Renewal

Warning: This story purposefully takes many liberties with Catholicism. If this offends you please do not read this story.

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It was the most ridiculous of spectacles: his sweet pink mouth, plump lips, receding blond hair mixed with new pure-white tilted back, throat open to receive that long, slim phallic-symbol. His white collar and black shirt and pants seeming to be made into mockeries by this one act.

I caught him engaging in a meaningless contest to see who could get the neck of a Goldschlager bottle furthest down his or her throat. The teenagers and the adults who hang with them—because the teenagers' ages are closer to their own mental ages than their peers-were cheering him on.

He did manage to get more in his mouth than anyone else. This did not impress me as much as the others. He turned around and saw me then—everyone still laughing—a young French boy with blond hair and crystal clear blue eyes to die for takes the bottle from him. It's his turn to prove he can do something he most likely would only do if he were really drunk.

"Hi," the sweetest tone; such innocence. He excuses himself from them: not that they require or would ever bother with excuses.

I know he'll be pulled away again soon—he has too many friends here and admirers desperate to see him unguarded--figuring he might get drunk enough to let them. He's a celebrity whenever he becomes anything more than a symbol: whenever he goes beyond the bounds of his role. I fight with my roles all the time--they conflict with the fact that people change, but they are so inviting, call yourself something--I'm not sure I want roles anymore. And maybe he does to.

I did not imaging seeing him in such an intimate moment ever: let alone with an inanimate object. If I wanted to make him think about it too much I could have mentioned how the simulation undoes his commitment to not engage in an act that's socially expected—he's human and he doesn't fuck—it's subversive in a way. That's what he told me: celibacy fucks with societal norms.

He's a person people expect to commit to things that they themselves cannot commit to. He has to be better than good so that they can believe that they can be good.

But it was with an inanimate object, when God gave us bodies with which to love and care and share pleasure: it's almost life denying. He reserved it for himself, the pleasure, the sex act. On the other hand, he cheapened the act--he ran from the truth of it even as he embraced the sensation--rejected God's gift but kissed it first.

I burned with the desire to tell him all that was on my mind: all the thoughts this one act had filled me with. But I knew I was just an observer, a confessor: observing his denial, his contradictions, his hiding and his lie. Does he need to confess to those who can hear his confession in ways that do not force it past his lips?

The small talk: "how are you? As you can see, everyone seems to be having a really good time. What would you like to drink?"

"You seemed to be having an especially good time when I saw you with that bottle." A blush and a few stumbling words falling all over each other.

And very quickly his words began to sound almost logical. I tore his argument to shreds, so he came up with new logic structures, almost seeming to explain the arguments I had just cut up with them, and almost seeming to build layers onto a strong building. But the foundation was faulty, and so were the prevailing layers. I knocked his house down like a tower of babble of lies.

He began to build again, but mid-sentence he interrupted my counter argument to excuse himself: another bunch of idolaters drunk in their objectification of him, wanting more of his humanity. Come down from that pedestal and talk to us person to person. Laugh with us, spill your humanity all over us, dress us in your humanity. Father drink the same wine we drink: unholy and bitter as our lives. Please come down—be our friend, not our Priest—some of us don't have priests anyway.

I found myself alone and I couldn't talk to these cretins. Why was I here? At least there was that company—maybe not my company, not my community and not my friends—but people to bring me out of my solitary winter. I found a card game with some who shot swift words I could at least be entertained by. Men. The women not interested in me as a friend, or a lover, or even someone to have a conversation with. The men would feel me out with their words at least: try to make me laugh. I played cards with some docile men.

He glanced my way a few times. He seemed concerned that I sat with these same men for so long. But I suppose he had not yet grown tired of this night's debauchery. I got up to fetch another drink; fetching being all I was capable of at this point.

I danced in the kitchen while I mixed rum and fruit-juice for the...something time tonight. And suddenly a sexy club song came on, and I started moving my hips to the music in my head—something I rarely do in public. But with all the booze I felt sexy—like my body was fluid and feminine—an innocent seductress. My sexual guilt was on hiatus: the alcohol coursing through my body, making me languid. I got the impression that my body was correctly proportioned to make everyone's heads turn, which is definitely is not. I lost 20 lbs just sucking my stomach in and swaying. I closed my eyes and sang, the counter top my Mistress; captivated by the things my dancing was doing to her. My breasts seemed to come alive then, the open air making them tingle. Suddenly I couldn't keep from running my fingers over them, I let them travel under the fabric of my v-neck blouse.

I heard footsteps patiently trying to retreat. I wanted to save us both the humiliation of acknowledging that their owner saw me in such an intimate moment, but I couldn't. I opened my eyes. It's him. I quickly decided not to smile from embarrassment, not to avert my eyes, but to look into him. "Hi," my careful-bold climb up from the floor to his eyes and right through.

"Hi," his equally careful-bold answer. Now we could talk, but whoever starts first would lose. And we both knew we had something to lose, but also something to gain, if we could deal with the pain of honesty. "Like what you see?" My eyes carried my voice to him: dared him to answer.

I ignored my own self-consciousness. If he denied it I'd catch him; he could see that in the smirk on my face. If he refused to answer I'd pursue it. If he stuttered, stumbled, flickered his eyelids; I'd make him pay.

"So what if I did?" He countered, "I'm still a free agent. I have the agency to chose to honor my commitments."

"Yes," my words were getting sharper and quicker, "I saw how strong you were in resisting that glass bottle: that simulated penis. Is that what your commitment to the church embodies?"

"It was not a penis!" He was angry and scared that it might be true, I could tell from the way his voice trembled. He had fallen.

"Yes it was. It might as well have been. I could see how much you wanted it to be a real cock."

"You're wrong." He was afraid. "I thought you were smarter than that. I thought you wouldn't box me into a cliché."

"That's bullshit," I shot back. I was foolish. I let him see that hurt a little. But he let me see he didn't mean to and I forgave him. Still he thought that he had the upper hand, so he held on.

"Maybe I'm even exotic to you too huh? Worship me like all the others?" Idolater. He was trying to make it seem like this is a command for a "Yes" answer, but I was standing strong.

"You know I don't look at you that way." Speaking falsely against me. My voice is calm. I wasn't begging. I was stating this as a fact that I knew he knew.

Telling him how disappointed I was at the scene earlier: how he had let me down too, though he made no promise to me, as a leader or otherwise, would humiliate him in a way that would leave me no ground on which to stand and challenge him, and I'd drank enough that I wanted to pull him under. I probably would have wanted to do that even if I were sober, though in that case I would have tried not to.

As a friend in self-control he's supposed to give me hope, as I try to give it to him. I can see neither one of us is very hopeful right now. We're both on the verge of throwing control to the wind. Can't be strong for you. Can't be a leader. Can't be a symbol. Can't be a hero. Can't save you. Can't be without sin. Why would you ever expect that from me? I'm just a woman/just a man/just dust.

"Let's get back to that cock you wanted so desperately." I recovered. I was venomous. "I know you're smart as well. You know why what you did was wrong." He did. But he wasn't giving up.

"And you—you know why it demeans you to go around seeking men's sexual attentions when it's all about your looks, and feeling yourself up; giving them what they want; letting them pretend you're made of plastic and silicone!"

"You like my plush breasts?" Only the tension was holding me back; I broke it. I took a couple of steps towards him. It took real quick thinking to grab onto that one.

"How could I help it?" He met my bet and raised, taking larger steps. "You flaunt them like a whore."

"Just like you flaunted your oral abilities?" Like a whore? We were a centimeter from touching: held back from all we had left of control and decency and belief in our own goodness.

His large warm body is against mine now. His hands rest on my wrists so lightly: his touch tentative and caring. I don't want to fight for our souls with him. I want him to touch me more and more, until there is no way we haven't touched each other. Give me a sign.

I leaned in and stole a kiss from him, crushing my lips against his—thank God for my heels, otherwise I wouldn't reach his lips—then looked directly into his eyes, daring him. What would he do? I had taken it from him, something he couldn't get back. But he just leaned in and kissed me again, gently separating my lips and inviting my tongue to entwine with his.

There was no man more beautiful than him. My fingers were unbuttoning his shirt in a frenzy. His were reaching under mine. But I swept them to the side and concentrated on kissing and licking his chest. His pink nipples were hard before I touched him, and it wasn't cold in the room. They were big for a man and I loved them. He was very sensitive to my fingers and lips. I started alternating between kissing and pinching his nipples, kissing his lips and nibbling on the side of his neck. The sounds coming out of his mouth told me he enjoyed it. With others I might have just handed him a condom and gone for a hot quick session. But I wanted to know what he felt like everywhere, how he liked to be caressed. No one had caressed him in a very long time, and maybe not ever before. So I slowly undressed him and took my time with both light and rough contact. He pushes his pelvis into me, letting me feel his erection right up against my pussy lips.

I was smashing my crystal structures against the floor with my bare: my naked hands. They were the building I had constructed out of lies that would have made such beautiful truths. He was cleaning up the blood—my unclean blood with his—that receptive, self-sacrificing mouth. Licking the wounds of the world; touch the leper; kiss the whore. Back and forth between us: Our tongues intertwining with each other, giving absolution over and over. He was showing me his sin and I was showing him my forgiveness, and vice versa forever. The conversation: I promise that God forgives you No words needed. I understand your sin, your life.

What had our wordless confessions led to? Our confessions answered with understanding, compassion and forgiveness. It was the stuff of friendship: mí amigo. A good person telling me I was ultimately good as well. A sinner telling me I was also a sinner, and mixing up notions of bad and good until they dissolved into each other. But I still had to endure the pain, no matter how compassionate he was; no matter how patient and accepting; no matter how nurturing; so why wouldn't we help each other as much as we can? No one gets through life without pain: the pain of sin; the pain of knowledge; the pain of solitude; the pain of truth and light.

I sunk to my knees. I'm just dust. And he's imago Dei, clutching the countertop. I want to show him what he's missing, and maybe he'll show me what I'm missing too. He's beautiful and I've known beauty—seen, touched and embodied it—but I have never known truth or faith. He's got a love I never had but always yearn for. He talks to God—I want to speak into and through him—I have so much to say to God but just not in words. I wrap my lips around his cock and lap up the precum: that holy-holy water. Gratitude is all I know of faith, and I am ever-so-grateful for him being here with me now. My tongue is a snake that invites his for a conversation. That conversation enriches us both.

And before my confession I had been pregnant with denial. I was nauseated with the sickness of my morning: every lie, every sin. I was swooning from the pain. His cock in my mouth was filling me with the possibility of living an honest, a full life. I began to penetrate him. My fingers were showing him that it's ok to choose tenderness: vulnerability, that connection deep from the earth. Now I was able to show him how good it is to be open, and let the pleasure surprise him. Maybe he'd open again, in other ways: to the world. Maybe I would finally do so. My heart sang as he thrust into my willing mouth and bore down on my fingers.

Then he kissed me: my unclean, profane vagina made holy again because we said it was: the sparks of God in us, now traveling between us, unselfishly given away. His tongue into my well, that place connecting my land to Goddess, through knowledge and wisdom. He caused a flood in my center and stayed there to drown with me. His love shook my temple, a miniature answer to God shaking the earth with Her anger. Take my apple/bread/blood and eat it, deep from my earth. He tore my pregnant clothe to shreds and ripped the truth from my heart.

We had to violate that last barrier. I have always been, will always be alone in some sense, but also in community with the others who stand in permanent opposition to the world. Jesus said it: Right then I loved Jesus for the first time in my life. I loved Jesus for loving him so much.

His sword was slaying his lies. He closed his eyes and charges forward. His violent grunts weren't for me: they're for his disgust with his own weakness, or for his battle against invisibility. Tears feel freely from his eyes and mine. The point where doubt and certainty: shame and love met was confusion. Our cross—that we constructed together—invited us to contrition. We didn't turn away. I matched his pace: his violence.

I fucked the vows I had almost made, and those I had made. I fucked the vows that I stated meant nothing: the word made flesh. The rabbi said it. I said it. All Israel said it: my vows are void. Fuck my vows.

Fuck my commitments made after painstaking romantic dreams led me to them. Fuck my need to be good. Fuck that amazing feeling that comes with saying the blessings on Shabbat. Fuck that I thought I could make myself love their rules: be a good little someone else, convincing myself that I wanted that. Fuck my feeble heart and mind. Fuck these dreams and fantasies. Fuck these desires. Fuck this beating heart. Fuck my lonely nights. Fuck his false modesty. Fuck it all! Fuck everything that feels real, feels permanent but is ever leaving. Fuck it hard, and fast, and raw. Fuck it without looking in its eyes. Or rather, look in its eyes, but fuck it unfeelingly.

My friend, my object, helping me pour my lies on the floor: my aborted vows, my aborted life. Start over in the desert and hope you don't run out of water, or maybe God will provide a spring? Or am I Ruth, eternally latching on to someone else's God?

You're bad our earlier accusations implied. You've sinned. You've missed the mark. You're a walking contradiction. You've taken the Lord's name in vain. You're in denial about your double standards. You want to--. So we did. So we enjoyed the Lord's gifts. We didn't die. We acknowledged and held and nursed our sins, and then we indulged in them, in fact, we made love to them.

His cross was burning into my flesh: nails digging so hard into it. The truth had left it's mark—the paradox, the two lines meeting—sin and virtue; punishment and forgiveness; denial and acknowledgment. We met each other at the cross. We merged at the intersection. We contradicted and synchronized with each other: in each other. We were the crucifix—just for that moment—then the ritual was over, and we were back in the world of the profane.

What was he going to do? What was I?

We didn't know anything right then. We were alone, so completely alone, and yet we had found a friend. One is out there, wandering in the desert, carrying my image.