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Born Again and Again
by D.E. Fredd

Three years ago I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart. My life turned around completely. Born Again Christianity became a pussy gold mine. Before I joined the Glorious Resurrection of the New Eden Church, I couldn’t get laid without hitting the ATM machine. Those “reborn” ladies in the Wednesday night prayer circle couldn’t get enough of my repentant sinner ass.

At the first meeting I got up and wept about my coke and booze habit and what I did to support it. I turned it up a notch with the part about stealing from my own mother when she was alive, “cheaping out” big time for her funeral and sniffing the insurance money up my nose. When I was done, I had half a dozen eligible cuties helping me to my feet and hauling me over to a folding chair in the stifling heat of their store front meeting hall.

That night Devona Blackmon took me back to her apartment and sat up half the night praying for Jesus to cleanse my body. “It’s like overdosing on laxatives,” she told me. “For a few days, maybe a week, you’ll feel washed out, empty, but then your heart will be filled with incredible lightness and joy, the transition between Satan and Jesus complete.” By daylight I felt recovered enough to risk a little foreplay. By noon we’d “become one” in body and spirit any number of times.

My real problem now is selection, like the menu at a decent restaurant; there are too many choices. Not that I don’t enjoy Devona’s ample pleasures. As I look around at the women on Wednesday and the Sunday service (when they really dress up for a man), there are a good dozen who stir the heavenly urge within me. Devona’s squeezing my hand, however, during an inspirational moment in Reverend Duke’s sermon always brings me, her little daydreaming sheep, back to the fold.

Years ago, when I’d just gotten out of the navy, I’d go to AA meetings to get babes. I scored a couple of times but most of the women were twenty years older than I was and had husband or family baggage that would buckle a herd of camels. An ex-marine buddy of mine steered me up to a CA (Cocaine Anonymous) meeting over on Spencer Avenue. God, it was like going from a black and white movie to full color surround sound. The women there were primo—doctor’s wives, real estate people. Yeah, I could maybe get lucky there, but it would cost me a new wardrobe and any number of expensive lunches to get a leg up.

So I discovered Jesus. Maybe a step down in the socio-economic and looker class from CA, but, hey, when you only have a GED, are balding at twenty-eight and make fifteen bucks an hour driving a truck, you don’t turn up your nose at a room full of free nookie.

I’m on the road a lot. My home base is Springfield, Massachusetts, but I go out to Albany and then make deliveries along the New York Thruway. Devona is my Springfield woman. Arlene Becker rekindles my spirit outside Syracuse. She has her prayer circle on Tuesdays. Her kids call me Uncle and are real cute. All the way out in Buffalo is Maureen. She was a thirty-three year old virgin, saving herself for the wedding night until I came along. I used the alcoholic veteran routine with her. I’d pretend to wake up in the middle of the night screaming about the terrors of the Gulf war. She comforted me in unimaginable ways. Now she says the neighbors poke fun at her when they see my rig parked in her yard, knowing she’ll be indisposed for a day or two.

There are drawbacks. Since I’m supposed to be a recovering alcoholic and addict, I can’t drink when I take my women out to dinner. I used to like a beer especially with seafood or a decent burger. Born again women love picnics, water theme parks, mini-golf and all that family fun crap. If I see one more Disney movie I’ll puke. And they have to end every sentence with “Praise God” which regularly turns my stomach. Not to get too personal but you have go slow in the sexual variety category. They love the missionary position, but it takes months to get into anything oral or kinky. Sometimes it’s worth the wait, as it was with Maureen, but others, like Fran Bartello out in Rochester--we still have to have the lights off while she undresses under the sheets.

I’m up to five weekly regulars and two I see every other month. They are my farm team in case I slip up or decide to pull up stakes. I do that when things get serious and marriage gets hinted at. That happened with Bridget Monahan. I invested six months in her, was driving to Ithaca which was fifty miles off my route and even bought her a leather covered Bible and genuine rosewood cross. She was into doing it in public places and turned me on to that type of action as well. But then she started saying how she wanted to quit her job at the dry cleaners, lend me some money for a new rig with a sleeping alcove, and we could be together all the time. Boy, did I strip the gears the next morning getting out of there.

So I’m here to bear holy witness that born again Christian women are the resurrection and the light. Someone told me about Moslems having up to four wives and breaking up is as simple as saying “I divorce you” three times. Not bad but I’ll take Jesus any time. Born Again Christianity, that’s one hell of a religion in my book.


D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts. His work has appeared in The Paris Review, The Paumanok Review and the Café Review, among others. He teaches Writing and Literature courses at New Hampshire Community Technical College.

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