1
The Iglesia de Santa Rosa was as old as the poverty that plagued its neighborhood, and it had space for only a small congregation. But every Friday night the benches were filled by the local faithful, often an hour or more before the eight p.m. service. Even on the warmest summer evenings mothers and husbands, their dirty and ragged children arranged between them, filled the seating inside the airless chapel. Late arrivals stood along the side aisles—nearest the small fans mounted high on the walls—or in the rear where space was the most crowded. Some drank from small cartons of locally produced lemon water, from the kitchens of the boys and girls who outside had started to earn a meager living from the sales of refilled juice cartons, used plastic fans, and handkerchiefs, most washed and recycled from last week's trash.
No matter the heat—or sometimes the cold—no one complained, not even those standing in the rear where the air never moved. Everyone stood or sat quietly, but not in anticipation of the holy word from Father Arturo, whose sermon they would hear again on Sunday. (Friday was the padre's unofficial rehearsal service.) No... the Friday congregation came to hear the choir.
Twelve women and seven men formed the Friday choir. Each of them sang in the chapel on other days or evenings—the choirs of Sta. Rosa were an informal collection—but Friday was the only service that brought these singers together. The congregation's devotion to these nineteen angelic voices outshone their devotion to salvation, or so said the alarmed Fr. Arturo, and it was he who discouraged them from coming together more regularly.
On this Friday the choir had only eighteen members sitting in the chancel. Valencia, a pretty but not beautiful woman in her mid-thirties, was absent. The congregation noticed. Everyone in the chapel knew all the singers well. Faces became concerned. At just a few minutes before eight, from within the crowded benches, a murmur began to stir, until it grew to a buzz. "Where could Valencia be?" was asked by half of those gathered. The other half, without answer, only worried in silence.
Then Valencia arrived. Without apology or fanfare she entered the side door bashfully and took her place just as Fr. Arturo was about to enter the chapel. The sigh of relief that rose from the benches annoyed the priest, but as all minor things did this thought soon left his good-natured mind. The Friday evening service would go on as usual. Even Fr. Arturo noticed that he, too, was relieved.
Irene, among the oldest of the choir members and seated next to Valencia, leaned in to her and whispered.
"Len, where were you?"
"I can't tell you," Valencia whispered back. And after a brief pause she finished. "Here."
Irene look puzzled.
"I can't tell you HERE. But later, okay?"
Irene nodded. She was ten years older than Len, which was why she never called the younger singer by her proper name. Despite the difference in their ages, they were the closest friends in the choir. The country's rigid social rules for older and younger friends they never applied to one another, and their sisterly bond grew stronger and more carefree with each year. They had been singing together for five years now, and neither cared to recall what church or life had been like before they met.
After the service, after Fr. Arturo finally got the weeping but joyful congregation to break its spell and leave, Len and Irene left together. Walking toward Irene's home, where they ate a late dinner every Friday, Irene pressed for information.
"You've never been late for Friday service. Why tonight?"
Len did not hesitate.
"I met someone."
Nor did Irene hesitate in reply.
"What?"
"Ha! Ha! I did! I met someone."
Irene stopped walking. Len turned back to take her hand. Irene wanted to talk.
"You met a man? Wow! Tell me everyth-"
"Not here. I'll tell you at home."
The two women turned quickly hurried along the road as if a fire awaited them and needed their attention. Anyone with a window open along the road would have heard them both giggling, as they skipped by like school girls.
2
Len was seated in the worn out cushion chair near the window when Irene brought a tray of small sandwiches from the kitchen. She had prepared them quickly and silently, eager to hear about Len's date but wanting to be face to face when they talked. She went back to the kitchen and brought out two glasses of cold lemon tea. She set them down on the chipped and scarred wooden coffee table and sat herself down on the sofa, facing Len, who was already eating.
"Does he have a giant cock?"
Len put a hand over her mouth so she wouldn't spit out her food. With her mouth still full she pretended shock.
"Hey!! Ha! Ha!!"
Both women laughed loudly until Len swallowed and broke in again.
"YES! HA! HA!"
They laughed even louder. Irene made large eyes and managed a loud "Mmmmm!" and they laughed more still.
"How big?"
Len's eyes widened.
"BIG! Ha! Ha!" She held up a finger on each hand and spread her hands far apart.
"Oh, god!"
"That's what I said, too! Ha! Ha!"
The two ladies had not known each other long when they discovered their secret shared obsession with fucking, and it took them only a few conversations to reveal jointly that neither had had sex in years. Irene had lost her husband to a fishing boat accident, three years before she met Valencia, and how quickly the sweet and shy looking girl, who laughed easily and sang splendidly, had come to fill the void created by widowhood. She was the least frivolous of the younger singers in the choir, her constant laughter more bashful than childish. Her temperament matched Irene's perfectly, and so did her desire to talk about the joys of going to bed with men.
Like Irene, however, Len had not shared a bed with any man since her own husband left her, which he did without announcement while working abroad. One day the communication just ended, and so too did the money he sent her. She moved back home with her mother and younger sister, both of whom still considered her faithfully wed. Men were officially out, so said mom, sis, and the Church. And so these two celibates, one voluntary and one forced by living conditions, shared common ground.
But what they both lacked in experience they made up for in naughty revelry. For five years they had sat side by side in the choir, spying men (and sometimes women) in the congregation, giggling to one another at the hand signals they had invented, gestures only they understood: Maybe a big cock on this one; probably a tiny one on this other poor man; dried-up-looking wife here; there a wife who looked quite satisfied; and oh, her, the unmarried one who smiles too much! etc., etc. Over meals they shared fantastic thoughts of the next time either might get laid, if ever there would be one. It took less than a year, however, for Len to realize that Irene was a woman of fantasy only, and that no matter how many times Len tried to steer her older friend toward a potential romance, Irene simply lacked the courage to try, or feared her husband was watching from above. Either way, if one of them was ever going to have a real story to tell, it would be Valencia, and now she had one.
And Irene was ready.
"So... tell me everything!"
3
"You know I joined a dating site."
"Where everyone goes to get fucked."
"Ha! Ha! Yes! And I did! Ha! Ha!"
Len laughed to end all references she made to sex. What Irene did not know was that the date she was hearing about now was not the first, or even the second, Len had been on. Over the last three months she had met three men from her Internet adventures. None of the sex had been more than average, but she had learned something about herself: She was a submissive little whore, and her laughter was a defense against it. The second man she dated, a handsome but irascible Swiss tourist named Marc, spotted all her insecurities, took quick advantage of them, and despite his small erection he spent three afternoons acquainting Len with a side of herself she both feared and embraced. When she left him, she went home, updated her online profile from 'Shy but Curious' to 'Submissive and Open-Minded', and watched the responses overwhelm her inbox. That she had not dated in nearly a month was due to the time it took her to find and choose a man from all the offers.
"So was it all night?"
"All day, today! Ha! Ha!"
"Before the service?!"
"Right before!"
Both women laughed. Irene howled, leaning back into the sofa and clapping her hands together.
"TELL ME!"
"He's American. He landed early in the morning. We met and I arranged the taxi to the hotel."
"Tell me how he looks."
"I knew when I saw him I was in trouble."
"What? Why? Is he criminal looking?"
"He's bald and strong and serious. I saw him coming across the airport and I knew it was going to be fun."
