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.

Bad, Bad Girl

Her lips slowly imparted kisses along my collarbone. Then down my chest. Down my stomach. Down to my pubic region.

“I’ve been a bad, bad girl….” softly confessed Fiona Apple in the background.

Her hand wrapped itself around my erect member. I felt her tongue gently flick the tip of my cock. My fingers grasped strands of her dark brown hair. After teasing me with her tongue for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, her lips finally enveloped my throbbing hard-on.

A groan I had been stifling escaped my throat.

“Sheryl” had been a classmate before completing her master’s degree. We unexpectedly encountered each other at a seminary event as the spring semester drew to a close and agreed to meet for coffee at a newly reopened coffee shop near campus. Her background is in music; she’s a violinist and conducts a youth orchestra. Her father pastors a small urban church. She’s just a few years older than me and comes from a similarly conservative religious background (she was an undergraduate at Wheaton), although her theological leanings have since drifted leftward. (Witches, Sluts, Feminists was a title she recently read.) Her brassy personality certainly contrasts with mine, which made our ultimate coupling all the more intriguing. Our first date consisted of catching up and discussing one of her favorite authors, George MacDonald. Always flirtatious, she grew increasingly brazen during our second meet up for coffee — she ran her fingers through my hair at one point. Then her hand slid along my belt. By then I was fixated on getting her into bed. She must have intuited my intentions because she invited me back to her place.

Once we arrived at her home, we wasted little time — we headed straight to her bedroom. She undid my belt and the zipper on my pants. We started making out. Our lips met, and my tongue forced its way into her mouth. Again she ran her hands through my hair. I undid her bra; my mouth greedily sucked on her hard nipple. I caught her staring at my hard cock. There was no way to coyly hide my arousal. I was stripped bare in the most radical way, exposed as nothing more than an animal with an erection. She lay back on the bed and spread her legs.

Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits…. (Song of Songs 4:16)

“Mmm….”

After I tasted her, she reached inside her nightstand (I spied a vibrator inside the drawer) and pulled out a condom. She rolled the condom onto my cock. She lowered herself down and guided my cock into her depths. My fingers dug into her flesh as we found our rhythm. Low grunts emerged from the back of my throat. My pace quickened as my hips lifted off the bed as I thrust myself deeper inside her.

“Please, God, yes….”

It had been a while since I last hooked up. My regard for Sheryl in the moment was purely carnal. It felt so good to be inside her.

“OHMYGOD!”

We were nothing more than two sinners fucking.

I felt her tighten around me. I moaned. She collapsed on top of me, breathless and sweaty.

“For I do not understand my own actions”

It just occurred to me that I’ve been writing on this blog for five years now. I can’t exactly say for sure what compelled me to chronicle intimate (and scandalous) details about my sexual experiences. Perhaps it was an attempt to seek the underlying, hidden impulses that motivate my behaviors. “For I do not understand my own actions” (Rom 7:15). Despite the many words I’ve written since, I don’t believe I’ve acquired much in the way of self-knowledge.

A brief synopsis: I am a single man in his early thirties completing a PhD at a divinity school and serving in lay ministry at a Lutheran parish. The product of a traditional religious upbringing, I struggle to reconcile my sexual behavior with my calling. My Testimony provides a brief introduction to my dilemma. I’ve described growing up in the purity culture, the struggle to remain pure as a young man, and ultimately losing my virginity to a call girl. Paying for sex has remained an essential part of my sexual experience. There have been liaisons with married women, an extended fling with a classmate, a brief but intense entanglement with a colleague in ministry, plus the occasional hookup.

I’ve explored my Madonna-whore complex, my fascination with porn, Christianity’s trouble with sexual liberation, my darkest sexual fantasies, and my pained experience of trying to reconcile my sexual appetite with the traditional Christian sexual ethic. Some insight has been gleaned, to be sure, but my dilemma remains fundamentally the same. I suspect there will be no tidy resolution to this any time soon.

Naughty, Not Nice

I discovered on social media that “Faye” was visiting from the Midwest. She seemed like the perfect holiday treat. After contacting her and arranging an encounter, I arrived at her hotel room at the appointed time. The door opened, and I was invited inside by a petite blonde with mesmerizing green eyes in fancy lingerie. (She said she had recently ordered it from Agent Provocateur.) Bubbly and flirtatious, she projected a corrupted innocence that was tantalizing. Despite her diminutive stature, she didn’t quite fit the description of a “spinner.” Her ample chest and round derriere gave her a comely figure.

After a few minutes of conversation, she abruptly halted our discourse by climbing into my lap and straddling me. Slowly grinding on me, she certainly felt my erection through my pants. Her pouty lips signaled that it was time to get naughty. I reached around her back and unclasped her bra. I started to feast on her breasts, tracing my tongue around her areolas before my lips wrapped around her taut, hard nipples.

“You like them?” she coyly asked.

As I sucked on her nipples, she continued to grind on me. She started nibbling my earlobe. “How do you like that, Daddy?” she whispered in my ear. Then she reached down to undo my pants. She got up to fetch a condom before she planted herself between my legs. It was time to put those pouty lips to work. She proceeded with a blowjob before she abruptly stopped. “Take this,” she said. She handed me a small pill. “It’ll make us really horny.”

What followed was a haze of rough, athletic sex. Ambien sex.

Ambien is a sleep medication which, according to some, can also function as an aphrodisiac. One woman who was prescribed the drug said, “Ambien makes you sleep, but it can also make you want to have sex.” After taking the drug, she said, “I want to bang.” One of Tiger Woods’ mistresses claimed she and the golfer had “crazy Ambien sex.” The craziness comes from one of the pill’s possible side effects: “lack or loss of self-control.” It doesn’t necessarily stimulate arousal, but it’s disinhibiting effects can create the conditions for some wild sex. A sleep specialist said, “I have heard of people using Ambien because it lowers their inhibitions and they tend to do more interesting things sexually.” My hazy memory dimly recalls me furiously fucking Faye in front of the suite’s bay window as she begged to be treated as a “fuckdoll.”

That night was the only time I’ve had sex under the influence of some substance. One escort I visited suggested we share some marijuana (“I’m into the green!” she said), but I declined. I don’t drink much, so I’ve never had drunk sex. The memory (however hazy) of that wild night with Faye is enough is enough to make me contemplate experimenting with Ambien again.

I do recall her reaction to being dragged onto my lap and harshly spanked.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Sex Abides

In the midst of so much chaos and uncertainty, one thing abides: sex.

Betty’s back. So I e-mailed her seeking an arrangement. There was a bit of difficulty setting up a time that worked for both of us, but we managed to figure it out. I arrived at her new incall, and after a very slight delay, she gave me her room number. I knocked, and she answered the door in a blue dress and sexy thigh high boots. Her small apartment was illuminated by flickering candles. After a short chat to get reacquainted, we took care of business and made ourselves comfortable. As she undressed, I took time to admire her nicely shaped body and resplendent porcelain skin. Betty wants to please, so when she asked me what I wanted to do, I asked her to get on her knees. She retrieved a condom and accommodated me. A surge of masculine pride rippled through me as I looked down on her servicing me.

We moved to her bed. Betty has amazing breasts, and I gave them ample attention, fondling them and sucking on her nipples. She then positioned herself on top, rhythmically riding me. I enjoyed the sight of her bouncing tits. I thrust my hips off the mattress as her body undulated on top of mine. Minutes later I let out a deep groan.

“Did you finish?” she asked.

She climbed off of me, removed the condom, went to the bathroom to retrieve a warm washcloth, and cleaned me up. We talked a bit more. She said most of her clients are married. She had once been married herself. Her ex was now married to the girl he had cheated on her with. Then her alarm sounded. Our hour was up. Our clothes came back on. She accompanied me to the door and, after a light kiss, said goodbye.

Expecting

The resumption of in-person worship at church has reacquainted me with “Lindsay.” Even masked and socially distanced, she remains a pleasing sight with her long blond hair. It was also immediately apparent by her swollen belly that she hadn’t devoted all her time in quarantine to contemplation. Her protruding curves evidenced her fertility and stoked a primal desire in me.

As I gazed at Lindsay’s round belly and swollen breasts, I became decidedly aroused. She’s not the first pregnant woman to turn me on. Maiesiophilia is the term sexologists use to label a pregnancy fetish. Perhaps it’s not as weird as it sounds. Pregnancy is inherently sexual. A neuropsychologist notes that a pregnant woman in the most obvious way exhibits her fertility as well as her sexual activity. The famous “glow” of pregnancy can make a woman more sexually attractive. Blood flow increases and the surge of hormones can make hair shinier and improve skin tone. The same hormonal surges can also increase libido. (It’s possible that Lindsay is a very horny gal right now.) Ultimately, the taboo surrounding an expecting mother may explain much of the appeal. “Here you are having hot sex with someone who is preparing for motherhood,” one sex therapist says. “It’s sort of like trying to have sex with a nun.” Plus, as a married woman, Lindsay is supposed to be off-limits. Defiling her marriage bed while she is pregnant seems especially (deliciously?) egregious.

Lusting after Lindsay prompted an even naughtier fantasy: impregnating a woman. The risk of pregnancy made unprotected sex with the Deaconess especially hot. Even now I’m aroused by the memory of my bare cock inside her fertile pussy, her legs wrapped around me to pull me closer inside her, her hips bucking up to meet my thrusts as I unleashed a torrent of sperm into her womb. This fantasy isn’t exclusive to men. A phone sex model I speak with admitted that the impregnation fantasy “makes [her] pussy twitch.”