On the cusp of the seventeenth century, a Neapolitan apothecary found himself before the Inquisition. The matter at hand was the forbidden fruit that got Adam and Eve expelled from Eden. Was it a fig? A pear? An apple? The apothecary applied a more figurative interpretation:

“An apple? Adam fucked Eve in the ass, and that’s why they were rejected from Paradise.”

Umberto Grassi in his unusual book What God Kept for Himself: Atheism, Sodomy, and Radical Dissent in Renaissance Italy documents religious dissenters (which included both avowed libertines and professed friars) on trial for heresy who testified before Inquisitors that the original sin was Adam sodomizing Eve. “[P]reachers did not say this from the pulpit out of decency,” one defendant said, but the evidence can be deduced from the text. A French philosopher observed, “The apple which tempted our first father was the symbol of the rear parts of the woman, which very well represents an apple split in half.” As another more bluntly put it, “Adam’s apple was Eve’s butt.” This led to the conclusion, according to one of the accused, that Adam sinned by “sticking [his penis] into her ass” instead of “putting it into her cunt.” The Dutch scholar Hadriaan Beverland in his book On Original Sin (which has been called “perhaps the kinkiest work of philosophy to have been published in modern Europe”) described Eve’s behavior in more detail:

She is in heat, desirous, obtrusive, and promiscuous….[T]he little virgin…contemplates the very desirable extended tree stem, apt and pleasing to her sex….[She] rouses his very innocent member with her wanton hand and flattering words….[Eve] turned around and on hands and knees, had awkwardly presented her narrow asshole….

Implicit in this exegesis was a critique of the clerical establishment that exalted celibacy (sex within the confines of marriage was tolerated for those incapable of continence) during the Counter-Reformation. A Venetian noble tied his belief that Eve was sodomized in Eden to his advocacy of the abolition of priestly celibacy. In Renaissance burlesque poetry and novellas, it was suggested that the Church condemned anal sex simply because its pleasures were so sublime. “These celestial delights are hidden…under a curtain of horror in order not to give them in abundance to anyone,” one satirist wrote. In Sicily, one accused heretic told the Inquisition that he tried to persuade a woman reluctant to engage in anal sex with him by assuring her that the act was worthy of being consummated on the altars of Rome.

The Inquisitors were not unaware of the implication that taboo sex acts were not only social and moral transgressions, but gateways to doubt. One frisky friar was recorded as testifying that he “valued more knowing carnally a woman…than the whole paradise together.” Sodomy, in particular, opens up vistas that occlude religious belief. A courtesan in one Renaissance work says, “A pair of luscious buttocks can accomplish more than all that the philosophers, astrologists, alchemists and necromancers have ever wrought.” In another text we learn, “From the mixing of the cunt, prick and ass, knowledge of fucking and buggery follows, and thus scientia is enlarged.” One of the dissenters was on trial for his belief in both lapsarian sodomy and Copernican heliocentrism. The “glamorous celebration of sexual debauchery,” in Beverland’s words, announced the death of God. Historian Alec Ryrie, who has studied early modern atheism, admits that “instinctive, inarticulate, intuitive reasons” can be foundational for unbelief.

Such as the rapturous sight of a pair of luscious buttocks.

Let me ask you something, gentlemen.

What is it that gives a schoolgirl her special innocence?

Her sweet fragrance? Fresh flowers? Light as a spring rain?…

Or is it her firm young flesh inviting your every caress, enticing you to…

explore her deepest and most private secrets.

Well gentlemen, I’m gonna let you decide that one for yourselves.

The DJ in Exotica (1994)

She was in front of me in line at the coffee shop. Her long red hair was tied in a ponytail. The words "NOTRE DAME ACADEMY" embroidered on her blue sweater bulged from her chest. Sheer white socks. A short pleated plaid skirt. She ended up sitting at the table in front of mine, where she was joined by her blonde-haired friend wearing the same plaid skirt. At one point she stretched out her smooth, taut legs, her skirt scandalously (and tantalizingly) short.

I wondered what kinds of things she likes to do after Mass.

In the film Exotica, one of the strip club’s performers (Mia Kirshner) appears on stage dressed as a Catholic schoolgirl—white shirt, tie, short plaid skirt, black stockings, black Mary Jane shoes. The club’s DJ introduces her as a “sassy bit of jailbait.” She seductively dances to Leonard Cohen’s “Everybody Knows,” flashing her white panties beneath her skirt. To one patron she unbuttons her shirt and bares her breasts.

“What is it about a schoolgirl?”

Perhaps nothing fuels men’s fantasies more than a little plaid skirt.

The Catholic Girl’s Guide to Sex

“There is something powerfully erotic about Catholic schoolgirl uniforms,” Glenn O’Brien writes in a book of photographs of a young model clad (scantily) in such an outfit. According to one critic, “The plaid skirt of a Catholic school girl is an icon of flirtatious innocence, coupling as it does the generous exposure of toned, nubile flesh with the presumption of a pious virgin’s sexual purity. It is, frankly, the closest that organized religion has ever come to immanentizing the eschaton.” Another guy says, “The combination of their forbidden status and those sexy plaid-skirt uniforms is enough to give any man with a pulse an erection.” One former exotic dancer remembers, “By far the most requested look was the quintessential Catholic schoolgirl with the short plaid skirt and white top.” I’ve had sex with more than one escort wearing a plaid skirt.

One feminist scholar who once taught at an all-girls Catholic high school writes that her memories of her time there are comprised of “visions of girls in blue and white plaid skirts…the uniform selected out of the desire for girls to become scholars and stay virgins.” Not many of them stay virgins, of course. “I lost my virginity with a Catholic girl,” one writer attests of his teenage initiation into sex. “There is more sweat and desperation in their lovemaking than the public school girls.” Despite the prospect of incurring the penalty of mortal sin (“going all the way” means going to Hell), a Catholic girl will “spread her legs like the Red Sea” when she gets the chance. Chalk it up to sexual repression. For one former Catholic school student, sex education consisted of learning that “prayer is, in fact, every Catholic girl’s first line of defense against semen.” That was too much for the parents of one of her classmates, who enrolled her in an even stricter Catholic school. “That girl eventually went on to become an escort in Las Vegas,” she notes. (I will confirm that a disproportionate number of the call girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing were raised Catholic.)

When I was an adolescent struggling with hormones and holiness, a body spray was heavily marketed to my demographic. “SPRAY MORE, GET MORE,” one tagline promised. The campaign wasn’t subtle. The executive behind it described it thusly: “It has this amazing effect that once you spray it on, any woman would fall for you.” The product’s fragrance, according to its website, “acts upon the female libido and stimulates the clothing-removal section of the female brain.” One early commercial presented an attractive blonde so overwhelmed by the scent on a male mannequin, she proceeded to essentially dry hump it. A print ad juxtaposed a can of spray and a pair of panties around a woman’s ankles. Other ads were similarly provocative.

Then there was the commercial with the Mormon missionary who makes the hot, horny women in the neighborhood receptive to his solicitations. It’s unclear whether he proceeds to convert them or fuck them. (The shot of the hottie in a tight tank top holding a garden hose that suddenly spurts suggests the latter.)

The sexless academics in women’s studies departments predictably condemned the campaign as sexist, but those commercials certainly reached their target audience. The premise is ridiculous, of course, but the thought that by spraying some heavily-scented deodorant on my gangly teen body I could make myself attractive to girls (who were both a mystery and an obsession) was compelling. The tension came from the fantasy of transforming the pure, virginal girls at my Christian school into “lust-crazed vixens.” (The “sluts” at the public high school were presumably easier to entice.)

“I want you to like me.”

She sat on my lap; she undoubtedly felt my erection through my pants and the fabric of her black skirt. I untied her lacy top.

“We can have a really good time….”

I reached around her back and unclasped her bra, (size 38G!!!). She took off her bra. She asked me to feel how heavy her tits are. She straddled me as I fondled her breasts and sucked on her nipples (which were very responsive). I grabbed her ass, then slowly moved my hand underneath her skirt. My fingers traced the outline of her panties before probing her bush underneath. I started fingering her.

Having been “entertained” by so many women, I’ve learned that there’s no stereotypical member of this profession. A self-described “nerdy girl,” she looked the part: thick glasses framed her plain Jane face. Her interests in sci-fi, anime, and Renaissance fairs also confirmed her description. She was a bit chubby, which wasn’t unwelcome since it contributed to the size of her big boobs. Our conversation was awkward. But ultimately I wasn’t there to converse.

By now she had unzipped my pants and was playing with my cock, lubricated by my precum. She had earlier admitted to being submissive and eager to please. So she dropped to her knees before pulling down my pants. She made a joke about being a “headmaster.” I asked her to keep her glasses on. Her soft lips took me deep in her mouth. Soon her saliva was dripping onto my balls. She must have sensed that I was approaching orgasm. I wanted her to swallow my load. She sucked on the head of my cock, and I erupted in her mouth and on her lips. Some of my cum dripped off her chin.

She placed a pad on the bed.

“I’m a squirter,” she said.

She lay back on the bed and spread her legs wide open. I found myself mesmerized by the sight of her hairy cunt. She squirmed and giggled as I went down on her. She hopped off the bed and reached for her Hitachi on the nightstand. She pleasured herself with it, squealing with delight, then…started squirting.

After she cleaned up a bit, she told me, “Put me where you want me.”

I had her lay back on the bed. She dabbed some lube between her breasts. I straddled her chest and furiously fucked her tits. She put on a condom, got on top, and started riding me slowly before accelerating her tempo, her ginormous tits swaying and bouncing in my face. I had her stand up and bend over the bed (she had a nicely-shaped ass). I grabbed onto her hips as I fucked her hard and fast. I didn’t take long for me to come again.

We haltingly chatted in bed afterwards. She had previously worked as a barista. The alarm on her phone went off, signaling that our hour was up. We got dressed. After a hug (during which I groped her ass and boobs one last time), I made my way out.

I overheard a conversation in a fast food establishment during the recently concluded Winter Olympics. Two guys expressed their admiration for female figure skaters. Or more precisely, admiration for their butts and crotches exposed in skimpy costumes on the ice. It was expressed crudely, but I certainly shared their admiration.

As an adolescent struggling to remain “pure,” I remember being enraptured by the flexibility of one skater. It wasn’t so much her athleticism but the suggestiveness of her poses (legs spread). And the sight of her exposed crotch. My naivety about the female body heightened my fascination. It amounted to a display of naughty exhibitionism.

A decade ago, The Globe and Mail came under intense criticism for printing on its front page a photo of a Canadian figure skater that prominently featured her crotch as she lifted her leg. Sour feminists complained that such photos sexually objectify female athletes and are a form of “upskirting” (defined as “the practice of making unauthorized photographs under a female’s skirt, capturing an image of her crotch area and underwear.“) My response is that any display of a nubile woman, her attractive body toned through athletic exertion and enhanced by a sexy costume, in which she teases an audience with tantalizing glimpses of her barely concealed private parts, is bound to attract male attention.

Katarina Witt won two Olympic gold medals for the German Democratic Republic in the 1980s, but her fame didn’t derive from her technical mastery of her routines. Dubbed “the most beautiful face of socialism,” she flirted with the audience while skating in revealing costumes. Time magazine called her “Sex on Skates.” (After the Iron Curtin fell, it was discovered in the archives of the Stasi that an agent had listened in on Witt having sex with an American at an East German hotel. The agent noted with bureaucratic precision: “Sexual intercourse took place from 20.00 until 20.07.”) No longer bound by the constraints of socialism, she went on to capitalize on her sex appeal and appeared in Playboy sans costume.

(Witt wasn’t the only ice skater whose sexual exploits were recorded. Tonya Harding’s sex tape was one of the best selling pornographic videos of the 1990s. I recently discovered it online and watched it – for research, of course. Her skill at riding cowgirl was impressive.)

A cold late morning in winter. I had ventured onto a side street in the old city and made my way to the apartment building. That morning I had felt, in Auden’s words, “an intolerable neural itch.”

And an itch needs to be scratched.

“Sara” is an athletic petite All-American blonde. Experience this mature seductress for a mutually rewarding experience.

I was buzzed into the building. She met me at the door to the loft with a sweet smile, and I was let in. She was wearing a lacy black top, a short black skirt, black thigh-high stockings, and heels. Very slutty. Sara’s in her forties now, but her body’s toned and tight. She led me to her bedroom. I placed the “donation” on the nightstand. She offered me a glass of water and said she had taken the train into the city. We exchanged a few generic pleasantries, but Sara isn’t much of a conversationalist. But I wasn’t there to talk. Besides, her mouth would soon be occupied with other activities.

We sat on a couch. I slid my hand beneath her skirt. My fingers reached into her thong panties; I brushed my hand against her trimmed patch of pubic hair. She responded by rubbing her hand over my crotch and fondling my erect cock through my pants. She climbed onto my lap, slowly grinding on me through my pants. I thrust my tongue deep into her mouth. We continued to make out for a while. Then I pulled her right breast out of her top and started to suck on her nipple. Her nipple got hard. She started moaning very faintly.

She stood up and led me to the bed. We methodically removed our clothing. Before I removed my glasses, I took time to admire her pert ass. I sat on the edge of the bed. She dropped to her knees, lowered her head, and started sucking my cock. The little noises she emitted as she sucked me off were very erotic. I placed my hand behind her head and guided her ministrations. Her oral technique is superb. After several minutes of bliss, I warned her that I was about to come.

With my cock still in her mouth, she replied, “Mmm hmm.”

My balls tightened, and as I gripped her head, I cried out my pleasure and came in her mouth.

She got up and went to the bathroom sink to spit it out. But we weren’t done. After she cleaned me up with a warm wet washcloth, I quickly became aroused again.

“Let’s fuck,” she said sweetly as she straddled my hips.

I asked, “Should we get out the condom?”

“That would be wise,” she said.

She slipped the condom on. I lay on my back. She mounted me. My hands clasped her waist, my fingers pressed deep into her flesh, as she rode me like a wild woman. I enjoyed watching her breasts bounce as her hair became disheveled. She then rolled over and positioned her legs over my shoulders. I drove myself deep into her, not mistaking our coupling for anything other than what it was. It was, in D.H. Lawrence’s words, “cold-hearted fucking.” No emotion besides lust. It was brutally mechanical and impersonal. There was nothing loving or redemptive about it. The will to pleasure.

“Yeah, give it to me again!” she cried out.

My body tensed as I approached climax. Then I let out an almost desperate groan.

After a brief rest, I started to get dressed. We didn’t speak as we prepared for my departure. We shared a tentative hug, then I exited the loft into the winter cold in preparation for a pastoral appointment.

As I walked to her apartment in the winter dusk, I passed the Congregational church. The darkness helped conceal my clandestine visit. I had arrived directly from my position at a parachurch ministry, one that promoted conservative “family values.” Despite my public pretense of continence, my visits were becoming more frequent – almost weekly. The external expectations of holiness no longer restrained my inner lust. My guilt weighed heavily upon me. I still maintained illusions of renewing my purity. When the temptation to sin had arisen earlier, I coarsely pleaded to be relieved of it.

He found himself confronted by a choice as to his desire for the more accurate knowledge of the one great fascinating mystery that had for so long confronted and fascinated and baffled and yet frightened him a little.

Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy

But Leigh was such a sweet fuck.

She was his favorite sin. She was not a habit for him anymore, she was an obsession.

Akshay Vasu, The Abandoned Paradise

The door opened slightly, and I discreetly entered her apartment. Despite the dim light, the sight of Leigh, her dark brown hair tied up, dressed only in her black lingerie made my cock throb. She offered me a glass of wine. The libation only intensified my arousal. We went up to her bedroom. My lack of sexual experience meant that Leigh had become my de facto sexual tutor. And I was a willing student. As she untied her hair, I unbuttoned my shirt. Her lingerie came off. So did my pants. She pulled a condom out of a small chestnut box. She positioned herself on the bed and spread her legs, offering herself to me.

I had forsaken purity for pussy.

His was a disposition easily and often intensely inflamed by the chemistry of sex and the formula of beauty. He could not easily withstand the appeal, let alone the call, of sex.

Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy

I had long felt the stirrings of carnal longing. Now I was (literally) penetrating the mysteries of sex, made all the more intense because they had been forbidden for so long. I felt in my body the truth of the words penned by the Arabic poet Ibn Hambis: “When two bodies meet and are consumed with passion, the fruits of pleasure are harvested as soon as they are planted.”

I felt Leigh grasp my ass, as if she wanted to drive me even deeper inside her.

“Go for it! Go for it! Go for it!” she cried out.

There may come a time when you will wish you had never tasted the fruit from the tree of knowledge.

Louise Hawes, A Flight of Angels

There was no return to innocence.