Pieces of a Puzzle

As much as possible, I try to compartmentalize my “church” life from my sex life. Excluding my brief (and intense) fling with The Deaconess, I haven’t become sexually involved with any woman from my parish. Some of it is probably a mechanism to reduce the dissonance in my life. I try to compensate for my sexual guilt through my work in ministry. In the #MeToo era, relations between church leaders and congregants are especially dangerous. Sexual misconduct is grounds for dismissal from ministry.

“Anne” is tempting my restraint.

Anne’s relatively new to our church. She’s a single twentysomething Christian school teacher who remarkably resembles Shannen Doherty on Charmed. In the classes I’ve taught, she’s revealed herself to be whip-smart. (Tonight she made a long but penetrating digression on The Pilgrim’s Progress.)

Tonight she came up to me after class. She said was interested in forming a young adults group in our parish and asked if I could be of assistance. With church and school, I’m pressed for time as it is, but I agreed to help because

A young adults group would be an excellent ministry and advance our mission.
It would give me the opportunity to spend time with Anne.

Was Anne signaling any attraction to me? I doubt it. Still….

What followed was what Catholic moral theology used to call delectatio morosa.

Anne’s welcoming smile turning into a naughty smirk….panties falling to the floor….pushing open her thighs….her nails pressed into my hips, pressing me deeper into her….a shriek of pleasure.

I recently watched the movie First Reformed about the crisis of faith of a Reformed pastor. It got weird toward the end, but the film culminates in the suicidal pastor embracing a young pregnant widow he had been counseling (played by Amanda Seyfried). Implicit in the embrace is the sexual consummation which will follow. One heterodox interpretation could be that even when faith is obscured by doubt, shards of salvation can be glimpsed during sex.

One female pastor confessed that her sexuality was “like pieces of a puzzle that I haven’t put together yet.” I haven’t put that puzzle together, either.

Pastoral Matters

ninfomani-cristiane

“Don’t do the pew,” we’ve been admonished at seminary. That’s one boundary I haven’t crossed…yet.

“Maggie” is an active parishioner at our church. She teaches Sunday school. Married with two small children, she’s a curvy lady in her late 30’s with short blonde hair. She teaches at a local elementary school. Maggie is a gracious Southern belle with a sweet accent who’s friendliness is intertwined with an air of propriety. She’s a Republican who passionately adores Coca-Cola, Margaret Mitchell and her favorite college football team. She’s a devout Christian, raised Southern Baptist before she found her way into Lutheranism. (Our parish’s liturgy appeals to her.) Her Facebook page is filled with pictures of her family and Bible verses. She’s fond of pearl necklaces and low-cut blouses that reveal a bit of cleavage. She radiates sexual energy.

Our paths cross occasionally at church. Maggie is a bit flirtatious (although I admit I’m not very good at recognizing such signals). I recall her staring at me with her blue eyes, playfully running her fingers across her necklace. Was she sending me a signal? I decided to find out. Last Sunday, I took her aside and asked if she wanted to discuss some “pastoral matters” over coffee at Barnes & Noble. I was busy this week, so I couldn’t meet with her until Friday afternoon.

I arrived at the bookstore and sat down in the café. She texted me that she would be a few minutes late. I anxiously waited her arrival.

Maggie walked in wearing a low-cut pink dress and a white shawl sweater. She gave me a wide smile when she spotted me. Unexpectedly, she reached out and gave me a big hug, then told me she was going to order some tea. The enchanting scent of her perfume stayed with me.

After she returned with her beverage, I asked her how her Sunday school class was going and how I could be of help. She replied that she appreciated my offer of assistance, but her class was going well. Our discussion of church-related matters wasn’t going to last very long.

I had to be careful. I wanted to signal my interest in her, yet not so overtly as to provide grounds for sexual misconduct.

I asked her how things were at home. Perhaps her marriage was troubled.

Maggie responded with a long monologue about her kids and school and their many extracurricular activities and the vacation they took to Washington, DC and the relatives who were going to visit at Christmas and yada yada yada.

I sensed my seduction of Maggie was stillborn. If she had any real interest in me, she would have signaled it by then.

We continued our conversation for another half-hour before she had to go pick up her kid at something or other. As we said goodbye, she gave me another big (but chaste) hug. Any fantasies about a torrid fling with Maggie remain just that — fantasies.

New Year’s Eve

I knew Rev. “Lindy” from our mutual involvement in an ecumenical social ministry. She’s the youth pastor of a local Congregational church. She’s very cute–tall, with long dark brown hair she usually wore in a bun or ponytail. Occasionally she wears glasses. She is about my age but looks younger. She’s married with two young children. I admired her for her intelligence, good humor and compassion. We knew each other for several months, but our encounters were brief.

We found ourselves together on New Year’s Eve. Her church’s young adult group was having a party in the church’s Fellowship Hall, and she had invited me. A lot of alcohol was being consumed (I don’t drink much). Rev. Lindy was there by herself; her husband and kids were at her mother-in-law’s. It became apparent that she had too much to drink–she was quite tipsy. I was sitting on a couch along the wall when Lindy sat down right next to me, her leg pressed up against mine. As we talked, I could smell alcohol on her breath. She soon put her hand on my thigh and moved in even closer to me. I started to get aroused. She undid her ponytail and leaned in to kiss me, then whispered, “You’re cute.” Another kiss followed. “I’m up for hooking up tonight.” She suggested we go to her office. We then got up and excused ourselves from the party.

We headed for her office. I couldn’t resist temptation. My hands briefly shook as I contemplated what I was about to do. When we got to there, we immediately started making out. The alcohol on her breath was almost overwhelming, but we continued to French kiss. I hurriedly removed her sweater, unbuttoned her blouse, and unclasped her bra; I rubbed her breasts and felt how hard her nipples were. She undid her long skirt and let it drop to the floor. Then she pulled down her panties. (She didn’t remove her wedding ring.) I guided her to the couch. Soon I was on top of her, penetrating her in her deepest places. I shouldn’t be doing this, I thought. But it felt too good to stop. I surrendered to the moment, and pleasure washed away any tinge of guilt. I was fucking a woman of the cloth, and I loved it. I was defiling her marriage bed, and it was delicious. Then….

Jouissance

I emptied myself inside her.

Afterwards, we cuddled on the couch a while. I started to feel somewhat depressed. “I have to get home,” she said softly. She was in no condition to get behind the wheel, so I drove her home. We didn’t talk during the drive, only a perfunctory “Happy New Year” when I dropped her off at her house.

The next couple times we met, our interactions were extremely awkward. If word about our encounter got out, we would both be liable to discipline by our churches. We didn’t talk about our hookup, but I could tell she felt ashamed over what she did–she blushed during one of our halting conversations. I decided to resign from the social ministry to spare us any further embarrassment.