Reckoning with Lust

It was Friday night. I locked the door to my dorm room. My roommate was gone for the weekend. I took out of my backpack the copy of Maxim I had purchased at a local pharmacy. My purity pledge weighed heavily on me. I had refrained from masturbation since arriving at college. As I pulled the zipper down my pants, my sin was ever before me (cf. Ps 51:3).

Yet Avril beckoned.

My college’s Internet access was filtered, so I had no access to online pornography. This was my portal to sexual release. Unlike other girls of my acquaintance, who were sweet and (ostensibly) pure, Avril Lavigne radiated sex. As I furiously jerked off to Avril, my hypervigilant conscience, if only momentarily, was obliterated. It was only later that I was plunged into shame and tearful repentance.

“Self-gratification” was a sin, a grievous violation of my pledge to purity. Warnings that spilling my seed would invite divine displeasure (Gen 38:9-10) were still vivid in my mind. The same hands with which I hold the Bible should not be defiled by touching myself. I read and reread Every Man’s Battle to fortify myself. As my time in college progressed, however, my struggle against “the secret sin” intensified. Alone in my room, I succumbed again and again to sin. (Elizabeth in my English literature class was a frequent object of my ejaculatory fantasies.) I felt so dirty. But it felt so good.

I eventually summoned the nerve to purchase a copy of Playboy at Barnes & Noble. It all seems very tame in retrospect (Playboy was a relic even then), but possession of pornography, even in its soft-core form, was a serious offense at my school. Enjoying the company of Miss October was a transgressive act. I still recall the delight of discovering, as I unfolded the centerfold, the form of a woman’s naked body and the pleasure it invited. (Although my knowledge about female anatomy was so limited that I initially assumed that women naturally did not grow pubic hair.) A cycle that would becoming achingly familiar started to emerge: Yielding to concupiscence, I sought out sexual gratification, only to be tormented by guilt and regret afterwards. I’d recommit myself to purity and abstain for a period, only to fall yet again into sensuality. My sexual personality was beginning to fracture.

My girlfriend had no idea about my struggles with lust. She devoutly believed that True Love Waits®, so our relationship was resolutely chaste. (We refrained from kissing for a long time.) I strove to honor her purity; I suppressed any sexual desires that arose toward her. The fires of lust continued to smolder, though. It was with an exquisite mixture of arousal and guilt that one night I masturbated in my apartment while my girlfriend was touring with the school choir. I felt so unworthy of her. There she was singing hymns of praise while I lusted over Katy Perry and her two big talents. My commitment to purity was being battered by intense urges I could no longer corral.

There would soon be a reckoning.

She Wasn't Sorry

She wasn’t sorry.

“You could be spending this money on providing water for poor kids in Africa instead of paying for my attention.”

She giggled. “You could be looking for a real girlfriend. It’s so much easier to jerk off for me on the phone, isn’t it?”

My hand tightened around my cock.

“But could you get a young, kinky girl like me? With my perfect skin and sweet pink nipples and round, peach butt and a wardrobe full of slutty clothes?”

Her cute voice camouflaged a dark, erotic cruelty. And I was close to blowing my load just at the sound of her voice.

“Just imagine what your Sunday school students would think about you calling a phone sex line.”

She laughed again.

“You don’t care, though.”

She asked me to describe the last porn I masturbated to.

I hesitated a second before telling her that it featured a real-life mother and daughter getting roughly fucked by two guys.

She teased me about the dark, perverse, taboo thoughts in my mind.

“Tell me about Nicolette.”

Nicolette is an achingly cute young pro-life scholar I met at a conference.

“You want to corrupt her, don’t you?” She paused for a second. “She’s probably not on birth control. That turns you on, doesn’t it?”

She had turned it from porn to personal. I was stroking myself even harder now.

“Tell me you want to fuck Nicolette.”

I want to fuck Nicolette.

“You can’t control yourself when I tease you about that.”

She giggled again.

“You’re going to tell me secrets you would never tell anyone else.”

And I did.

Rush into Perdition

Along with others on our pastoral team, I’ve been reaching out to check-in with parishioners during this plague. The fear is palpable, and my virtual “ministry of presence” seems inadequate. I was drained after this afternoon’s round of phone calls.

Then I thought about The Girl in the Black Dress.

As I watch, she reaches behind her back and unfastens her bra. She seductively removes it, exposing her perky breasts. Then she inserts her fingers into the waistband of her panties. She slides them down her legs, stepping out of them. Her bare, shaved mons pubis is uncovered. Soon she will be spreading her legs for me….

Dr. Jen Gunter writes in The New York Times, “Right now the only safe sex is no sex with partners outside your household.” But I am carnal (cf. Rom 7:14). Sex researcher Justin Lehmiller writes that “we all have different propensities for sexual excitation (getting turned on) and sexual inhibition (getting turned off). Put another way, we all have a ‘gas pedal’ and a ‘brake’ when it comes to sexual arousal. However, some people have a gas pedal that’s always partially pressed (which makes it easier for them to get turned on)….” “Excitation transfer” is the clinical term for how strong emotions — including anxieties about mortality– amplify sexual response. There is historical precedent for this. An Italian historian at the time of the Black Death wrote of survivors, “They rushed headlong into lust.”

Susan Cheever writes, “For a while there is no such thing as ‘too much’ with the object of desire.” That almost ineffable feeling comes over me once more. Palpitations. Exposed by my raging hard-on. Yearning to give in to that throbbing need to fill a cunt hard and fast.

Crazed with spring all I want to do is fuck

Maggie Wells, “Sonnet from the Groin”

Her hands are pressed against the wall, her ass arched toward me. My hands grab her hips as I furiously thrust my pelvis back and forth. Filling her faster and faster, harder and harder. I fuck her with a desperate intensity, my entire being concentrated into this moment. My body tenses and guttural grunts accompany each hard thrust….

Once again, I stand naked before temptation, that “dizzy rush into perdition,” in Bataille’s words. “Temptation is the desire to fall, to fail, to faint and to squander all one’s reserves until there is no firm ground beneath one’s feet.” There is a queasiness from the specter of another fall from grace and the concomitant guilt. There is also anticipation of  “the delirium into which temptation would have him slide.”

Robert Auer, “The Temptation of Saint Anthony,” 1917

The taboo on sexuality which the religious of his own free will carries to extremes, creates in temptation a state of affairs abnormal certainly, but in which the erotic element, rather than undergoing a change, stands out more sharply.

Georges Bataille, Eroticism

One pastor wrote, “Virtue is a state where you have been tempted but have successfully passed the test.” By that definition, I am notably deficient in virtue. Having sipped from sweet stolen waters (Prov 9:17), I seek to slake the thirst of the flesh. Self-control is one of the fruits of the Spirit (Gal 5:23). Yet when I picture The Girl in the Black Dress, I feel helpless before her seductive charms.

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Oscar Wilde

My theology was unable to prevent me from acting out.

These words from an unnamed pastor have recently stuck in my head. “Justification can conquer fornication,” one prominent pastor promised. As I entered divinity school and ministry, however, my sexual failure only became more pronounced. In my earlier quest for purity, I prayed for a “hedge of protection” (cf. Job 1:10) and took up my “sword and shield” (cf. Eph 6). Sex was “the enemy” against which I waged battle. The thorn in my flesh (cf. 2 Cor 12:7) only pressed deeper.

A number of providers have moved to virtual platforms. On Pornhub, a petite redhead is pleasuring herself….

Forbidden Zone

Being absent from church on Sundays has meant being removed from one of my latest fixations: “Rebecca.” One of our newer choir members, more than once have I visually undressed her during service. She vaguely resembles Amanda Seyfried. I find her makeup and dark red lipstick sexually suggestive. (I’ve aggressively imagined the things she could do with her mouth.)

Despite my lusting over several female parishioners, I have not initiated a sexual relationship with any of them. Discretion has compelled me from refraining acting upon my desires. Such relationships between ministers and congregants are expressly forbidden in my church. According to psychiatrist Peter Rutter in Sex in the Forbidden Zone, sex in a professional-client relationship is unethical because it violates the trust placed by the client in her therapist or teacher or clergyman. (In Rutter’s account, the professional is invariably male.) There is an imbalance of power that renders it exploitative. “[C]lergy invite the women under their care to share secrets, sexual and otherwise, that they would never disclose to anyone else.” Robert Carlson believes that among the helping professions, ministers are most vulnerable to sexually inappropriate relationships. One male pastor admitted, “For the pastor there are more situations, more opportunities to act out sexually.” Carlson even warns against fantasizing about a parishioner: “When will and fantasy compete, fantasy always wins.”

The forbidden zone is nonetheless erotically charged. The temptation presented by Rebecca consists not only in her natural sexiness but in her verboten status. The risk of having sex with her is itself an aphrodisiac. A long, hard, pulsating, pounding, and sweat-drenched romp with her in the choir loft, were it to be discovered, would imperil my career in academia and ministry. Dr. Susan Block attributes the association between fear and sex to a reptilian part of our brain that evolution has yet to extinguish “no matter how moral or dignified we may think we are.” (She notes that sex is fittingly depicted as a serpent or a dragon in some cultures.) Rutter insists on the need to develop and maintain boundaries, but concedes their vulnerabilities. “In the moment it feels so easy, so magical, so relieving for us to cross the invisible boundary and merge with the woman in shared passion.” One pastor admitted, “My theology was unable to prevent me from acting out.”

My theology was unable to prevent me from acting out. I’m supposed to practice “celibacy in singleness.” Have my sexual exploits lowered my resistance to engaging in an inappropriate relationship? If the opportunity presented itself, I would find it tough to resist pulling down Rebecca’s panties.

Antidote to Death

Classwork has gone online. Much of my work in ministry is on hold. The Starbucks with the lovely barista (tall and slender with dark rimmed glasses and long brown hair done in a ponytail, her heart-shaped ass an enticing sight before dawn) is closed. The governor has ordered us to stay home except for “life-sustaining” activities. Additionally, a health department has issued guidelines for “Sex and Coronavirus Disease 2019”:

  • If you do have sex with others, have as few partners as possible.
  • If you usually meet your partners online…consider taking a break from in-person dates. Video dates, sexting or chat rooms may be options for you.
  • You are your safest sex partner. Masturbation will not spread COVID-19.

Most of the ladies have gone on hiatus. Yet even a pandemic cannot quell the fires of lust.

Therapist Esther Perel says, “The erotic is an antidote to death.” In The Black Death and the Transformation of the West, historian David Herlily writes that “revulsion toward death and the dead” expressed itself in sexual abandonment, most notably in orgies in cemeteries. The cemetery at Avignon Champfleur became so notorious that prostitutes solicited their services there, and a papal official threatened “fornicators and adulterers” with excommunication for their “unseemly acts.” The bacchanals were a “celebration of…victory, however temporary, over death.” Fucking was an act of existential defiance. (Boccaccio noted that this lowering of inhibitions was “a cause of looser morals in those women who survived.”)

Social distancing? I crave the embrace of a woman. That exquisite moment of penetration, the rhythmic pulsations accompanying bodies in heat, the trembling surrender of orgasmic release — social distances are obliterated during sex.

Porn and phone sex are erotic outlets during this season of imposed celibacy.

Exquisite Agony

I rearranged my schedule to accommodate my appointment with “Alexis.” Early this morning I found it difficult to focus on my preparations for tonight’s evangelization class. I found myself rereading her flirty e-mails. The anticipation was exquisite agony.

Then she texted me her phone number.

We verified our appointment. I wrapped up my work and prepared myself. I went to the ATM to withdraw the funds for the “donation,” which I placed in a plain white envelope. Then I made the two hour drive to her incall. When I arrived I pulled into the parking lot and texted her. She promptly responded with the apartment number. I made my way up. The door to the apartment was slightly ajar as promised. I went inside.

Without saying a word, she gave me a hug and kissed me softly. She then smiled.

“Hi.”

A busty little package in a red camisole, stockings, and stilettos, Alexis invited me to join her by the fireplace. She was hosting at a friend’s apartment. She said she returned to school full-time and is studying psychology. Her sultry blue eyes were captivating. She told me I was overdressed and proceeded to rectify that by unbuttoning my shirt. Guiding me to the bedroom, she continued to undress me. She got on her knees and took me into her mouth. As she performed, she stared at me with her blue eyes. It was an incredible sight. My knees buckled, and a groan I couldn’t stifle emerged from deep within me. Then she swallowed.

She climbed onto the bed, and spread her legs apart. I nestled my head between her thighs and plunged my tongue into her slit. As I pleasured her with my mouth, my hands caressed her soft skin. She made the cutest little sounds.

“I want to ride your dick,” she moaned.

She pushed me back onto the bed and put on the condom. She climbed on top and started riding me reverse cowgirl. She ended up on her hands and knees. I gave her ass a nice smack.

“Oh, that turns me on, baby.”

I smacked her ass again.

“You dirty boy!”

Then I grabbed her hair and started thrusting harder, pulling her back into every thrust. I continued pumping into her until I erupted again. I collapsed on the bed, spent.

We chatted on the bed afterwards. There was a new strip club in town she wanted to visit. Then it was time to get dressed. She had to get to class. I had to make the long drive back to church. She gave me a deep kiss as I departed.

All About That Bass

Alexandra is a fat girl. I’m not being cruel. That’s how she describes herself. Her fleshiness suggests a superabundant sensuality.

A multiplicity of female body types entices me. Perhaps my attraction to BBWs stems from my first girlfriend, who was heavier.

Alexandra returned, staying at a classy upscale hotel downtown. She met me in her room wearing only a sexy blue matching set of bra and panties that showed off her awe-inspiring curves. As we sat on the bed and got reacquainted, she sweetly caressed my thigh. On the nightstand by the bed was a bottle of water, a bottle of Sex Grease, several wrapped condoms, and lip balm. Then she jumped right into the action. She planted a deep, wet kiss on my mouth. I reciprocated, and our tongues became intertwined. I had to unleash those tits. I reached behind her back and unfastened her bra. She wiggled out of it, and I immersed my face in her massive mammaries. After ample attention was paid to her formidable assets, I undressed. Her panties came off. She crawled on the bed between my legs. Her tongue tantalizingly flickered around the head of my cock. Then, slowly, her lips enveloped my cock. Her blue eyes stared into mine as she licked and sucked. I let out a deep sigh. Her talented mouth continued its work for quite a while. Then she reached for a condom on the nightstand.

Her sweet southern charm belies her lascivious nature. This girl is dirty. “How bad do you want it?” she teased. She got on top and started to gyrate, slowly at first, then her pace accelerated. Her breasts furiously bounced up and down. She then rolled on her stomach, her juicy ass in the air. I couldn’t restrain the urge to spank it. “Show me what you’ve got for me,” she sighed. I pushed inside her and grabbed her hips. Her big ass bounced as I thrust. She urged me to go deeper. I went harder, faster. She slammed her ass back against me. Finally I released.

“That part of us we don’t share”

She complimented me on my eyes. Then she said, “Behind beautiful eyes lie deep dark secrets.”

“We all have that part of us we don’t share with those around us,” she continued.

I made the trek by train to see “Claudette.” She was visiting in a nearby city. I saw her account on Twitter, and her sophistication intrigued me. I called her when I arrived at her upscale hotel. She gave me her room number. When I knocked on the door of her room, a tall blonde in her 40s opened the door. She gave me a peck on the cheek and invited me inside her darkened room. Flickering candles and soft music added to the ambience. She invited me to take a seat on the sofa, then sat next to me. Our ensuing conversation revealed a fascinating woman. Born and raised on a NATO base in Belgium, she’s a native francophone, and her speech still bears a faint accent. Educated, well-traveled, and literate (she just finished reading Sapiens, a history of early humankind), she seemed a modern incarnation of the courtesans of the Renaissance. She was interested in my studies, although she confessed to being “spiritual but not religious.” Her alluring blue eyes captivated me.

Then she started kissing me.

We made out on the sofa. My hand made its way up one of her long legs. She suggested we move to the bed. Her robe came off. So did my clothing. We made out some more on the bed, then her lips moved down my chin, across my chest, down my stomach. Her hand reached down and gently caressed my balls. Her lips moved past my pubic region. She kissed the head of my cock before her mouth enveloped it. I ran my hand through her long silky blonde mane. She is an artist with her mouth, and the pleasure was ineffable.

She grabbed a condom package from the nightstand, tore it open, and slipped the condom on. She straddled my thighs and slowly impaled herself on me. Her hips rocked in a slow, rhythmic motion. I squeezed her breasts, then ran my hands down to her hips. Her hips rocked harder and faster. I thrust my hips up to meet her. Her fingers pressed deep into my chest. A few more desperate thrusts and I released a deep orgasmic groan.

As we lay on the bed afterwards, post-coital tristesse set in. “It’s all in the mind,” she softly said. Then I dressed. She gave me a warm kiss goodbye. I exited the hotel into the bustling city.

Lupercalia

Colleen hinted that she’d like to have dinner on Valentine’s Day. Not wanting to invest the day with excess meaning (and wanting to avoid the crowds), I agreed to a more modest coffee date on Sunday. Besides, I detest this commercialized confection of chocolate, flowers, and saccharine romance.

Yet lust abides.

The ancient Romans celebrated the festival of Lupercalia on February 15. “The festival was to enable or facilitate fertility,” according to Kresimir Vukovic, a postdoctoral fellow at the Catholic University of Croatia. The festival very much had a “sexual aspect.” Mosaics from the era depict naked women being struck by strips of skin from sacrificed goats by priests of the god Lupercus.

This afternoon I felt especially lupercalian. I made a phone call to Joyce. Sara was unavailable, so Joyce recommended “Jamie.” We set up an appointment for early evening. I prepared myself and made my way to the incall apartment near the museum.

When I arrived at the apartment, I was greeted with a soft kiss by a mature, tall, slender redhead in stockings. She wished me a happy Valentine’s Day. She offered me a drink (I declined) and led me to the bedroom. She didn’t waste any time.

“Ready to have some fun?”

Seconds later my clothes were off. Her warm mouth enclosed around my bulging cock. She began to bob her head up and down. I ran my fingers through her red tresses. She then straddled me and slid the condom on. I sighed as my cock pressed inside her. She pressed her hands down on my chest as she rode me, her pert breasts bouncing. I grabbed her hips as my hips thrust off the bed. Then she turned around and bent her behind toward me. I got up on my knees behind her, smacked her ass, and slowly pushed myself inside of her. I placed my hands around her waist. The bed creaked as my thighs slapped against her ass. No chocolate. No flowers. No empty professions of affection. Just flesh on flesh. After some frenzied thrusts, a guttural grunt exited my throat.

We lounged on the bed afterwards. She said Valentine’s Day is usually quiet for her. Most of her clientele are married. “If he’s not getting sex from his wife, he’ll seek it elsewhere,” she said.

She offered me a shower, which I availed myself to. Then I got dressed. She gave me a light kiss and wished me good night. I exited the apartment and headed out into the winter chill.

Sexploration

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.