The parish is before me, prepared for the sermon. They sit, awaiting the weekly lesson. Last night, I was inspired to write about lust. As I sat in bed, leafing through my notes from prior Sundays, I found my mind—wandering... wandering in a way that I can usually suppress. Last night, however, the most tempting of sins was heavy in my heart and other more worldly places. I have agreed to God's will, which asks for demonstration of my faithfulness in the form of my celibacy, but I am still a man. I have urges, certainly, and while they can generally be pushed back—last night, they all came crowding in on me. I found myself thinking about a girl I'd gone to high school with, back before I'd made my vows and when I was allowed to touch, kiss, explore... She and I spent more than one night in the backseat of my car. She was Catholic (of course), so she insisted on remaining pure. Her definition of purity, however, was distinctly more flexible than most I've encountered since. Last night, I found myself thinking about how she would take my cock deep in her throat, how she would put it between her soft, round breasts and rub my shaft until I came. I found myself remembering the first time I convinced her to remove her underwear and touched her, discovered how wet she could be. I remembered her explaining that I could make her feel good, too, if I used my tongue on her as well, how she moved her hips under my mouth to teach me what to do—and how obvious it was when I had learned. For whatever reason, all of this was on my mind as I was supposed to be writing a sermon and instead, I found myself rubbing my cock, slowly at first, then intensely, reaching for the oil I keep in my nightstand for my dry skin. The oil sliding over my head, remembering the way it had felt when it was someone else doing the rubbing—I came fiercely, abruptly, groaning with the force of it. Then, once my breathing had slowed and I had cleaned myself off a bit, I remembered the sermon and knew that I had no real choice in selecting the topic. It had come to me, if you will.
Now, today, I remember that my parish is my flock, and I must guide them with a pure heart. As I begin, I look about the crowd. The Dudleys are here today, which means Tracy Dudley brought her brownies for the coffee after the service. I will allow myself one. I run every day and my body is still pretty close to what it was when I ran cross-country in high school. The pound of my feet hitting the ground, the rhythm of my breathing with my pace—it's not lost on me that this exertion is one that resembles others, yet this is what I am still allowed. I discipline my body the same way I discipline my mind; of course, I am sinful enough to be vain: I know that my discipline of the body also means that my muscles are still tight, my shoulders broad, my stomach hard. Not that I have anyone to enjoy it, but every so often, if I'm being honest, I do stand in front of the mirror and wonder...
Now is hardly the time for that, however. I force myself back into the here and now, checking to see who is present and accounted for. The Stevens family sits in the fourth pew. They've brought all six children with them. Good God. Fruitful and multiply and all that, yes, but as the three-year old climbs over his father's shoulders and almost drops to the floor skull first, I wish, for John Stevens's sake, that the Vatican would reverse itself on birth control. I love all my parishioners, but I watch John struggle to control his mob and I'm almost glad I'm celibate.
Almost.
The Houghs, David and Nancy, are in the second pew. They are the pillars of our community: she is the sweet and caring wife; he is the strong and supportive husband. He's-- an accountant? Lawyer? I can't remember, despite knowing him for five years. She is always on her way to a meeting: PTA, community associations, and of course, our fundraising. They must have the most boring sex ever. Missionary, maybe twice a year? His birthday? Valentine's? They are a happy couple, but I doubt she's worn anything but big cotton underwear since college. Nevertheless, the thought of even that causes a fleeting stirring under my cassock that is anything but appropriate.
Then I notice the young woman with them. I've never seen her before, but based on the blonde hair and similar features, probably her sister. Something about her is dissimilar though; where Nancy is entirely vanilla, this is different: a spark, a smolder that hints at a little sex behind the sweetness. Nancy has mentioned her at coffee a few times, and in confession once. Yes, that's right, she lost her temper one night when she and David came home early and found her sister entertaining her boyfriend.
I clear my throat and shift, suddenly uncomfortable, yet I can't keep myself from continuing to watch her out of the corner of my eye, appraising her in a way that is entirely out of line. Her warm blonde hair is swept up in a way that invites unpinning—take out that clip, it says, and all that thick, satiny hair will come cascading down. Her dress is simple, cotton, a bit low-cut for church. I try not to stare at the cleavage on display, try not to think about the bra that I think I can see outlined underneath the thin fabric.
I smile at her, not sure why. I'm supposed to be starting my sermon, but I can't take my eyes off her. She smiles back. My heart skips a beat -- What would I do if she was flirting? I hear a cough from the front. I look down to the first pew. Mrs. Tennison is scowling at me. She looks pointedly at her watch, then raises her eyebrow at me. Mrs. Tennison is not one of my biggest fans; she really wanted an old-school priest brought in to take over, when Father Philip retired. Mrs. Tennison disapproves of my sermons ("Too many modern references!") and of me in general ("Too young and too full of himself!") Truth is, Mrs. Tennison hasn't been happy with anything in the Church since Vatican II allowed the change to conducting services in English. She's generally recognized as a huge pain in the ass. As I stand there, admiring Nancy Hough's sister, I think, Mrs. Tennison could probably use a good fuck.
What? Where did that come from? I draw a deep breath, smile at the congregation, welcome them, begin my sermon. As I speak, though, my mind continues to drift elsewhere. I have my notes, thankfully, a roadmap to decency—however, my lascivious thoughts of the night before seem to have unleashed something in me; I discover that I am unable to focus for more than a line or two before this new (or old) lustful self redirects me.
Nora Stevens bends over to pick up the sippy cup dropped by one of her children. It's suddenly clear to me just why John might put up with the insanity of a brood of six. I can see down the front of her super-conservative dress, admire her full breasts from here, the soft tops, the deep cleavage between them. I am wondering what her nipples look like when I remember where I am, what I am doing. I check quickly—no one seems to have noticed. Damn it, I tell myself, keep it together.
Not meaning to, I look toward the Houghs again. I can't remember Nancy's sister's name, but that might be due to the amount of my brain that is concentrated on the image of her full, red lips. Her eyes are fixed on me as I speak; is my sermon so exhilarating as to keep her attention rapt? She smiles again, and I notice that she's sitting uncomfortably straight in the pew. Her back is slightly arched, I think. She's trying to get me to notice that low-cut dress, showing her cleavage to me, like an offering. I look away quickly.
I think of Mrs. Dudley's brownies. They'll still be warm at the coffee. Never been sure how she can keep those brownies warm all through the service, but, indeed they will be. The warm chocolate chips will tease my tongue before melting into a hot, moist bit of heaven that will slip down my throat. Good God, am I seriously getting turned on by brownies? I shake my head a little, trying to clear the crazy out. It doesn't work, just draws my eyes back to Nancy's sister. The tension between us is palpable. She can't keep her eyes off me. I can't help but imagine what those firm, beautiful tits look like bare. Then, just like that, I see her, fully naked in the pew. Her smile suggests that she knows I'm thinking these impure thoughts and likes it. She adjusts in her seat. Is she too hot? I'll bet you are, I think.
