Johnny Wraith Stories

It was Friday night, and I was a 19-year-old sophomore at Brigham Young University, and that didn't make life easy for a young man like me, wanting nothing more than booze and hot, wet pussy, especially when such sinful, needful things were dangerous commodities. You see, at Brigham Young University ("BYU"), there was, and still is, a written code in place called the Honor Code. It is a violation of the Honor Code to partake of alcohol, even coffee, or to enjoy the flesh of young Mormon lassies, or any lassies for that matter, unless you are married to them. I kid you not when I tell you I knew many students that got kicked out of BYU for violating the Honor Code. So I always lived in fear of being expelled for secretly seeking out and partaking of the forbidden indulgences I couldn't naturally go without.

There were three ways you were found out when you violated this holy cannon, the Honor Code. First, you self-reported. The religious guilt of having sinned overtook you. Having had a licentious weekend between a special girl's legs and your thrusting hips and squirting pecker was too much to bear. The Doom of Hell was just looming too close, so to get out of the heat, you went and confessed to the Bishop, on Sunday, after church. In the Mormon Church, confession is not anonymous like it is in the Catholic Church. It is a face-to-face meeting, which goes something like this:

Grieving young man enters the Bishop's office.  A look of sour contrition is on his face and tears are welling in his eyes.

"Please sit down," says the Bishop.

The boy sits, his head hanging, his black leather Book of Mormon clenched in his sweating hands.

"I can see that you have sinned."

"Yes," answers the boy in a pitiful whisper, but the tightness in his throat keeps him from saying anything more.

"You have succumbed to the temptations of Satan, haven't you?"

The boy nods, but won't look up.

"You partook of alcohol?"

The boy nods.

"You engaged in sexual acts?"

Again, the boy nods.

"French kissing?"

Nods.

"Heavy petting?"

Nods.

"Fornication?"

A very slow nod.

The Bishop sighs.

Tears roll down the boy's cheeks.

"Let us pray."

The two join hands and kneel together in the middle of the floor.

The next morning, the boy is getting ready for class, after having said 30 minutes of repentant morning prayers at his bedside. The phone rings. He answers.

"Hello?"

"Robbie, this is Bishop Anderson..."

And that is the end of Robbie's BYU career.

Other than self-reporting your sin, the second way you get caught is through a snitch giving you up. Your good drinking buddy is overcome with guilt, so, he goes and repents of his sins in Bishop Anderson's office, on Sunday, after church. Only if he gives the names of all the drinking participants, including you, and he cries a lot, does he get to stay at BYU. Only if he speaks the names does Satan relinquish his hold. Fucking snitches! It's amazing how many times I saw best friends turn one another in. And with sins of sexual nature, the girls were notorious for sucking cock on Saturday and telling Bishop Anderson all about it, on Sunday, after church. Those holy little lassies always seemed to stay in school after such confessions, while the boys they'd blown didn't. I wonder if Bishop Anderson sometimes unzipped and offered up his hard pecker, Bill Clinton style, to those crying, remorseful girls. Perhaps it was the only alternative to being kicked out of BYU? A cure-the-snakebite-with-a-taste-of-venom sort of thing? Brigham Young had dozens of wives.

Finally, if contrition or a snitch didn't give you up, a member of the Standards Police might catch you in the act, or he gathered enough circumstantial evidence to charge you with a violation of the Honor Code. Then you ended up in Bishop Anderson's Office, on Sunday, after church, or even worse, you ended up before the Standards Office Tribunal. I could tell a lot of stories about this system, but in short, BYU campus life was, and still is, quite similar to the life of characters in George Orwell's 1984, or that of Russians suffering under Stalinism. And anyone could be a secret policeman. You didn't know who to trust. The Standards Office is policed by an undercover force of paid Mormon Youth of the highest religious caliber, and they are devoted to sniffing out and reporting all sin, using any methods required for keeping the hallowed grounds of BYU holy, free of sin, void of sinners.

Needless to say, I never felt the need to self-report, and the guilt never took control of my sanity. I always chose my coconspirators wisely, and my general level of paranoia, mixed with the clumsiness and obviousness of the Standards Police, kept me out of harm's way. I'm proud to say I have a diploma from BYU. It was more than an academic achievement to receive that consecrated parchment. It was a great human achievement.

Alright. Alright. I know you want to hear at least one story about a run-in I had with a Standards Policeman. It all started one Saturday night when my friend Jimmy knocked on the door. He came in with a loaded grocery sack tucked under his jacket.

"Your roommates here?"

"No."

I locked the door after him and we went straight to the kitchen. Jimmy pulled out a Coors12-pack of warm bottles and set it all out on the table. Eagerly, we popped off the caps and slammed down 6 beers apiece, one by one, keeping time with one another's chugging, out of courtesy. Later we disposed of the empties via a covert method: pitching them in a dumpster on the other side of campus once it was past midnight. But, that night we made a terrible mistake. We left the kitchen blinds open. So hypnotized by the taste of beer were we that we forgot to turn the blinds. We just stood there at the kitchen table, slamming down the warm, delicious brew, right in front of the window. Anyone could see in. Dark outside, lights on the inside.

And wouldn't you know it, about a week later, a knock came at my door.  I opened it to discover a little blonde fellow of about 22, prematurely balding with baby blue eyes.

"Are you Johnny?"

"Yes."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

"Is there anyone else here?"

"No, all my roommates are gone."

"I have something really serious to talk to you about, but you can't tell anyone."

"Alright."

"Promise not to tell anyone?"

"Yeah, but I don't even know your name."

"That's not important."

"Look, I heard you can get me some beer. If you'll get me some, I'll pay for all of it and give you half."

An obvious member of the Gestapo. I had to think fast!

"How dare you!" I screamed. "Offer me the temptations of Satan!" Then I slammed the little guy into the back of the closed front door, causing him to lose balance and fall hard on his ass. Immediately, he started balling and hollering out, "I'm with the Standards Office! I'm an officer!"

"Get thee hence Satan!" It seemed the appropriate thing to shout, just as Jesus had once shouted. "Liar! Son of Perdition's Flames!" I added for effect.

He cringed and cried. I raised my fist as if to strike. "Leave my home now, SINNER!"

Open hands held out to me in supplication, he pleaded again, "Please don't hurt me! Please! I'm with Standards!"

The next Sunday, after church, I found myself sitting in Bishop Anderson's office.

"Johnny, I called you here today because you assaulted a Standards Officer. This is a very, very serious offense."

"I'm so sorry Bishop. I didn't know. I... I... I was so offended when he asked me to get him some beer. I had no idea who he was. He did his job so well... ...I need to work on my anger... I am sooo sorry."

The Bishop sat back in his chair and looked me over for about a minute.

"Johnny, I can tell you're a good young man. The Lord has just revealed this to me. We thought you were drinking alcohol, but now I know we were mistaken. We have all been tested by this matter. Even I must be reminded to cherish humility."

"But... alcohol? Me?"

"Yes, there were reports you were drinking beer with an accomplice. Someone saw it through your kitchen window."

"Oh my goodness! I can't believe it, Bishop. The root beer I drink comes in bottles that look like beer bottles!"

"You must abstain from the appearance of evil!"

After we finished laughing, we got on our knees together and prayed. Upon "Amen," we stood up, embraced, patted backs, and shook hands."

"See you next Sunday, Bishop Anderson. Thanks."

"Johnny, just remember: sometimes anger is righteous anger," the Bishop winked.

So, it was Friday night, and I was a 19-year-old sophomore at Brigham Young University, and that didn't make life easy for a young man wanting nothing more than booze, even warm beer, and hot, wet pussy. But I must tell you. I was a good student. I studied every weekday night from after class until midnight, except Fridays. Fridays I only studied until 8:00pm. Saturdays and Sundays, I studied from 6a.m. to 8p.m. That's why I graduated with a 3.95 GPA. Sinfulness and good grades are not inversely related in all cases, regardless of what they tell you. Even at BYU.

So, it was Friday night at 8:00pm. I closed my books, turned off my desk lamp, and headed for the front door.

"Hey Johnny!" Yelled my roommate, Gary. "Where you goin'?"

"Just over to Lori's. She needs help fixing the dishwasher."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. What are you doing tonight?"

"I'm going to meet with Linda and Robert. We're going to study scriptures together."

"That sounds like a good time. Very cool."

I walked across the complex to the girls' apartment buildings. At BYU, all apartment buildings are segregated by gender, and boys and girls are forbidden to be in each other's apartments either alone or past midnight. Otherwise, you are violating the Honor Code.

I knocked on Lori's door. She opened up. She was no taller than 4'11, skinny as a rail, had short blonde, tight curls, and baby-blue eyes. Lori was engaged to be married to some Mormon Missionary that was coming back from proselytizing in Ecuador in less than a year, so she wouldn't ever go places with me. She had to keep her image and couldn't be seen with another boy. I think she has 7 kids now, lives in Idaho, and goes to church every Sunday. A good Mormon wife and mother.

"Hey Johnny! Come on in. Only Traci is here. Gina is at her grandparents this weekend."

That was good news because Traci, like me and Lori, put on the Good Mormon Façade, but enjoyed partaking of illegal lust and alcohol, and marijuana cigarettes. Gina didn't. We three were all in it together and could trust one another. In fact, when I first met Lori and Traci freshman year, they both seemed to immediately sense I was o.k., from the get-go. The three of us just struck up a conversation outside the freshman dorms one night, talked for about an hour, really hit it off. During that time, in comment over religious matters, Traci said "Fuck Joseph Smith." Lori replied, "Yeah, fuck him." It was then I knew they were my kind of girls.

As soon as I entered the apartment, I could smell the sweet aroma of smoldering cannabis mixed with incense in the air. And there was Traci, sitting on the couch with her bare feet up on the coffee table, her knees apart, wearing nothing but a towel on her head, white lace panties, and a Pink Panther t-shirt.

Lori and I joined Traci on the couch. We rolled, licked, and lit up a new blunt, passed it around, and drank wine coolers like water. I entertained the girls as I always did. Upon catching a wholesome buzz, I jumped up and took center stage in the middle of the room. While empathically working my hands and making wild expressions with my face, I told crazy stories. The girls laughed and laughed and kicked their feet. Their faces turned red.

"Johnny! We don't know what we'd do without you!"

"You're the only cool guy we know."

"No doubt! All the other guys don't know how to have any fun!"

"Too bad we'll never escape Mormonism. I dread when Albert gets back. He wants to get married and have kids right away," said Lori.

"You can break off the fucking engagement!" insisted Traci.

"I can't. My entire family has been Mormon for a hundred years."

We finished the third joint, and I was on my 8^th wine cooler when Lori grabbed me by the hand and led me back to her bedroom. She threw off her clothes and sat on the edge of the bed. "I just took a bath. Will you lick me?"

"Sure."

My relationship with Lori was really nice. It lasted about a year, though it started out as friendship freshman year. We never fucked, but each time we got together, I'd go down on her and then she'd go down on me. She was preserving her virginity for her husband, Albert, so I was only permitted to put my fingers and tongue in her pussy, never my cock. But blowjobs were better than nothing. Many weekend nights Lori and I stayed up until 3:00-4:00am, in each other's arms, talking about everything under the sun, at least when her roommate, Gina, was off at her grandparents, and that was nearly every-other weekend. I still remember the last time Lori and I were together. She cried on my shoulder for two hours because she was going to be married to Albert the next day.

But that particular Friday night, I didn't get to hold Lori in my arms and talk about everything under the sun until 3:00-4:00a.m. either. Just after I'd finished making her cum by vigorously tongue fucking her ass and pussy, sucking her clit, and probing the holes with exploring fingers (she was on all fours with her face in a pillow and I was kneeling at the foot of the bed with my face buried deep in her crack), the phone rang. She had to answer because she was expecting a call from sweet Albert, her fiancé. And of course, it was Albert, from Ecuador, calling collect. It was his birthday, so he had permission to break from evangelizing and call home to the mother of his future children.

"Hello?" panted Lori.

"No, no, Albert. Nothing is wrong. I was just doing aerobics."

"Yes! I got a cool new video! Traci and I have been doing aerobics together."

I pulled up my jeans and left the room with a hard-on jutting straight out.

Traci was still in the living room, on the couch, watching T.V. in her panties and Pink Panther, smoking even another joint. And it was still only 9:30pm.

"Johnny, do you have a boner?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you just get some?"

"No, Albert called, so can I borrow your mouth instead?"

"I wish! If Lori weren't here, I'd loan you my pussy, free of interest. But you're her guy. She'd be so pissed."

"Yeah, not a good idea."

"Yeah."

"See you later."

"Okay. Go jack off or something."

"Can I do it in your bathroom?"

"Sure!"

It was a nice, little bathroom. Floral patterns, scented soaps, towels washed in Downey Softness, vanilla candles. In about 60 seconds, I blasted no less than 10 full squirts of sloppy, white sliminess into the sink. All it took was imagining I was fucking Traci. Just as I got the shaft in to the balls, she came, and that made me do the same. I sloshed the gunk down the drain, washed my hands and cock off in cold water and scented soap suds, and dried off with the freshest hand towel on the rack.

"Later Traci."

"How was it?"

"You were a great fuck!"

"Johnny! You are sooo bad!"

After Lori was married to Albert up in Idaho, they came back and had a reception at a church on campus. Traci and I went to the reception together, and that night, in the back seat of her car, I finally stuck it in her hot, wet pussy. She was always so wet I could slide right into the goodness without a hitch. It was wonderful. She was on the pill so I could let it loose inside. No need for a rubber or pulling out. Wowness! A girl had never let me do that before. We dated for about a year, spent a lot of time in her back seat, at least until she finally saw the Light, finally became convinced the Church was true, and signed up to go on a Mormon Mission. It happened so fast and unexpectedly:

One night we were kissing in the back seat of her car. I put my hand up her skirt to pull off her panties and was stopped in my tracks. She grabbed my hands and pushed them back. It had never happened before.

"I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore. I'm going on a mission."

For a while, I was worried Traci would snitch me out, but somehow she had the decency to leave me out of her confessionals. And somehow, she had become a believer after a few scripture and prayer sessions with her roommate, Gina. I didn't ask for the details. Religious conversion stories have always been uninteresting to me.

Still, Traci wrote me a lot of letters from Germany. Most of them were filled with religious testimonials and hints that if I became a Good Church Member, she and I could marry, have kids, etc. Go to Church every Sunday, of course. I wrote back about how much I missed fucking her in the back seat of her car, blasting and spurting away in her hot, wet pussy. Eventually, the letters quit coming.  

It was only 9:31pm when I left Traci and Lori's apartment and headed straight for Silver Shadows. That was a student housing subdivision where the rich kids lived. I knew two girls there that were lesbian lovers and roommates. I could always hang with them, drink and smoke weed with them, and just be myself, because they too were BYU students with secrets to keep.

I knocked on Julia and Melanie's door.

"Hey Johnny! Come on in!" said Julia. "Melanie is here, and so is her brother Josh. And his friend James, and their girlfriends, Tiffany and Amy. They aren't BYU students, so they're cool. We're drinking Long Islands. Want one?"

"Sure, but make them strong. It can't be strong enough. No tea. I've had a rough night."

It was a really nice apartment. Top-of-the-line for students. Julia's dad was a prominent lawyer in Salt Lake City, and handled real property transactions for the Church, so he could put the oldest of his 5 daughters through school in style. He didn't know his daughter ate pussy. There was a big fireplace in the main room, and a crackling fire was in it, flaming orange, red, and yellow. Melanie, Josh, James, Tiffany, and Amy were all sitting around the fireplace.

"Hi, I'm Johnny."

"Hey dude."

"Hi, I'm Amy."

"Hey man, Josh."

"Good to meet you all."

I remember Julia handing me a tall glass of pure liquor. She called it a "Long Island." I swallowed it down fast.

"Just what you ordered," she said with a giggle.

From that point, the wine coolers, weed, plus the tea, simply congealed into too much to handle. My vision and consciousness blurred:

"I'll have another tea," I slurred.

There was a lot of laughing. I'm not sure about what. I could barely speak or keep my eyes open after the 3^rd glass was down. Only days later I was told that each drink I'd been served had at least 5 shots in it. Thanks Julia. She'd made them just for me.

I very vaguely remember starting to fall out of my chair, my eyes turning to black, probably rolling back, when someone shook me.

"Here dude. Do a little of this."

After crawling across the floor, with slobber dripping from my mouth, and snorting lines of coke and speed off the glass coffee table through little straws, I regained my hold on consciousness and was back in the party.

We laughed, drank, played music from a portable cassette player, and finally decided to seek other means of entertainment.

"Let's go get some ET, one of them said."

"E.T.?"

"It is the coolest shit! I know this guy with a Ph.D. in Chemistry. Across town. He makes it. You have to keep this stuff on ice ‘til you take it. ET is a frozen little pill you let melt in your mouth, like an ice cube, but in a capsule, and for the rest of the night you go through a crazy trip. You experience every emotion you've ever felt, but times 1 million, one feeling right after the other!

"But we don't have a car."

"I'm not letting anyone drive my car!" insisted Julia.

"I'll drive," I said. "I live about a quarter mile away. We can all pile into my VW and go get the shit."

After a trek across town with me at the helm, we got the shit. I never saw the chemist. One of the guys went in while we all waited outside in the car. It was $5 an icy pill and I got to pay more than my share. Not sure what I paid in total, but my wallet was empty the next morning. It couldn't have been more than $20 though.

We made it back to the crackling fireplace with a sandwich bag full of ice and an ET tablet for each of us.

The medicine melted on our tongues and took effect.

We laughed.

We cried.

We rolled on the floor in lamentation of our impending deaths.

We embraced one another and professed our infinite love.

I was so thirsty I drank about 5 32 ounce plastic cups of water in two hours, and so did everyone else. ET, whatever the hell it was and I still don't know what it was to this day, made you sweat profusely. Our brains, I'm sure, were frying. Fortunately, I didn't lose enough grey matter that night to prevent me from making it through the law school years that were down the road, but I'm not sure that's saying much.

Everyone but me finally passed out in front of the smoldering, popping fire, and most of them spilled their water cups when they went down, and then pissed their pants as they curled up there in fetal positions. In the end, I was the last man standing, dancing alone to The Smiths, prancing around and hopping over the corpses, guzzling water from a plastic, 32 ounce, 7-11 refill cup.

Not being completely in charge of my senses, and feeling lonely, I finally gave up on the others, went to the kitchen, opened the door to the oven, and took a piss in it.

Next thing I know, I was outside, projectile vomiting into the bushes. It was like a scene from the Exorcist. When my stomach was quelled by emptiness, I realized that though the temperature outside was below zero, (did I tell you it was February in Utah at that time, and that there was snow on the ground?) still, I was burning up. So I stripped off my clothes, everything, including my underwear, but for my shoes and socks. I bolted down the middle of the street as fast as I could. It was long after midnight by then. And I ran, and ran, and ran. One time I stopped to drink out of a hose on the side of someone's house. I must have put away 1 gallon, and a few chunks of ice, before the lights came on and I was chased away by an angry man in white and red striped pajamas. I think he had a shotgun. Once escaped, I projectile puked some more, into another hedge of shrubbery.

Eventually, I turned down a narrow alleyway coated in ice. It was pitch black. I slipped and slid until coming upon THE MONOLITH. A single street light was shining down on it from above, like a beam descending from heaven and forming a golden halo above a saint's head. THE MONOLITH. It was a perfectly stacked column of concrete blocks at least 6' in height, standing proudly and profoundly in the middle of the alleyway. Only the very top snow-covered block was out of alignment, and one of its corners cast a shadow, like a spear, onto the frozen asphalt below. It was the most profound moment of my life. The revelation I had at that moment cannot be described in words, other than to say that it was the only absolute, pure, and untouched glimpse of Heaven's Beauty and Mystery I've ever had. Like an aborigine, a crazed savage, a lunatic, an insane suicidal man, I danced and slid and slipped, circled around THE MONOLITH in a hypnotic, violent, relentless trance, a dream. Frenetically, I flailed my arms and kicked my feet, howled out into the night as loudly as I could, until my entire body was streaking with sweat, until each pitched noise I made grated my throat like sandpaper.

Police lights flashed and sirens sounded.

I ran like hell, my shriveled-chilled dick and balls flapping in the winter wind, my icy breath leading the escape.