“Not convents but whorehouses”

Springtime’s not made for living like a nun.

John Ormond, “To a Nun”

The vow of chastity for a nun, Elizabeth Abbott notes in A History of Celibacy, was the supreme vow. Especially for those who had entered the convent unwillingly, keeping that vow proved “immensely difficult.” Abbott reports, “Though the majority of nuns likely remained chaste, a significant minority faltered and fell.” Some convents were “hopelessly dissolute.” An English abbess bore twelve children. Cannington in Sommerset was described as a bordello. (One nun in particular enjoyed “feverish sex” with a lecherous chaplain.) “Nuns arranged rendezvous within and without the convent and sometimes shucked off the habit.” Some Anglo-Saxon kings plucked their mistresses from the convents. At the Watton nunnery in Yorkshire in the twelfth century, a young nun was discovered to have seduced a laborer; Aelred of Rievaulx wrote, “She went out a Virgin of Christ, and she soon returned an adulteress.” She also returned pregnant. If anything, conventual misbehavior was even more egregious on the continent. Boccaccio’s tales in The Decameron had some basis in reality. In late 15th century Venice, one friar preached in the basilica that the nunneries “not convents but whorehouses.” Thirty-three convents were prosecuted for enabling fornication with nuns. At the Benedictine Sant’Angelo di Contorta, the nuns engaged in “dissolute deeds” in their cells and birthed illegitimate children. Two abbesses fornicated with both aristocrats and commoners. The pope shut it down in 1474. Benedictine nuns in Milan so egregiously violated their vows that, according to city councilors in 1538, they were nothing more than “lay prostitutes.”

After Vatican II (which coincided with the start of the sexual revolution), over 300,000 nuns renounced their vows. The incapacity to remain chaste undoubtedly explained much of the exodus. (A teaching nun confessed that she knew she had to exit religious life when she started having “dreams and fantasies about my eighth-grade boys.”)

Easter Monday

Easter Monday. A respite after a Holy Week crammed with liturgies, practices, and social events. Despite my spiritual struggles, I faithfully served my parish. On Maundy Thursday, the congregation had communally confessed, “We have sinned in thought, word, and deed.” On Sunday, in lieu of Sunday School, we gathered for Easter Breakfast. I struggled to keep my eyes from darting toward the slender blonde MILF in her white dress and envisioning how talented she must be in bed.

I had sinned in thought. Now I would sin in deed.

The prostitute represents the unconscious which enables us to put aside our responsibilities.

Charles Baudelaire

I went online searching for possible encounters. I had seem “Jane’s” ads before. She’s a mature woman who occasionally visits from the Pacific Northwest. On short notice, she would do. I called her directly and was answered by a soft-spoken lady. She was hosting at a motel across the river. We quickly set something up. I hurriedly prepared for our encounter, retrieved the needed “donation,” and battled the rush hour traffic as I made my way across the bridge.

When I finally arrived, she opened the door wearing a long black dress and gave me a hug and a light kiss. Jane had been a teacher for many years; now she was ostensibly devoted to another form of education. An awkward conversation soon gave way to our tongues in each other’s mouths. After I discreetly placed the donation down on the desk she immediately she pressed her huge ass against my cock. She invited me to get comfortable and started undressing me while I stripped off her bra and panties. She played with my erect cock as we embraced. She proceeded with a CBJ.

But I needed a view of that ass.

Jane had quite simply the largest derriere I’ve encountered among the many escorts I’ve visited. I bent her over the bed to marvel at it. All the responsibilities I have at church and in the classroom were set aside. I applied the condom myself before moving behind that bodacious butt and mounting her. I grabbed onto those massive cheeks and just started pumping. The room resounded with the sounds of my pelvis smacking against her ample flesh and her moans.

Take it, I grunted as I started to perspire. Take it. My body strained to penetrate her ever more deeply. Finally I couldn’t hold out any longer. My fingers dug deep into her ass cheeks as I groaned my pleasure.

We parted with a peck on the lips.

Titillating Naughtiness

Was Hooters forced into bankruptcy because it’s no longer sexy enough?

Annie Joy Williams in The Atlantic suggests just that. “Hooters knew how to sell just enough sex to be palatable to people like my Southern Baptist neighbors” in Tennessee, she writes. Conservative churchgoing men could ogle buxom young women under the pretense of ordering chicken wings. The “titillating naughtiness of Hooters,” of “smacking the ass of the woman wearing the tight shorts,” as one academic puts it, was its raison d’etre. Now, according to a former Hooters waitress who decamped to dance at a strip club, the restaurant chain is “just too tame for today’s customers.” In an age of OnlyFans, girls in tight t-shirts and shorts aren’t sexy enough.

One prominent evangelical theologian sees Hooters’ potential demise as an opportunity for evangelization: “The Hooters parking lot down the road might be emptier than it used to be. But will your church’s lot be fuller?”

Without an abundance of female flesh, probably not.

Not-So Frozen Chosen

So much for the “frozen chosen….”

A British historian is researching sexual misbehavior among Presbyterians in Ireland and North America in the 18th and early 19th centuries. Her research “asks what Presbyterian women and men in past centuries got up under the sheets (or, in many cases outside in fields, barns, up against a tree or on the roadside).” She writes:

As a historian of Presbyterian sexuality, I want to assure you all that these Presbyterian folk far from deserve this prudish reputation. A scroll through the records of the Presbyterian church courts brings to light a whole range of naughty goings-on. Stolen trysts in fields and forests; heavy petting and dry-humping on the roadside; misbehaving ministers riding drunk on horseback, seducing the wives of their church members; runaway wives and bigamous husbands; and enough baby-mama drama to rival any soap opera abound in the records.

According to the Westminster Confession, one of the purposes of marriage is the “preventing of Uncleanness.” “Unmarried (and married) persons who engaged in illicit sexual activity were labelled as fornicators and subjected to discipline by Presbyterian church courts.” Discipline generally consisted of a “public rebuke,” in which the offender acknowledged his transgression before the whole congregation and without which the sacraments were withheld. Public shaming served to uphold communal standards of behavior. “Historians of Presbyterianism, in both Ulster and Scotland, have noted that the discipline of sexual misdemeanours accounted for a large proportion of church business.”

A social media feed recounts some of her findings:

Perhaps a historian will next examine licentious Lutherans.

Yoga Pants

Early spring. Days grow longer. Daffodils are already in bloom. Easter approaches. And at a nearby coffee shop, in line in front of me was a cute coed with a long, blond ponytail in yoga pants. My eyes veered downward and admired her tight young ass. Then, as she spun toward a table, I surreptitiously glanced at her crotch.

I had already sinned (cf. Mt 5:28). But I desired to fully consummate it.

Purity culture instructed me that “women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control” (1 Tim 2:9). A few years ago, a prominent Christian blogger announced that she was refusing to wear “lust-inspiring” yoga pants and leggings. The message I received as a young man was, “Don’t think about sex.” But the blonde coed in front of me made it almost impossible to heed that admonition.

“Modest is Hottest!”

The school day at my private Christian high school began with Chapel. One morning, as usual, my classmate Caroline was in attendance. She was tall and slender, her pretty face accented by her blond hair. She stood out on that morning. Unlike the other girls in their long skirts, Caroline presented herself in a short plaid skirt with black stockings. Her breasts were outlined by her tight black sweater.

Caroline had taken my thoughts captive.

“When your eyes bounce toward a woman, they must bounce away immediately. . .”

But my eyes kept bouncing back to Caroline’s breasts.

Women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control .

1 Timothy 2:9

I recall that for girls in the purity culture, a frequently heard refrain was “Modest Is Hottest!” “Modest dress was seen as an expression of, and way of preserving, purity of thought and mind,” Sarah McCammon writes in The Exvangelicals. They were admonished to avoid provocative fashions unbecoming of a young believer. “A modest girl covers her breasts and chooses not to wear the short skirt that might cause boys to lust,” says one Lutheran website. Joshua Harris wrote to young women in I Kissed Dating Goodbye, “Your job is to keep your brothers from being led astray….You can help by refusing to wear clothing designed to attract attention to your body.”

The message I imbued was twofold:

  1. The female body is a source of temptation.
  2. A girl’s virtue is commensurate with the length of her skirt.

One of the first girls to express an interest in me was Nicole. Like the other girls at my Christian high school, she dressed modestly. Unlike the girls at the public high school, there was no hint of cleavage, a bare midriff, or tight jeans. But there was no hiding Nicole’s bosom.

Nicole was stacked.

I was too shy to reciprocate her interest, but the sight of her chest certainly induced lust. As much as I tried to resist, the interplay between Nicole’s chaste exterior and the treasures which lay beneath formed an erotic template. Temptation came in the form of what was not seen. (During my fling with the Deaconess, one of the big turn-ons was knowing that under her demure skirt was a pair of sexy panties from Victoria’s Secret.)

40 Days

Despite my ever-increasing propensity for sexual impurity, there was a time when I tried to recommit myself to purity during Lent. When I began my service in ministry, my little community listed what each of us were going to “give up” for Lent. Needless to say, I refrained from making public my promise to give up “sex.”

There is historical precedent for sexual abstinence during Lent. In Medieval Europe, the Catholic Church required married couples to abstain from carnal relations during Lent — 62 days from Septuagesima to Easter. “Fasting” from sex still marks the Orthodox tradition.

But my resolve began to wilt in the desert of sexual temptation. The tall blonde sauntering down Lexington Avenue in a miniskirt and black stockings ignited my lust. I committed adultery in my heart with “Tabetha,” my colleague in ministry — her curvy butt and full, round breasts fueled graphic fantasies. Nor could I resist purchasing a copy of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue and jerking off to Kate Upton. Then, unable to resist any longer, my Lenten journey took a detour to Emma’s apartment. After placing an envelope with several crisp $100 bills on her nightstand, she peeled off her lavender lingerie, reached for a bottle of Astroglide, and spread her legs. I groaned as I penetrated her.

Je sais que c'est interdit
Mea culpa

I didn’t even make it past the Tuesday after Ash Wednesday.

Distractions

I frequent coffee shops. The boosts of caffeine and ambient coffeehouse vibes provide a stimulating environment for writing. A local spot operated by a nondenominational church is especially cozy.

But there are distractions.

As I write this, out of the corner of my eye I spy a tall redhead whose lithe figure isn’t obscured by her tight white sweater and miniskirt. (And the erotically charged clicks of her black fuck-me boots accentuate her appeal.) She’s certainly making it difficult for me to progress on my review of a book on capital punishment and the Catholic moral tradition. Or the tall brunette in black leggings who vaguely resembles a young Liv Tyler.

I reside in an area that’s populated by college girls. These nubile creatures frequently appear at Starbucks, attired in short skirts and yoga pants revealing shapely legs, stoking my curiosity about what those skirts and pants conceal.

Then there are the scrumptious baristas — right now, I’m surreptitiously gazing at a shapely, busty lass behind the counter who looks like a brunette version of Kaley Cuoco. Then there’s the tall and slender blonde, her golden hair tied in a ponytail, tight leggings hugging the contours of her legs; the pixie with short black hair who can’t possibly be as innocent as she seems; the pretty Black girl in glasses who never fails to reveal a bit of cleavage. And “Ashley,” who has engaged me in brief conversations about Henri Nouwen. Her lovely long brown tresses and sizable bosom triggered thoughts of a not-so spiritual nature.

I once again espied her behind the counter. I’d had my eyes on this barista for a while, undressing her in my imagination – her naked curvy physique stimulating my arousal. This morning her black sweater couldn’t conceal her round breasts (D cups to be sure). Her long dark brown hair draped a face with doe eyes.

But I wanted more.…

Spiriting her to the storage room, she pulls her skirt up and her panties down, then positions herself facing the wall, her luscious ass extended toward me. I move behind her. My pants fall down. No words are exchanged. No gestures of affection. I give her bare bottom a hard smack, then guide the head of my cock into her wet pussy. She gasps as she’s penetrated. I whisper in her ear, telling her what a dirty slut she is. I thrust harder, smacking my pelvis into her round ass. She gasps again with each hard thrust of my cock.

“Oh, God!”

Sin of Onan

With the Deaconess, I practiced coitus interruptus. (Her upbringing convinced her that evolution was untrue, Harry Potter contained satanic influences, and that Good Christian Girls shouldn’t be on birth control.) Once, as I was pounding her from behind, I approached orgasm and pulled out, ejaculating on one of her cute ass cheeks. (I had to strain to avoid staining her blue skirt.) As my cum glistened on her butt, I thought of Onan.

So whenever [Onan] went in to his brother’s wife he would waste the semen on the ground…. And what he did was wicked in the sight of the LORD, and he put him to death (Gen 38:9-10).

Onan’s story isn’t one you’ll see in Sunday school class enacted on flannel boards.

The Hebrew term ra’ (“evil”) is employed to describe Onan’s act. Scriptural interpretation of the passage has historically focused on the wasting of seed. Luther condemned the act as “unchastity, yes a sodomitic sin.” Calvin considered it murder: “The purposeful spilling of semen outside of intercourse between man and woman is a monstrous thing…. For this is to extinguish the hope of the human family and to kill before he is born the hoped-for offspring.” The text was used to condemn any form of birth control. “Onanism” came to describe the sin of masturbation. The consensus of modern biblical scholars is that Onan’s sin was his refusal to fulfill the levirite obligation.

With the Deaconess, I deposited my semen on her ass and her back, on her stomach and her dainty breasts. It somehow felt more sinful than ejaculating into a condom or her vagina. Raised in a tradition that still emphasized the procreative purpose of sex, Onan’s punishment weighed heavily on me. But not enough to stop fucking the Deaconess.

Ending the Year with a Bang

“The door is unlocked.”

I walked up to her incall apartment in the dark December chill. Upon entering, she greeted me in a short, silky robe. My eyes surreptitiously glanced at her toned legs. We chatted for a while, catching up since my last visit. (She informed me that my areas of academic research weren’t scandalous enough.) She had been reading some fiction featuring kinky sex demons. The ice in the glasses of water she had set out had melted by the time she suggested we head to the bedroom. I followed her, admiring her swaying derrière.

She put on some sensual music in the dimly lit bedroom. At the foot of the bed, she pressed my body against hers, moaning when she felt my erection. Her robe came off, revealing her babydoll lingerie in cheerful Christmas red. As she unbuttoned my shirt, she made the observation that I need more “chaos” in my life. (As if my insatiable pursuit of sex isn’t disruptive enough.) I pulled down the straps of her lingerie; her perky breasts appeared. My hands reached under her babydoll and slowly pulled down her panties. Her nightie fell to the floor. I kissed her neck, then my mouth moved down to her breasts and her very responsive nipples. Her moans grew more intense. She guided me onto the bed and crawled between my legs. She kissed my thigh, then started to gently nibble on my balls. She then took my engorged cock into her warm, wet mouth. I caressed her soft auburn hair as she started sliding her mouth up and down my cock.

She reached for a condom, and after a bit of difficulty opening the wrapper, slid the condom on with her mouth. She climbed on top of me, my hands on her hips as she slipped me inside her. The bed creaked as she rode me, my hands playing with her tits as she bounced on me. Her girlish moans heightened my arousal.

“Oh, yeah….”

We fucked in a frenzy. She rocked her hips faster and faster. I could feel her clench around me. Then my cock erupted with some fireworks of its own.