Magnificent Vibration by Rick Springfield Page A

physically phucking feasible that she’s a nun. I begin trying to mentally picture her in a black-and-white habit, a small Bible, a crucifix, and prayer beads clutched tightly, reverently in her soft white hands. She’s a nun, for Chrissakes. A nun! Can we please stop where this is going? I imagine her in her robe, cincture, and scapular—I know all the sacred and appropriate terms. She wears a wimple, as torrid beads of sweat begin to pop out and encircle her flushed and almost flawless face. She’s on her knees groaning in ecstasy, her dark tunic hiked up over firm, round, pale buttocks. I am also on my knees, taking her from behind as Woody and I penetrate her untouched, unspoiled, extremely holy places and make her glad she’s a woman. Oh, my God, that’s terrible!I turn off the fantasy in my mind as though it were a brilliant, award winning, super-cool, highly watchable, 3D TV show. Click!

    “I think we should go somewhere a little less crowded and noisy where we can talk, do you agree?” I suggest, trying not to sound like a mass-murdering wingnut cannibal.
    “Okay. I’m open to that,” answers Alice, grabbing her purse off the bar and standing. She is long-limbed and slender but with curves and a pleasant fullness. She is actually wearing a dress that displays her attributes. I am even more perplexed, intrigued and yes, seriously turned on, Bobdamnit!!!
    We leave the bar/club/pickup joint where I didn’t get the pizza I so seriously craved and head off into the well-lit metropolis.
    Out in the relative sanity of the city streets I see she is wearing fairly sensible flat shoes. If she’d been strapped up in high heels I would have had to rethink the whole “nun” thing. She carries herself with a calm confidence and appears completely unaware of her beauty. So that’s a point in favor of her whole story—and then I realize: Whoam I to doubt her ? I told her I’ve been chatting with the Almighty . . . the Almighty Whack Job, I’m beginning to suspect.
    “That’s quite a pick-up joint, that bar. You must have been hit on fairly regularly tonight,” I begin, still trying to drag my reeling imagination out of the cesspool of lust and longing in which it seems happiest to abase itself: it’s always been a difficult task.
    “The ‘nun’ word usually quashes any interest,” she smiles. “Although it seemed to have had the opposite effect on you.”
    I color with the rush of blood to my cheeks.
    “Not really,” I lie. “I felt like I had to talk to someone, and you seemed open to the insane possibility that God had my cell number.” This part is very true, I realize as I say it. “I don’t even know where to begin,” I offer. “Me having a most bizarre conversation with Jehovah, or you, Sister-Inmate-Escaping-Over-the-Barbed-Wire-Encrusted-Convent-Wall as the Mother Superior releases the hounds and busts open the shotgun rack.”
    She smiles at this but says nothing.
    A couple of young guys walk by and toss out a few lewd comments from the safety of the group at this holy, burning-hot bride of Christ, and I think we are all going to hell, we men. Alice hears them but says nothing.
    “Well, let’s start with me, since there’s probably a little less to my story than there is to yours,” she says.
    “Not necessarily,” I suggest. “Now that I’m away from it I’m starting to think I could have just imagined the whole thing.”
    “Okay then, let’s start with you.” She seems fairly affable without any real hint of a hidden agenda, and I’m now pretty much buying into the whole escaping-nun thing. As odd as it seems. But I am hardly the one to talk about odd.
    We pass one of the three thousand coffee bars that crowd each side of the street and I guide her inside, where the warmth and the smell of ground coffee seem to say, “Come on in and have a cozy chat. All your crazy shit will seem much more plausible after a large, skinny, triple-shot, cinnamon dolce latte, served extra