. did it with a totally different undertone to her voice, almost “Girls, you simply must try this!” Better than getting knocked up, I suppose. 

Nuns don’t wear makeup…or nail varnish, of course. Sin is everywhere, and vanity is right up there with the best of them. Now, I can’t be 100% sure about this, but it happened more than once. I saw Sister M kept one fingernail much shorter than the others. The middle finger of her right hand was trimmed down as far as she could get it. I not only noticed this, but a couple of times, I’m sure I saw the nail shinier than the others. Dried cum? Maybe. I am certain, however, that sometimes she left a very familiar scent on my workbook when she marked it. 

The nun we nicknamed ‘Sister Jiggler.” 

Another thing you won’t see a nun do is cross her legs. It seems that’s a no-no, and I’m sure it’s taught at nun school. If so, it was a lesson lost on The Jiggler. During the year they described how to have sex proper (within marriage, of course, and only for procreation to breed more little Catholics.) we, evil bitches than we were, bombarded this poor nun With the most indecent questions we could think of. 

“Yes, Sister, but which hole?” “Does it go all the way in, Sister?” “What if I don’t cum, Sister…is that a sin?” We’d also drop the occasional dirty word in…or part of one. “But when my husband fu…..er….makes love to me Sister, and I d don’t feel like orgasming, is it a sin if I touch myself?” We were total bitches, coming out with this to a nun who had almost no class control, for one thing, and who was clearly becoming aroused.

The first sign would be her sitting behind her desk…a huge oak thing that had two columns of drawers either side of a gap through which we could see her knees. Then she’d cross her legs, and slowly, at first, you’d see the foot start to jiggle. As it picked up pace, along with us getting dirtier if not by actual word, then certainly by suggestion and imagery “Do we have  to do it Missionary, sister….can we do it on all fours?” So her foot would bounce ever higher and ever faster. Her face would colour up and her breathing would deepen. 

Three times during that year…..only three times, we reduced this poor nun to a spluttering, gasping wreck, was it coincidence that after a bout of spluttering and gasping her foot stopped it’s jiggling, and she ‘calmed down.’? I have absolutely no doubt that we made this young nun orgasm. We had one girl in the class who was much bolder than the rest of us and …..

…hey, wait. You need to know this first. The nuns always said that during ‘intimate classes’ we could use them as mini-confessionals. Outrageous, of course, since nuns aren’t allowed to hear confessions - or bestow absolutions - but that’s what they said.

Anyway, this girl “Alice” was so much bolder. She would talk about her feeling…and her actions openly, and with the sole intent of making Sister Jiggler get all flustered. “Sure, sister, sometimes, I get so wet down there, an’ I just can’t help myself. There’s a little button thing there, Sister, an’ when I touch it, sure doesn’t it send little shockwaves through me? Surely Our Lord wouldn’t have given me somethin’ designed ter make me sin, sister?” Alice would then treat us to a vivid description of what she does in bed at night. This used to drive Sister Jiggler crazy, and we all looked forward to when Alice would rise from her seat with another instalment of depravity. 

So, maybe Sister Michael had decided that sex with herself was ok. Maybe Sister Jiggler had decided that as long as her hands didn’t touch herself that was fine too…..which leaves the rest of them. Now, I know what it’s like to deny myself sex. I’ve tried it…for a week….and it turns me into one unpleasant snappy bitch. What it must be like dealing with a group of people who, you absolutely know, are wanking themselves to oblivion every night, and some of whom are fucking as well while you, clit tingling, cunt leaking as it may, must not only not do anything about it, but must actually confess it as a ‘sin’, well, how awful is that?

During my week of serif-imposed celibacy, I became very angry. Angry to the point of wanting to inflict pain….and I wonder….is that what’s behind the cruel acts of Orders like The Christian Brothers, who were known for beating their students for the smallest infraction? Or the unspeakably cruel way certain Orders of nuns dealt with pregnant single mums…and their babies. 

I have a theory that this energy…..this primal need, if not directed were nature (and God?) meant it to go, will manifest itself elsewhere. We have seen sexual abuse rife in the church, and I wonder if it isn’t avoidable. Interestingly, it is way less prevalent in branches of religion where priests can marry. Just a thought. 

Sometimes, I’d go home and lay on my bathroom floor imagining I was Sister Michael. I bet they have a prescribed method of undressing for bed at night so they’re never naked. But I would imagine Sister Michael in her bed, her clit throbbing and, slowly, darlingly, spreading her legs wide. Reaching down and spreading her swollen, moist lips, releasing her hard bud of a clit, and then gently circling it with that middle finger of her right hand. Did she, I wonder, venture inside herself? Perhaps her fantasies were of men, perhaps women…perhaps even us? Whatever….I’d imagine the candle light in her cell, and sometimes, I’d picture than candle being put to other uses than illumination. I’d imagine her cumming hard and desperately trying to do so silently.

But the best part for me was that after she’d orgasmed, I always imagined her smiling secretly to herself in her little cell. A naughty, secretive, self-satisfied smile. None but she would ever know….

…she, and one highly observant student, with a truly outstanding sense of smell.