Transgression

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the Lord!” – Psalm 122

Rhonda suggested it as we studied in the library. It was early on a Saturday night, so who was going to be there then? Besides, the risk only made it more intense.

I held Rhonda’s hand as we exited the library and walked to our destination. We said little as the anticipation built.  The grounds were deserted. I tightly clasped her hand as we approached the stately facade of the familiar structure. I spied our surroundings to make sure we entered unobserved. Once inside, we were greeted by darkness. The only light was provided by the flashlight on my cell phone. With it I spotted familiar surroundings: the organ, the altar. To minimize the chance of discovery, our furtive encounter would have to be short. Rhonda hurriedly undid her skirt, letting it drop to the floor. Then she pulled down her panties, latched on to the back of the last pew and bent over….

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Philosopher Georges Bataille believed that transgression is at the heart of eroticism: “The inner experience of eroticism demands from the subject a sensitiveness to the anguish at the heart of the taboo no less great than the desire which leads him to infringe it.” Or as John Hawken says, “The thrill of the forbidden needs the act of forbidding to produce the thrill.” One sexologist puts it more directly: “Of course, the irony of creating a taboo is that, once something is forbidden, it becomes very exciting, kinky and very, very sexy. Everyone knows that naughty sex is hot sex!… So, if, according to your religion, sex is bad (and it usually is), then ‘bad’ becomes very sexy.”

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“More souls have been conceived at Rockefeller Chapel than have been saved there.”

Robert Maynard Hutchins

I entered her from behind, thrusting myself into her with unbridled passion. Her moans and my grunts resonated throughout the chapel. I could hear the sounds of our bodies slapping together. I reached under her Aeropostale sweater, pushed her bra aside, and grabbed her right breast as I continued to pump into her. A feeling of power surged through me. As I pounded her faster and harder, a bizarre image flashed through my mind: it was that of a host of angels blushing as they witness me fucking Rhonda’s brains out. But angels are pure spirit. They know nothing of the lust of the flesh. Or its nonpareil pleasure.

Observers might label our lusty exertions a desecration. Or was our fucking a consecration? As I came inside Rhonda, a deep husky groan signaled my “Amen.” It gently echoed throughout the chapel, the most honest sermon I’ll ever preach.

After we finished, we quickly composed ourselves and exited the chapel.