My involvement in ecumenical social ministry took me downtown to a church this morning for a presentation on Catholic Social Teaching. Afterwards I made the acquaintance of the presenter, “Brigid.” She works for the diocese (she played a role in the preparations for the pope’s visit a few years ago) and is a Ph.D. candidate in theology at a Catholic university. Brigid is smart and vivacious. She comes from a large Irish Catholic family and mentioned her nieces and nephews. She’s in her 30s, pretty, with long black hair that drapes her shoulders. We talked about a project of common interest and, despite our busy schedules, agreed to try and arrange a time when we can meet again. As we departed, I noticed that her modest jacket and skirt did not hide her hourglass figure.
After leaving the church, I decamped for the Barnes and Noble cafe to do some studying for a couple of hours. I then made my way along the square in the light rain until I passed a certain shop.
Nestled in an old brownstone, it’s an upscale erotic boutique. I hesitated. Arousal surged within me. I glanced around to make sure nobody recognized me. Then I discreetly made my way inside.
“Can I help you?” asked a Rubenesque middle-aged lady. I tentatively responded I was “just looking.” “Just ask if you need anything,” she cheerfully responded.
It was an erotic paradise. Lingerie and fetishwear were displayed near the front of the store. It made Victoria’s Secret look prudish. A vast array of corsets were on display, and there was no shortage of latex. (I was particularly smitten with the latex schoolgirl uniform and the outfit inspired by Black Widow.)
There were shelves stocked with lotions and potions, including Kama Sutra Honey Dust.
Literary tastes were not ignored. A bookshelf contained such titles as Pagan Polyamory and Philosophy in the Dungeon. A collection of burlesque photos of Dita von Teese caught my eye.
Near the back, there were whips and chains. And there were toys. Lots of toys (or what euphemistically used to be described as “marital aids”). Dildos, Fleshlights (I inspected the Angela White model), rabbit-style vibrators, remote controlled vibrators — imagine the hundreds of potential orgasms.
The lipstick-shaped vibrator was especially stylish.
It was then that I remembered Brigid.
Modest Brigid has probably never set foot in a store like this. Or has she? Catholic girls can be surprisingly kinky. Even the pious ones. I imagined Brigid slipping off her long skirt, revealing her lacy white panties. She grabs a phallic-shaped device. It starts to vibrate. The Catechism of the Catholic Church states that masturbation is “intrinsically and gravely disordered.” Brigid knows she is about to commit a mortal sin. She pulls down her panties and spreads her legs. Her body quivers as she slides the head of the vibrator into her pussy. She writhes as she works it in and out of her, her face contorted in beautiful agony. The vibrator, when it is exposed, glistens with her secreted juices. She fucks herself harder. Her pussy tingles. She arches her back and cries out as she comes. Her sin is consummated.
I purchased the Dita von Teese book and a bottle of spearmint Kama Sutra Pleasure Balm.
Lutheran Guilt 