A Further Reckoning with Lust

I had signed “The Covenant,” my Christian college’s code of conduct, with the expressed intention of abiding by its stipulations. “Sexually inappropriate behavior” was among the forms of conduct I was prohibited from engaging in. “This includes overly intimate sexual behavior, sexual intercourse outside of marriage, and the use or distribution of pornography.” By my senior year, I had retained my virginity, and I was still committed to purity.

But I couldn’t stop the burning in my loins.

I was dating a sophomore. She was a music major, blond and Rubenesque. (I confess that the first thing I noticed about her was her ample chest.) She was smart and sweet and liked quoting C.S. Lewis. And she devoutly believed that True Love Waits®.

She was, in Pete Hamill’s words, one of the “noble defenders of the holy hymen.” Our physical interactions were restrained. I suppressed my sexual attraction to her. I couldn’t conceive of my girlfriend as an object of my sexual desire. She was too pure.

But True Lust Won’t Wait.

My faith was inextricably intertwined with my purity, and despite my lust, I had preserved my virginity. A pharisaic pride had crept into my soul. Unlike so many of my contemporaries, I had kept my pledge. “I thank you that I am not like other men” (Lk 18:11). But lust is without conscience. Religious studies professor Scot McKnight calls the expectation that young Christians will abstain from sex until marriage “absolutely not realistic.” I began to buckle under the weight of that expectation. I was losing Every Man’s Battle. For the first time I began to doubt that I had the strength to endure temptation (cf. 1 Cor 10:13). Desires I had long suppressed were straining to erupt with volcanic force.

The Covenant would be violated. I was about to consummate my sin.

A Divided Man

But I am carnal (Rom 7:14).

As she undressed and revealed her naked body, I instinctively thought “it was a delight to the eyes” (Gen 3:6). Then as she nibbled on my ear, my eyes glanced down toward the only item of clothing she still had on.

Her white thong panties.

The mysteries those panties concealed.

I was about to be irreparably marked by my sin, the implications of which I couldn’t fathom at the time. Pledges discarded. Prayers unanswered.

With fear and trembling, my fingers moved along the waistband of her panties.

“What do you want to do now?”

Let’s fuck.

She pulled her panties down her legs. Then my underwear came off, exposing my erection.

But I see a different law in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind (Rom 7:23).

In my quest for victory, I had read the Puritan theologian John Owen, who had written of the “indwelling sin” believers must make war against. But now I was being seduced by Jezebel — with her deep blue eyes, red hair, voluptuous figure and full breasts — into committing fornication (cf. Rev 2:20). I was a divided man. Part of me still wanted to remain pure.

But I wanted to fuck even more.

The moment I knew sin, I fucked.

Summer of Sex

My libido, already highly excitable, has been supercharged so far this summer. Sex has rarely been off my mind. Starting with my hookup with Sheryl, it’s been difficult restraining my erotic instincts. The end of a difficult semester, a quiet season of ministry, plus the loosening of pandemic restrictions, has given me more opportunity to indulge my lascivious vices.

Apparently I’m not alone. A story on the BBC asked, “Are we heading towards a summer of sex?” Condom sales surged this spring. Some users on dating apps advertise themselves as “vaXXXed.” Others have predicted another hedonistic “Roaring Twenties.” (The 1920s, one historian said, was marked by the popular discovery of the clitoris.) Ashley Thompson, associate professor of psychology at the University of Minnesota who specializes in human sexuality, speculates that possibly the aftermath of the pandemic “may lead to more casual sexual behaviour, to sort of combat those negative feelings of one’s own mortality.”

The heat seems to have intensified my lust. Lack of an easily available partner makes hooking up impractical. “Have you ever tried Tinder?” I was once asked. Given the my sensitive position in the community, plus my preternatural shyness, I’ve been hesitant to explore hookup aps. I am communicating on one adult website with a girl in her 30s, albeit from a distance. I’ve entertained the thought of establishing with Sheryl a friendship with benefits, but she’s been unresponsive. After a day of writing and research, I wanted an erotic escape. So I called Tina at the agency. (She’s sensitive to my position in the church.) She recommended “Angela,” who she described as a petite blonde “All-American cheerleader” type. I took her up on her offer. As usual Tina set it all up, and I booked a room at the casino hotel down the expressway.

Tina’s description was enticing. The cheerleaders at my private Christian high school, with their purity rings conspicuously displayed, were too good to touch. So I lusted after the cheerleaders at the public high school. Their inaccessibility only enhanced their allure.

Later that night, I heard a knock at my door. Standing outside my room was a pretty young tanned spinner — just the type I used to lust for. I let her in and we sat on the edge of the bed. She was friendly, but the conversation was a little awkward. My experience with escorts is that they’ll generally make the first move, but I eventually realized that she wanted me to take the lead. I finally leaned in and kissed her. She tentatively responded. Then her dress quickly came off.

“What do you like to do?”

I started exploring her breasts. They were implants, but they were nicely done. We kissed again, then I obliquely suggested she pleasure me orally. She didn’t get the hint. I asked her to go down on me. She reached for my boxers, pulled them down, and started sucking my cock. She then got the condom and lay down on the bed. I moved on top of her, entered her, and started pumping. Her responses were somewhat mechanical, but I enjoyed the feel of her beneath me. After a few minutes, I couldn’t hold out any longer. After I finished, she got me a warm washcloth and cleaned me up. She immediately started stroking me to assist my recovery. She asked me if she could be on top. My cock quickly responded. She put on another condom, and I let her climb on top of me. I gripped her hips and dug my fingers into her ass as she rode me. She moved faster, leaning forward so I could suck on her nipples. I bucked my hips, then exploded into the condom once more.

We tidied ourselves up and dressed. As at our introduction, the conversation was strained. She called her driver to signal the hour was up. I escorted her to the door, and we bade each other good night.

Most Crucial of Her Vows

I had a chance encounter with a nun a couple of mornings ago. She was in front of me at the pharmacy. I believe she was from the Dominican Order that lives in community nearby. Afterwards I thought about her solemn vow of chastity. In A History of Celibacy, Elizabeth Abbott writes, “Chastity was the fundament of the nun’s vocation, the most crucial of her vows.” Her denial of sex defines her identity. Her veil, “the outward sign of inward chastity,” in Penelope Johnson’s words, hides her hair, long a symbol of female sexuality. “The nun’s chief aim was to preserve her soul by preserving her chastity, the virtue into which all others more or less collapsed,” Nancy Bradley Warren concluded about medieval nuns.

How does she do it?

Her sexual self-mastery is a reproach. I experience primal sexual desire as an irresistible force that demands urgent satisfaction. Is she simply, by nature or self-discipline, asexual? Does she sublimate these urges into spiritual aspiration? Or does she simply grit her teeth and resist temptation? Perhaps she secretly wears sexy lingerie under her habit for a thrill.

The Council of Trent pronounced an anathema on those who disputed that virginity and celibacy are superior to conjugual relations. Alcuin insisted that chastity is angelic. Others have not been so sure. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Theseus compares a nun to a rose “withering on the virgin thorn.” Luther thought the nun’s vow of chastity wholly unnatural: “Only one woman in thousands has the God-given gift to maintain pure chastity.” The biological imperative was too strong. “Nature wants to get out. It wants to cast its seed and multiply.” The skepticism of the Reformers was amplified by modern secular critics. In La Religieuse, Diderot asks, “Can these vows, which run counter to our natural inclinations, ever be properly observed except by a few abnormal creatures in whom the seeds of passion are dried up, and whom we should rightly classify as freaks of nature?”

The contours of this reflection are shaped by personal experience. My college girlfriend later converted to Catholicism and entered religious life. Her virginal aura was one of her attractions to me, and I’m quite certain her virginity is intact. Does she experience the absence of compulsive sexuality as freedom? Or is she deprived of an essential human experience?

The same fascination does not extend to priests, despite shared vows. “They’re just guys,” Southern Comfort told me of priests. She would have been one to know. She claimed that she slept with a couple of them, including one serving at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. (I’m reminded of a scene in The Young Pope when a glamorous call girl claimed to “have clients who insist I am proof of the existence of God.”)

For reasons that would interest a psychoanalyst, I’ve developed a definite nun kink. There’s a scene in a movie in which a young novice serving in Africa, played by Chloe Sevigny, surrenders her chastity to a plantation owner in exchange for assistance to AIDS victims. As she slowly lifts up her white habit and her panties are pulled down, her rosary beads dangle against her bare skin. There is an irresistible erotic charge to the imminent violation of her solemn vows. I find the violation of this particular taboo especially arousing.

Aroused by Her Presence

First there was the blonde at Starbucks. With her short black dress and long blonde hair, she vaguely resembled Margot Robbie. As I ordered a caramel macchiato, it was difficult not to keep my eyes on her.

Then came my meeting with “Emma.” I’ve been tasked with resurrecting the parish’s Justice and Peace committee, and Emma expressed interest in assisting me. That committee is generally the province of blue-haired old ladies, but Emma is in her twenties, bubbly and energetic, and relatively new to the church. She’s also smoking hot: tall, blonde, slim, and tanned. As we sat in the outdoor patio on a pleasant summer afternoon, I was admittedly aroused by her presence. There was the revelation of a bra strap. Some cleavage. Black capri pants that hugged her tight ass. I furtively peeked down her shirt and mentally undressed her. (I envisioned her totally shaved.) I struggled to hide my erection when she departed.

I confess that my lust for Emma poses ethical issues for one in ministry. Projecting my sexual desire upon someone I am bound to shepherd almost certainly clouds my pastoral judgment. Instead of focusing on her soul, I’m fixated on her breasts. Lust is inherently objectifying, transforming, in Buber’s terms, the “I-thou” relation into an “I-it” relation. As testified to by my own experience, lust is a slippery slope that can lead to physical as well as imaginative transgressions. Samson merely “saw” a prostitute and ended up sleeping with her (Jdg 16:1).

Still, despite my nobler intentions, Emma in her capri pants stimulated me. When I returned home, I searched one of her social media accounts, and found some unexpectedly seductive photos of her. I started masturbating to them. While drooling over Emma’s physical endowments and fantasizing about intimately exploring them, the sheer wrongness of what I was doing hung heavily over me. My personal upbringing was so repressive that virtually any sexual expression induces guilt. Such conduct is not becoming of one in a ministerial role. Sexual temptation, however, is irresistible to me. She had no idea how hard she made me. Imagining the ways she’d suck my cock, draining every drop of my cream into her mouth. So naughty. I finally came.

I meet with Emma again next week.

Ineffable Sensation

The sense of relief after my interview was palpable. “Describe ways you take care of your physical, emotional and spiritual self” was the closest the committee came to any scrutiny of my personal life. Afterwards that almost ineffable sensation of acute arousal came over me. When I returned home, I looked over listings for call girls, then I booked a room in a hotel at the casino. Right after I checked in, I called Tina at the agency. She recommended “Kat.” Kat is new with the service, and Tina thought she might be compatible. I was intrigued. We made an arrangement for later that evening.

Then I began to wait. As my watch ticked, I couldn’t untangle my anxiety from my excitement. As the time approached for when I would hear the knock at the door, the anticipation grew almost unbearable.

Then finally I heard it.

I opened the door. Kat was everything Tina had promised. I let her in the room, admiring her athletic physique attired in a tight red dress. She sat down, and we chatted for a little while getting to know each other. Born and raised on the East Coast, she’s educated and well-traveled. “But there’s only so much books can teach you” she said coyly. I tried to behave like a gentleman, but my intentions were anything but gentlemanly. I notice the pendant dangling at the top of her cleavage. Little did my committee know this was how I was marking the successful completion of my interview. A former call girl observes, “Just the act of inviting a hooker over is like a little party in itself—a human ice cream cake, bought to provide a little treat.” This little treat sat next to me in stiletto heels.

“You’re a tough shell to crack,” she said. “Let’s see if I can make some progress.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out two condoms. Then she started to tug at my belt.

“I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

She started to unbuckle my belt. My pants fell to my ankles. My boxer briefs bulged with my erection.

“Nice to see you could rise to the occasion,” she teased. Then she dropped to her knees….

The intensity of my lust had propelled me to this point. Sexual release is my remedy. Despite my supposed values, I’m driven to seek the satisfaction and relief that only comes from falling in sin. The moral schizophrenia produced by my prolific promiscuities is disorienting.

Tangled bodies. Sweat dripping onto bare skin. Rhythmic thrusts. Deep strokes. I could hear my crotch smack against the soft flesh of her ass. The intensity of sex obliterates my sense of self. Then came the sound of a loud grunt.

Animality

I sought to ease the stress of my looming candidacy endorsement interview. “Fucking’s a form of anxiety reduction,” Martin Luther King, Jr. said. I hadn’t booked with Joyce in a while, so I called her in the afternoon. She recommended I meet “Katie.” I made an appointment for a couple of hours later.

Joyce’s incall had moved from near the art museum to a hip urban neighborhood. She discreetly met me at the door and escorted me to her apartment. She offered me a glass of wine, but, as I’m not much of a drinker, I took a Pepsi instead. After a few minutes of light conversation, Joyce escorted me into the bedroom where Katie was waiting for me in black thigh highs, black heels, and a hot pink bra. She invited me to join her on the bed.

Damn, she looked good.

Fit and firm with a come-hither smile, Katie asked me a few questions to get to know me. Like other ladies I’ve seen, she was curious about my work in the church. She said she had been raised Catholic and had even briefly attended a local Catholic college. She then removed her bra, revealing a pair of round enhanced breasts, and moved on to more pressing matters.

“So what do you like?”

It was time to put her full lips to good use. I motioned for her to get on her knees. She complied, unzipped my pants, pulled down my boxer briefs, and took my erect cock in her hand. My cock then disappeared into her mouth. I placed my hand on the back of her head as she sucked me off. I looked down and watched her move her head up and down. I softly moaned in response to the ministrations of her talented mouth.

I then asked her to get on the bed on all fours. She moved to grab a condom. As I entered her from behind, she softly whispered:

Fuck.

Seizing her by the hips, I began with long, slow thrusts. As she bucked her hips against mine, I increased my rhythm. It felt like sex at its purest. By now I was pounding her good and hard. Beads of sweat trickled down my face and body. My balls started to tighten. I couldn’t last much longer. “Take it,” I said under my breath. My fingers dug deeper into her flesh as I climaxed.

I reclined on the bed exhausted as she went into the bathroom to fetch a washcloth.

At simul ad metas venit finita voluptas,
Lassaque cum tota corpora mente iacent — Ovid, Remedia Amoris

She offered me the opportunity to take a shower. Soon I was awash in both hot water and post-coital remorse. The incongruity of what I had just done and my upcoming candidacy interview came into sharp focus. I quickly dressed after the shower. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as I exited the bedroom. Joyce escorted me to the door of the apartment. A couple of minutes later I was back on the street and into the early evening sunshine.

Domine non sum dignus

“Candidates for ordained ministry shall make a complete dedication of themselves to the highest ideals of the Christian life. To this end, they shall agree to exercise responsible self-control through fidelity in marriage and celibacy in singleness.“

If I am to continue my path to ordination, the Candidacy Committee must grant endorsement. “This is a time for mutual assessment of a candidate’s strengths and growth areas in discerning readiness for completing candidacy.” A crucial step is the endorsement interview with representatives of my synodical candidacy committee and appropriate seminary faculty. The committee uses the interview to decide whether to grant, postpone, or deny endorsement for supervised ministry. The committee scheduled the interview after the spring semester, which allowed me more time to complete my endorsement essay, which guides the discussion during the interview.

I dread the possibility of questions concerning whether I am living entirely in accord with our church’s teachings.

I began my candidacy with the hope that as I progressed toward ordination, I would become capable of dedicating myself to this standard of behavior.

My hands firmly clasp her hips as my pelvis slams repeatedly against her ass. My face is contorted in anguish as I desperately strain to climax. In a perverse sense, this is a mortification of the flesh. Our coupling is starkly emotionless, simply marked by raw physicality. Amidst the intensity of sexual frenzy, I feel driven by a sense of desperation. When Audrey had earlier opened the door to her hotel room in her white lingerie, her sensuality overpowered me. Now as I fuck her with manic intensity, I experience a curious blend of liberation and dread. My muscles tighten, I become slightly dizzy, and an aching cry escapes my throat. The void that follows in the wake of orgasm subsumes me.

As my sexual explorations intensified, it became apparent that my lust was propelling my behavior in a decisive way. Before each furtive encounter I promised, “This will be the last time,” only to once again renege on that promise. I prayed for deliverance. Victory. At one point I bluntly pleaded, “Please stop me before I fuck again.”

But I couldn’t stop fucking.

I came to realize that there wouldn’t be one last time.

Hier ficke ich, ich kann nicht anders.

I recently watched clips from the film Nymphomaniac. The protagonist is a middle-aged woman who proclaims, “I am a nymphomaniac, and I love myself for being one. But above all, I love my cunt, and my filthy dirty lust.” The film details her sexual precociousness in explicit detail (she has anal sex when she loses her virginity), and her sexual odyssey goes on to include sex with an endless number of partners, masochistic encounters, and lesbianism. Simply put, she can’t stop fucking.

I am devoured by desire.

Roland Barthes

Feminist Andrea Dworkin wrote of the “stigma” that indelibly marks the one consumed by sexual compulsion: “The person, made for sex or needing it, devoted to it, marked by it, is a person incarnated restless and wild in the world and defined by fucking: fucking as a vocation….”

Fucking as a vocation. “For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war” (Rom 7:22-23). “The bondage of the will” no longer seems merely theoretical. Each furtive encounter manifests a disequilibrium between my spiritual aspirations and my lust. I struggle to inhabit the dichotomy of piety and passion. My good works vie with the works of the flesh. I’m burdened by a sensitive conscience and a robust libido. Perhaps my perceived calling to ministry is nothing more than the cry of a guilty conscience to atone for this other vocation.

I have an acute sense my profound unworthiness. Domine non sum dignus. I’ve certainly questioned my fitness for ministry. Of course I wouldn’t be the first man of the cloth to succumb to sexual temptation. Among the “cloud of witnesses” I look to for inspiration were men of willing spirit but weak flesh (MLK, Jr.; Merton). The “randy vicar” is a staple of Anglican lore. The prospect of the exposure of my double life, and the disrepute such scandal would inflict on the church, makes me hesitate. “He must be well thought of by outsiders, so that he may not fall into disgrace” (1 Tim 3:7).

A dominant characteristic of the conservative religious culture in which I was raised was what has been termed “sexual exceptionalism,” in which sexual sins outweigh other transgressions. I have acutely felt this thorn of the flesh. My incapacity for sexual discipleship strikes at the heart of my religion.

I don’t want to be pure.

The guilt has been intense. I’ve done things I would have never thought I was capable of. But the pleasure has also been intense. There’s the sheer physical pleasure, of course. But there’s also something else. “In the electricity of stigma there is a mixture of sexual shamelessness, personal guilt, and a defiance that is unprincipled, not socially meaningful in consequence or intention, determined only by need or desire,” Dworkin wrote. By “electricity of stigma” I assume she meant the frisson of transgression. My fascination with call girls, in addition to their practical convenience, certainly derives from the taboo surrounding prostitution. Georges Bataille in Eroticism argues that the transgression of taboos constitutes the erotic. Bataille was haunted by the remnants of his Catholicism yet considered the brothels of Paris as his “churches.” My acquaintance with the mysterium iniquitatis is most keenly felt in sex. There is a genuine thrill in leading a double life. “I have grown to love secrecy,” Oscar Wilde wrote in The Picture of Dorian Gray. “It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.” Replace that common thing with illicit sex and it becomes even more marvelous.

Have my sexual transgressions implanted doubt? Or has my doubt led me to transgress? The late Rachel Held Evans dismissed “doubt as a STD.” I’m not so sure. The distinction between belief and faith is not theoretical anymore. Faith is hard. The divine is notional rather than an experienced presence.

I don’t want to be pure anymore.

Alternative Companion

An unseasonably cool, drizzly, dreary day. I spent a portion of the morning writing at Starbucks (which I haven’t done since before the pandemic struck) and dipped into Liturgical Theology after Schmemann, which is an Orthodox appraisal of Ricoeur. My mind wandered, though. A parade of attractive women disrupted my concentration. That urge, so familiar yet still so disquieting, came over me once again.

While still in the coffee shop, I discreetly clicked on Eros. It indicated “Cath” was available. A self-described “alternative companion,” she intrigued me. With her tattoos and piercings, she’s pretty but not my usual type. Same-day appointments can be tricky, but I submitted my information on her online booking form (which included proof of vaccination). Given the short notice, I wasn’t expecting a response.

She responded within minutes indicating that she was able to accommodate me.

A last minute cancellation from another client freed up her calendar. We traded e-mails to sort out the details (she could only do outcall), and I sent the deposit. Tipping her in advance, I purchased Porn Work for her online. Then I prepared myself, navigated the traffic, and checked into the Sheraton downtown where I had booked a room with a view of the art museum.

She texted me, apologizing in advance for arriving a few minutes late. I left the donation in a plain white envelope on the desk. It was the cost of sin. Part of the thrill of hiring a call girl is the anticipation one has in a hotel room awaiting that knock on the door.

The knock finally came.

She arrived wearing a black leather jacket to guard against the late spring chill. I offered to take her jacket, which enabled me to glance at the tight red dress she wore underneath it. I immediately appreciated the curves of her voluptuous body and her full assets. Her red stiletto heels were also hot. Her warm smile and charming confidence only heightened my attraction to her.

We sat down by the windows. The skyline was wrapped in gray. Cath was impressed I bought her a book from her wishlist. (Most guys buy lingerie.) Sex, Labor, and Late Capitalism is the subtitle. We transitioned into a discussion on how we even know that we’re in late capitalism. (Even as something of a Tory socialist, I’m not convinced that we are.) The phrase “porn dialectics” also made an appearance. Her exploration of sex work includes erotic filmmaking.

Part of her appeal lies in her self-description as a “bad Jewish girl.” Growing up in a region with few Jews made Jewish girls exotic. And the exotic can be erotic. She was now a “professional sinner.” It was almost Shabbat. Writhe and groan, O daughter of Zion (Mic 4:10).

She had noticed from my ID that I was a Gemini. “Gemini season raises your horny level.” It was time to make our way around each others bodies. “Here,” she said while moving closer, “let me be your muse.” She seductively removed her red dress, unfastened her black bra, and unleashed her 36DDs. Oh may your breasts be like clusters of the vine (Song of Songs 7:8). I immersed my face in her luscious tits. Her nipple entered my mouth. Her lacy black panties came down. She’s truly all-natural: tufts of hair surrounded her pubic region.

“I know you want a taste.”

Dessert was served early. I enjoyed her taste.

She grabbed a condom and a bottle of lube labeled Fuck Water out of her purse. She unrolled the condom on me, then proceeded to work her mouth on my cock while staring at me with her blue eyes. She’s well-versed in her craft. The sensation was remarkable for a CBJ. Then I got her on her hands and knees. Playing the harlot, she turned her head back, teased me with her lush ass, and invited me to fuck her. The obvious comfort she had in her body was irresistible. As our bodies merged, everything else faded away. She moaned as I penetrated her and placed my hands on her hips. This girl held nothing back, meeting me thrust for thrust. I got into the flow, entering that trance-like state that accompanies sex for me. I recall one neuroscientist saying, “Sex is a source of pleasurable sensations, but beyond that, it’s actually an altered state of consciousness.” Frantic and furious, I ached for relief. Then, shuddering, I climaxed. She had drawn out my desire.

We resumed our conversation naked in bed.

Latter-day Sex

A couple of years ago I encountered two female Mormon missionaries at the public library. I surreptitiously eyed the slender blonde. In her prim blouse and long skirt, she was the very definition of “modesty.” I visually stripped her and imagined her in her temple garments. Then I started to fantasize about her.

She was taught that sexual sins are the “most abominable above all sins” except murder and denying the Holy Ghost (Alma 39:5). Yet surely she’s been tempted. I imagined her at night in bed obediently reading the Book of Mormon. She strives to remain chaste. The flesh has its own prerogatives. Her unchaste thoughts about her sister missionary return. Thoughts she can no longer suppress — thoughts about a stolen kiss; a forbidden taste. Her body stirs. Unable to resist, she sets down her holy scripture. She rubs her breast through her garment. She knows she’ll have to confess her sin to her bishop. The shame of having her moral uncleanliness exposed mortifies her. Still, her other hand slips inside her bottom garment….

Once during a trip out West a few years before that, I visited Salt Lake City. I confess I was smitten with the sister missionaries who guided the tour of Temple Square. That night at my hotel I was unable to resist the prospect of a romp with a call girl within sight of the Temple, so I called a local escort service. The lady dispatching the girls informed me that FS was not an option. I hired a brunette anyway. A cute girl arrived at my door an hour later. Among the ground rules we had to abide by was no touching. After she changed into lingerie, I asked her about the restrictive regulations. “This is Salt Lake City after all,” she replied matter-of-factly. “The Church controls everything here. Even sex.”

Growing up in a part of the country with a sizeable Mormon population, I’ve long been fascinated by the exotic beliefs and practices of the Latter-day Saints. And the exotic can become erotic. About five years ago, a newly constructed temple in the area was open to the public before its dedication, and I toured it with a friend. Inside it looked nothing like a traditional church; the rooms resembled the foyers in upscale hotels. There was a certain sensuousness to it all.

The origins of Mormon sexual morality are tangled. While condemning premarital sex and masturbation, the church’s early endorsement of polygamy privileged fecundity and provided the men who practiced it bountiful outlets for sexual pleasure. Joseph Smith argued that because God made women so enticing, men were entitled to more than one wife. Smith said that God told him, “And if he have ten virgins given unto him by this law, he cannot commit adultery, for they belong to him.” As one ex-Mormon puts it, “If you don’t grow up Mormon, you don’t realize there’s all these sexy things about it.” Mormon rituals are tinged with the erotic, as evidenced by the temple garment. This aesthetic coexists, however, within a culture of sexual repression. The Doctrine and Covenants bluntly says, “Therefore, cease from…all your lustful desires” (88:121). The Book of Mormon insists on chastity: “But remember that he that persists in his own carnal nature, and goes on in the ways of sin and rebellion against God, remaineth in his fallen state and the devil hath all power over him. Therefore he is as though there was no redemption made, being an enemy to God” (Mosiah 16:5). “Sins of immorality” are commonly understood to be exclusively sexual in nature. A few years ago, a Mormon therapist came to the conclusion that “masturbation is neither sinful nor even a ‘transgression.’” As a result, she was recently excommunicated from the church.

A religion with erotic overtones coupled with erotophobia tempts its own adherents. The taboo of forbidden sex can itself heighten sexual tension. “All Latter-day Saints must learn to control and discipline themselves” a church-published pamphlet admonishes adolescents. Such self-mastery can be difficult to achieve. Porn star Angela White revealed in an interview, “A lot of my memberships are from more conservative states in America…. Utah is a big one.” She continued, “There are a lot of people condemning masturbation and sexuality while doing it behind closed doors.” And they’re not just watching porn. “You’ve no idea the people I could get in trouble,” a Salt Lake City call girl told the author of a soon-to-be published book. Many of her clients are prominent members of the Church of Latter-day Saints. At its extreme, it produces a sex cult. In the Fundamentalist Church of Latter-day Saints, polygamy is still sanctioned. Emphasizing the Mormon tradition of procreation as a means to achieve godly status in the afterlife, the FLDS mandated that sex with the sister wives were reserved for certain “seed bearers” to ensure the birth of “spirit children.” Since “the Seed Bearer has special authority to spread his seed among the daughters of Zion,” the wives’ husbands were even forced to watch as he copulated with their spouses.

Meanwhile, I await my next encounter with sister missionaries.

“Lead us not into temptation”

She sat alone in a pew on the right.

Dark blond hair. A short blue sundress that showed off a golden tan and a shapely pair of legs.

She kept distracting me during the liturgy. I tried to focus on the sermon and the words to the hymns. I kept peeking at that short little sundress, though.

She had no idea I was visually stripping her dress off her and fantasizing about fucking her.

After the service, a parishioner introduced me to “Emily.” She recently graduated from college and returned to the area. Friendly and sweet, Emily said she is looking for a faith community to connect with. I offered to meet with her and introduce her to our parish’s educational offerings. Emily promised to contact me and set up a time to meet later this week.

Don’t do the pew.

Despite my sexual excesses, one line I haven’t crossed is engaging in a sexual relationship with a parishioner. I’ve certainly been tempted. Heidi and Anne tested my self-restraint. In the era of #MeToo and #ChurchToo, there are few easier ways to get dismissed from ministry than getting caught engaging in sexual misconduct. Sexual desire, however, cannot be so easily bracketed off from the life of the church. “For the pastor there are more situations, more opportunities to act out sexually,” one male pastor observed in Sex in the Parish. “If you’re not clear about your sexuality, you’re going to act on your fantasies.” A poll conducted by Christianity Today in the 1990s revealed that nearly one-fourth of clergy had engaged in some form of inappropriate sexual behavior. Some ministers suggest that even fantasizing crosses a line. “The limits of intimacy with a parishioner are stepped over when sexual fantasies abound.”

Lead us not into temptation.

Even as I spoke with Emily, my hypersexual imagination wondered what was under her dress. I thought about her wetness. Her tightness. Her soft moans. The way her tits would bounce during our exertions.

I doubt the thought would even cross her mind, but if Emily ever came on to me, in my weakness, I don’t think I’d be able to resist pulling her panties to the side.