“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 lass behind the counter who looks like a brunette version of Kaley Cuoco. (Her tight sweater nicely displays the contours of her bust.) 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.

“The unbuckling of the Bible Belt”

The New York Times recently reported on a spate of scandals to have hit Dallas-area churches. A nationally-known evangelical pastor stepped away from the pulpit at his megachurch upon admitting to an unspecified “sin.” An associate pastor at another church was dismissed for “moral failure.” The head pastor of a congregation of 5,000 resigned due to “inappropriate” actions.

The subtext to all these indiscretions is sex.

“It’s like the unbuckling of the Bible Belt,” one local pastor told the Times.

“There’s no clear pattern to the scandals, which range widely,” the article reports. “The churches are all Protestant but belong to different denominations — or none at all — and have different theological beliefs and worship styles.”

Sexual indiscretion is an ecumenical matter. A spry escort (and convert to Catholicism) I visited in Manhattan claimed to have bedded priests serving at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. (“They’re just guys,” she told me.) Erasmus complained at the time of the Reformation, “[T]here is a horde of priests among whom chastity is rare.” Nor were the priests in ancient Israel averse to fleshly delights: “[Eli] kept hearing all that his sons were doing to all Israel, and how they lay with the women who were serving at the entrance to the tent of meeting” (1 Sam 2:22).

As one whose belt has been unbuckled in preparation for conduct unbecoming of a minister in the church, I cannot avoid comment on this. In Tim Alberta’s book The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism, it was reported that the stress of having to navigate congregational political tensions in the age of Trump have driven more than one pastor into adultery. But there’s more to it than that.

Ministers can make for tempting targets. One pastor’s wife, who admits to having sinned sexually with ministers in the church, confesses to enjoying the “wickedness” of getting “into a pastor’s pants” and fucking a putative “saint” on the communion table.

Looking back, a strong impetus to enrolling in divinity school and entering into ministry was my desperation to control my lust. I tried to compensate for my sexual guilt through my religious activities. The church proved to be no sanctuary from lust. My sins only grew darker. In The Scarlet Letter, Rev. Dimmesdale laments, “I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am! And Satan laughs at it!” The fissure between who he is expected to be and who he is generates excruciating doubt. “What can a ruined soul like mine, effect the redemption of other souls?-or a polluted soul towards their purification?”

“As the man thinketh in his heart, so he is” (Prov 23:7). Upon first laying eyes on “Rachel,” an astonishingly pretty divinity student with long brown hair and pale skin, my first thought was, I wonder what she tastes like. I had succumbed to the “lusts of the flesh and the eyes” (1 Jn 2:16). As I proved incapable of metanoia, my personality splintered. So I compartmentalized my academic pursuits and ministry from my sex life, although the lines were blurry. (On more than one occasion, minutes after wrapping up a Bible study I was banging the Deaconess.) According to my synod, my failure as a rostered minister “to lead a chaste and decent life in word and deed” as evidenced by my many promiscuities makes me guilty of sexual misconduct. Still, my teaching and pastoral activities have coexisted with my sexual promiscuity.

“Let’s make a baby”

A quiet night at “Ingrid’s” townhouse. She works as an editor at a Christian book publisher. A mutual acquaintance had introduced us, and we had gone out on a few dates. Our personalities didn’t exactly mesh, but her fulsome bosom and plump ass kept me intrigued.

Over the course of this evening, she had consumed nearly an entire bottle of Pinot noir, so she was tipsy. And horny. Her gray sweater had been discarded onto the floor. My hand was inside her thin blouse. The alcohol on her breath had not inhibited my tongue from exploring her mouth. A moan came out of her mouth. And words that were entirely unexpected:

“Let’s make a baby.”

I had consumed a couple of glasses myself, so I thought I may have misheard her. But as I grabbed her breast, the words I heard again were unmistakable:

“Let’s make a baby.”

Our previous sexual encounters had culminated in oral sex. Like many evangelical girls of her generation, anything short of intercourse somehow didn’t count as real “sex.” (Hence the expression “technical virgin.”) When I discovered her neatly trimmed bush and the rhythms of her hips as I proceeded to go down on her, I surmised she wasn’t unacquainted with cunnilingus. (Her blowjob skills revealed that she also wasn’t unacquainted with the male anatomy.) She also wasn’t averse to me ejaculating on her tits. But we had refrained from penetration.

We stumbled into her bedroom and stripped naked. I admit that the possibility of impregnating her heightened my arousal. Imagine the scandal: “good” Christian girl knocked up by a minister and scholar in the church, her bulging belly revealing the consummation of our fornication.

Ingrid frequently referred to her nieces and nephews, so children were on her mind. Perhaps she was at the peak of ovulation. Horny. Aching. Wet. In that moment of inebriation and passion, her instinct was loosed.

Can't help myself, hormonеs are high
Give me more than just some butterflies

In vino veritas, as Pliny the Elder wrote.

I'm so fuckin' horny

She lay on her back and spread her legs, as a woman was designed to do. I moved on top of her and prepared to penetrate her. I pushed the head of my bare cock inside her.

Since they are supposed to abstain from “sex,” good evangelical girls (as I discovered with the Deaconess) also aren’t on birth control. Even though these “good” girls end up having sex.

Gregory of Nyssa wrote that, had it not been for the Fall, human reproduction would somehow have been by means other than sexual intercourse, not “that animal and irrational method by which they now succeed one another.” “It was the woman who, yielding to deception, fell into sin” (1 Tim 2:14).

Men are animals, and none of their functions is more deeply rooted in their animal nature than is that of sexual reproduction.

Roger Scruton, Sexual Desire

I felt her legs wrap around my waist. Our sex was primal. We were animals fulfilling our biological destinies. Her feral sexuality expressed itself.

Mark your territory

“Come deep inside me!“

One of me is cute, but two though?
Give it to me, baby

Perhaps she subconsciously heeded the admonition of the Apostle: “But salvation for the woman will be in the bearing of children” (1 Tim 2:15)

“Make me a mommy!“

The primordial commandment to “be fruitful and multiply” (Gen 1:28) was about to be fulfilled in Ingrid’s womb. My throbbing cock erupted, expelling my seed unimpeded inside her. It was one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had.

It didn’t take me long to get hard again. I positioned her on her hands and knees and fucked her from behind, coming inside her again. Shortly thereafter, she collapsed on her bed and passed out.

We woke up naked in her bed the next morning. She had a hangover. And regrets. I went to the pharmacy and got her the morning-after pill. And a box of condoms for our future sexscapades.

“Saintly in every way except when it came to women”

It’s been awhile….

During the considerable interlude since I last updated this blog, I’ve been occupied with teaching and ministry. It’s been a blur of papers and Bible studies, classes and programs. Lent and Holy Week came and went. Christmas arrived sooner than expected. Then there was another Lent and Holy Week. Progress on my dissertation remains halting. The start of another academic year means the arrival on campus of ripe flesh – coeds in sundresses, short skirts, and skimpy tank tops.

And amidst everything, I’ve chastely dated one young lady, fucked another young woman from the church, discreetly met with a self-described “good Christian wife” for adulterous sex, pursued hookups with a variety of women, while continuing to visit escorts.

It’s been busy.

Its abbot was a monk who was saintly in every way except when it came to women – and he managed those affairs so cunningly that almost no one knew about them, or even suspected anything.

Decameron, Third Day – Novel VIII

I’m painfully conscious of how often I fall short in my ministry. A word left unspoken. An initiative unfulfilled. A “ministry of presence” seems hollow. Parishioners tend to place those in ministry on a pedestal, expecting sinlessness. “But I am carnal” (Rom 7:14).

There was a young monk whose youthful vigour no fasts or vigils had been able to mortify…. As soon as he saw her, he was seized with carnal desire…. He, overcome by passion, was frisking with her rather incautiously….

Decameron, First Day – Novel IV

To be constantly tempted with this fruit, so luscious yet so forbidden, is excruciating. Yet as journalist Julia Keller observes, “Sex and subterfuge make a delicious cocktail.” Guilt is leaven by the possibilities of erotic delight.

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves.

1 John 1:18

A new parishioner. She’s in her late forties with long chestnut hair. Despite her fresh-faced, girl-next-door appearance, her hourglass curves reveal her erotic potential. I haven’t spoken to her, but I can taste her and smell her and feel her. I can already imagine the noises she makes when she comes.

She’s the edge between the sacred and profane
And means at least one other language you would never speak in polite company

Rainbow Kitten Surprise, “Polite Company”

Scent of Sex

“I’ve always been a sinful girl.”

She smiled coyly. She said a burlesque teacher taught her the distinction between flirtation and seduction. My donation sat in an envelope tucked into a collection of erotic poetry on the nightstand. Soft music filled the room. My hands slowly slid the straps of her bra off her shoulders. Her round breasts appeared in the dim light.

“Vivian” had just relocated from the East Coast to the Midwest, but was visiting the area. She’s tall, with green eyes and pixieish, chocolate brown hair. (She vaguely resembles Rachel McAdams.) By day she’s a technical writer. At night others have no idea what she’s up to.

“Audrey in the streets, Marilyn in the sheets,” she teased.

I moved to slide down her panties (they were over her garter belt). My hand grazed her trimmed bush. She reclined on the bed and slowly parted her legs. I climbed atop her and pushed myself inside her. I felt her legs wrap around me. Long, slow thrusts. I felt her hard nipples against my chest. I intensified my thrusts. She whimpered and moaned. I slammed myself into her cunt again and again, my thrusts accompanied by deep grunts. She gasped.

Fuck.

“Come for me,” she moaned from beneath me.

I thrust one last time as my body convulsed and I emptied himself.

“Our puritanical culture does little for the libido,” she continued as we talked in bed afterward. She lamented the repressive influence of Christian society on Western art as it distanced itself from the erotic-mythic traditions of pagan religions. She practices Reiki and is obsessed with astrology. (She offered to do a tarot reading.)

“We all need a release,” she said. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

I caressed her body during our conversation. Eventually my hand found its way to her ass.

The conversation was halted.

I kissed my way down her neck to her soft breasts and hard nipples. She moved down my body. Her bright red lips festooned with lipstick wrapped themselves around my member. She pleasured me with her mouth, softly and sensuously at first, then more vigorously. On went a condom, and she moved on top of me, parting her thighs once more. (She was still wearing her garter belt and stockings.) She gripped the shaft of my cock and guided me back inside her. She moved slowly at first, hands pressed on my chest. I squeezed her tits. She then rode me aggressively, hard and fast. The mattress was squeaking.

Yes, yes…..

My balls tightened. My hips violently thrust up from the mattress, then my body spasmed once more.

As she dismounted and went to retrieve a washcloth from the bathroom, I noticed the faint scent of sex. After cleaning me up, we chatted for a few minutes. Not wanting to overstay, I then moved to get dressed. She helped me put my coat on, then escorted me to the door.

“Until we meet again, dear.…”

I carried her scent with me as I departed.

“God’s gift to men”

After an extended absence, Audrey returned for a visit. She remembered me when I contacted her (“You’re the grad student, right?”), so setting up an appointment at her downtown hotel was simple. She asked me to bring a bottle of Moscato. When the appointed time came, I knocked on her door to her suite. The door slowly opened, and a soft, sexy voice beckoned me to come in. When I came in, Audrey met me wearing a silk black robe, black fishnet stockings, and black high heels. A pearl necklace dangled from her neck. She invited me into the room, which was a bit messy. I discreetly placed the donation on the desk.

We proceeded to sit on the edge of the bed and lightly converse for a few minutes. Chopin played on her digital music player. We shared a glass of wine. She put her hand on my leg.

“I have been told that I’m God’s gift to men,” she purred.

I admired her shapely legs, and I was eager to have her show me more. She must have intuited what I was thinking, for she got up and started posing for me in front of the window, slowly removing her robe, revealing her black lace bra, black panties, and black garter belt. She proceeded to remove her bra and moved back toward me. Her black hair contrasted with her porcelain skin. She got down on her knees and started kissing my cock through my pants. Then she unbuckled my belt and pulled down my pants. Her hands reached into my boxers and caressed my cock and balls. My underwear came off. She reached for some lube, then started to stroke my cock. As she started kissing and sucking on my cock, I ran my fingers through her silky black hair. She’s quite talented with her mouth; it took some effort on my part not to erupt.

She asked if we could move to the bed. All that preoccupies me in ministry and academia faded away when I looked down on Audrey’s naked body twisting slightly in the sheets of a bed in a Sheraton Hotel.

“I’m very horny,” she said, adding that she had a vibrator. She pulled off her panties and reached for her vibrator on the nightstand. I watched as she inserted the device and pleasured herself for a few minutes.

“I want you to go down on me.”

I kissed my way across her perky breasts, down her stomach, down her inner thigh before my mouth reached her shaved mons pubis. Her legs wrapped around my head as my tongue explored her wet pussy. She moaned.

“Oh, Philip, I want you inside me.”

She wanted me on top. (“I don’t even need lube,” she said.) Her legs were positioned on my shoulders as I penetrated her. She kept pulling me closer as I fucked her. I could feel her muscles squeeze around my cock.

“Don’t stop!”

I fucked her more aggressively. Then she surprised me.

“I want to watch you come!”

She had me pull out of her and tore off the condom. She stroked my cock; I couldn’t hold out any longer – I erupted on her stomach and tits (some of my cum even landed one her neck). She caressed my dripping cock, then rubbed my cum onto her skin as she licked her lips.

I collapsed next to her onto the bed.

After our exertions, we sat in bed and talked. I noticed a Bible on the table. It wasn’t there courtesy of the Gideons. It was hers. She previously hadn’t brought it up, but suddenly she was very much into talking about religion. Even now, I still find it a strange transition to converse on religious matters with a prostitute, but I informed her on the distinctions between the canonical and the gnostic gospels as well as theories of secularization. Then she asked a question.

“Do you want to go again?”