Showgirl Confidential: Faith

A priest, therefore, cannot break the seal to save his own life, to protect his good name, to refute a false accusation, to save the life of another, to aid the course of justice like reporting a crime , or to avert a public calamity. He cannot be compelled by law to disclose a person's confession or be bound by any oath he takes, e.

A priest cannot reveal the contents of a confession either directly, by repeating the substance of what has been said, or indirectly, by some sign, suggestion, or action. A Decree from the Holy Office Nov. Just as an aside, a great movie which deals with this very topic is Alfred Hitchcock's "I Confess," which deals with a priest who hears a murder confession and then is framed for the murder. As a priest, I was in agony during much of the movie.

The Seal of the Confessional

However, a priest may ask the penitent for a release from the sacramental seal to discuss the confession with the person himself or others. For instance, if the penitent wants to discuss the subject matter of a previous confession a particular sin, fault, temptation, circumstance in a counseling session or in a conversation with the same priest, that priest will need the permission of the penitent to do so. For instance, especially with the advent of "face-to-face confession," I have had individuals come up to me and say, "Father, remember that problem I spoke to you about in confession?

Or if a priest needs guidance from a more experienced confessor to deal with a difficult case of conscience, he first must ask the permission of the penitent to discuss the matter. Even in this case, the priest must keep the identity of the person secret. What happens if a priest violates the seal of confession? Actually, the Church's position in this matter has long-standing credibility.

The Fourth Lateran Council produced one of the first comprehensive teachings concerning the Sacrament of Penance. I met him on Halloween night in my living room at Disgraceland, and when I first laid eyes on him, he was reclining on my couch, drinking a Bud, attired head-to-toe in my clothes, his face smeared with garish make-up, my favorite pair of rhinestone baubles dangling from his earlobes. At the time, I was in an outrageous all-girl cow-punk band called the Screaming Sirens.

We valiantly tried to play country and rockabilly music, but it came out sounding more like the Ramones than Kitty Wells. Our stage shows were train wrecks with beer bottles flying through the air, a flurry of ripped fishnets and torn petticoats and broken guitar strings as we plowed through songs, pulling guys up from the audience to make out with them. Offstage, our antics were even more notorious. People were actually scared of us, and we made quite a name for ourselves causing disturbances on the club scene.

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L at an all-ages place called Casa de la Raza. I was bruised, burnt, sweaty, crabby, and tired. Plus, I was infatuated with the singer of T. For a change, I just wanted to go to sleep. Meanwhile, in my absence, my brother Chuckles and a couple of his pals had decided to attend the Halloween festivities at the nearby Club Lingerie. As I stepped into the living room and saw Chuckles and his cronies partying attired in my stage clothes, my lethargy turned to dismay. With that, I stormed off to my room and slammed the door.

Moments later, there was a knock. It was the skateboard champion, with a fresh beer and a key full of coke as a wordless peace offering. It took a moment, but I accepted. Solicitous and contrite, he apologized profusely, begged me to come with them to a party, and offered to return my clothes. Always a sucker for a pretty drag queen, I told him he could keep them on, and he whisked me off to the soiree.

By this time, it was about three-thirty a. The band Tupelo Chain Sex was hosting the party, and everyone was on acid. There was Slim Gaillard blaring from the stereo in the living room, and people in Halloween costumes practically having sex on the couch. There was a pirate, a ghost, and a corseted witch smoking pot in the kitchen, way stoned and trying to make falafel from scratch.

Luckily, Chuckles stumbled down the porch steps at that exact moment and began hurling, which instantly cut the tension in the air. Soon, we were all back at my house with some boring hippie guy who had a block of cocaine so ridiculously huge that it resembled an unused bar of Ivory soap.

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He was very generous with it until dawn broke, and then he bailed. I figured this was as good a time as any to go to sleep, my bitchy mood back in place the moment the drugs were gone. It was so bright in my room at that point that I briefly considered wearing my sunglasses to bed. My hands and feet were literally freezing from the coke, and my throat was one big miserable cesspool of post-nasal drip. Buena Park is the kind of place dreary housewives with helmet-shaped poodle perms get addicted to prescription drugs and go max out their credit cards at Target and Home Depot.

Suddenly, he was on my bed on my bed, his breath warm on my neck. We wrestled verbally for a few minutes, his hands roaming tentatively over my legs. He was really cute—snapping blue eyes, jet black dyed pompadour, not to mention the fact that my earrings looked simply stunning on him.

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But my coke crash and impending hangover plus his persistence were annoying the hell out of me. His eyes widened like a Japanese cartoon as I stripped my clothes off and lay on the bed. As he climbed aboard and started going through the motions of foreplay, I did everything possible to ignore him, short of grabbing a magazine and reading it over his shoulders while he sucked my nipples. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. When he began thrusting, I opened my eyes and took in the entire scene. Then he did, too… For a second before he came I actually joined in the festivities, and then it was over.

Back to business, I ordered him out. He started removing my clothes and pulling on his Thrasher t-shirt and worn blue jeans and stared at me forlornly.

The Seal of the Confessional

No sooner had he exited, he was back popping his head into the room again. Hmmm, I thought to myself, this could be fun. A day or two later he showed up around twilight, with his battered skateboard, a case of beer, and a blond kid in tow. We began an affair that lasted a couple of months. He was fun and crazy and would do anything, with an aura of twisted innocence and sincerity about him. It was kind of like Huckleberry Finn Meets Divine.

I got him more and more into drag, and with my make-up expertise, he looked so good that straight frat boys would try to pick up on him. His hair took teasing and Aqua-Net well and looked especially nice with a big pink chiffon pussycat bow a la Cyndi Lauper tied into it. Hookers on Hollywood Boulevard were among the most appreciative of his fashion statement. He looked better than any of the Hispanic queens on duty there. We fell into a kind of debauched domesticity.

Showgirl Confidential: Faith

He knew I was still kinda carrying a torch for the guy from T. One day he came over with another pal from Buena Park and a big duffel bag covered in skateboard stickers. We listened to Johnny Thunders over and over, talked incessantly on the phone, and used up every shred of toilet paper in the house. Christmas came—and it was white , of course. Do Pentecostal ministers take confession? He tells me he gives sermons in Haiti to thousands of people, builds new churches there, and tours all over the southern U.

I think it was an old ad for surf and sportswear. Under it are a few paragraphs about his was a drug addict that hung out with prostitutes and lived a decadent Hollywood lifestyle, so he really knows about the despair of inner-city sinners. He looks really happy, too. I mean, I can remember being totally shitfaced at skateboard contests and rolling on the floors of clubs with this guy, putting on matching bustiers to go to the movies on acid, stuff like that. We stop to shop for vintage clothes—he wants to look cool for the kids of his congregation. He went back to the store and got the right kind.

We sit on the couch drinking lemonade, I tell him about a recent car wreck I had, and he offers to heal me. Maybe after a couple of years or something, but not right away. I feel like this story has a lot of potential and Brown writes well, but it could have been so much better. May 10, Natalie rated it it was ok Shelves: Review Copy More of a novella, a really quick read. No substance to it and terribly unrealistic. Sep 04, Kathryn Parry rated it did not like it. I can't even explain how I fell but? LK Merola rated it really liked it Mar 23, Gale Albright rated it liked it Jun 04, Laura rated it did not like it Nov 17, Amber Lambert rated it liked it Feb 06, BJ rated it really liked it Feb 01, Caroline Williams rated it it was ok Feb 21, Charlac rated it did not like it Nov 25, Misty rated it did not like it Nov 17, Chrissy Morales rated it liked it Dec 22, Acdestiny rated it liked it Nov 14, Melissa rated it did not like it Feb 21, Laura rated it liked it Apr 16, Susan rated it did not like it Apr 16, BJ rated it it was ok Nov 18, Kimberly Loschiavo rated it it was ok Dec 13, Acdestiny rated it really liked it Jan 10, Jana rated it it was ok Nov 30, Tiffany Whoolery rated it it was amazing Jun 25, Sharon rated it did not like it Jan 04, Linden Priest rated it did not like it Dec 05, Rosie Mazariegos rated it liked it Jan 22, Jessica marked it as to-read Nov 14, Joanna marked it as to-read Nov 14, Jen O'grady marked it as to-read Nov 19, Mian marked it as to-read Nov 23, S added it Nov 30,