Colleen reached out to me over the holidays. We hadn’t seen each other since last spring. It was nice to hear her voice. After meeting for coffee (one of her passions) we tentatively rekindled our relationship. I’m accompanying her to hear Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 3 this weekend.
Colleen is smart and lovely. She’s a companion for coffee dates and Bible study, for walks in the park and chaste hugs at the end of the night. Yet I find it hard to develop any sort of sexual attraction toward her. Even the vaguest erotic thoughts about her are quickly suppressed. Her commitment to purity negates her as an object of desire. She’s a “good girl” – virtuous, innocent, chaste, virginal. By putting her on a pedestal, I’ve de-eroticized her.
So my gaze wanders to the Whore. The Whore is impure. Debased. Stripped of any pretense to sanctity, the Whore is the one who’ll give me a dirty blowjob on her knees in a dark corner. That fallen “daughter of Eve,” the temptress and seducer who entices me to yield to my corruptibility: “For although the devil tempted Eve, yet Eve seduced Adam” (Malleus Maleficarum, 1484).
My attempts to sublimate my sexual drives have proven unsuccessful. I continue to date “good girls”:
Yet I continue to lust after sluts:
Seeing Colleen only intensifies the dichotomy that defines my sexual life. With Colleen I’m considerate and unfailingly chaste. I can’t even imaging doing anything inappropriate with her. The sinful flesh will not be denied, however. My aspirations for purity are no match for my erotic impulses. Today I made an appointment to visit Betty.
Betty has moved closer to my residence, making our regular rendezvous even more convenient. She met me at her spartan incall apartment wearing a skin-tight black dress that highlighted her ample bosom. I set down the donation, and we made small talk on the couch. Perhaps she sensed I was in an especially amorous mood, for she asked if we would like to get “comfortable” after just a few minutes. Her black dress came off. So did my pants. The condom came on. Soon I was running my fingers through her soft black hair as she orally pleasured me. Then Betty accommodated my request and bent over the bed. I moved behind her and slowly entered her. Through it all, I was conscious of my impending date with Colleen. Guilt over my transgression hovered over me. Yet I confess that it also produced an erotic charge that intensified the pleasure I experienced. As I furiously fucked Betty, I gloried in my shame (cf. Phil 3:19).
Lutheran Guilt 