St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular man leaning heavily on his staff and struggling head first through some undefined tempest, the child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders. St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came to know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wrists and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven, all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail.My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St. Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosen as the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as herculean as St. Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seated at his carpenter's bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand, his other arm draped around the shoulders of the peasant boy Jesus, who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studied Joseph's face interminably, striving to imagine what it might be like to have had such a father with strong, chiseled. Sue, a smile beaming on her face, gave me a big hug and kissed me directly on the lips “Hi you.,” and, unseen to Tom, she dropped her hand to my crotch and gave my cock a squeeze through my trousers “I’ve missed you.” Tom and Sue were about 10 years younger than me, we had met at a mutual friends wedding and hit it off almost immediately. Tom was a hypnotherapist of very similar build to me and Sue, a petite blonde 5 foot 2 inch sex bomb and with it an accomplished musician. Sue not only had great looks but she was talented too. I hate people like that. Anyway, they had been married for six years and had no children, and had moved out to France about five months ago. We walked out to their car, parked in the car park just across from the terminal and Tom took by bag and put it in the boot. I got into the back of the car and Tom got in the driving seat while Sue took her place in the front next to him. The drive to their house in Normandy took about an hour and a half and through the.
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