Tasteful, Down-Country Lovin’ of the Papacy: My Erotic Experiences with a 2-Inch Tall Pope Sixtus IV (Episode 1)

Features | November 29, 2017

It all started from the moment I was born. Exiting the birth canal I spotted him upon a gilded gondola, a sexagenarian figure in rose-colored vestments. Having no understanding of the English language, I tried my damndest to call to him.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA,” I cried, flexing my small, sausage-like fingers toward the man. Alas, my cries and shouts went unanswered. Pouring out of the womb I was left with the unmistakable image of the short, stocky man, playfully adjusting his sanguine zucchetto.

I went through the whole of my childhood with the image of the elderly man, sumptuously hiding his pustule-covered arms by placing them behind his back. It was only at the tender age of 45 that I would see him again. At that point in time, I was working as a certified public accountant for the lumber industry, tabulating the number of splinters that went into workers’ buttocks in order to charge them for this small indiscretion. Yes, they truly was the most lucrative client I had, and I was living large because of them. I’m talking about a wrought-iron bed, wearing black leather chaps to work, drinking peach bellinis out of plastic bags, and even owning a sizable collection of ridged potato chips carved into the shape of various fly-over states. At the time, I truly felt like I had it all. It was only in watching Mass for Shut-Ins that I came to remember the small visitor I had during my first moments of life. Just as soon as he had appeared, he had gone from my life, and remembering this I threw my drink to the floor, flooding the starchy state of Minnesota in the process.

Through my tear-filled, baby blue eyes he appeared before me, albeit a whole lot smaller than I had remembered him. “Stop this at once,” he cried from atop my precariously stacked coffee table books, “It is I, your womb-sharing friend, returning to engage in your company yet again.”

Could it be? The pint-sized papal figure, coyly holding the lace-covered edge of his tunic, here to visit in my time of need? Awestruck, I instinctively embraced the pale, malnourished man with the soft palm of my hand.

“Gruhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I sloppily quipped. **I must make note here that during times of great stress, I instinctively clung to the grunts and shrieks that I had creatively employed in my boyhood to dissuade potential love interests** “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Looking at me with his cataract-covered, bedroom eyes, he replied, “I see you haven’t changed a bit.”

Stay tuned for more, you horny scoundrels. Yet another misadventure of James Brungus C.P.A. will be here before you know it!