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Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
Matthew 26:41
I am steadfast in my resolve. I will be able to handle this newfound… friendship? Yes, friendship with Avery. I can separate enjoying her presence from the notion of wanting to consume her body.
That’s why when I see Avery today in Mass, I won’t stare at her beautiful face, round blue sparkling eyes, or daydream about fucking her six ways from Sunday.
I put on my vestments in the sacristy, the room at the back of the church where we prepare for Mass. Taking a look at myself in the mirror, I hate who I see looking back at me.
I’m not this man of faith, but the more I pretend I am, hopefully, it will rub off on me. It has been years, but maybe that could change. Maybe I can still change. Be a better person. A better priest. There are so many ways I wish I could just be better.
Growing up Irish Catholic outside of Boston, this religion was indoctrinated in me. I knew the ins and outs of it before I even entertained the notion of becoming a priest. It was rooted in my childhood and seeped throughout my blood.
Just because I know it better than I know myself doesn’t mean that I believe in what I’m saying at Mass. It’s fucked up, I know. My feelings toward the religion are complicated. Do I really think I’m turning cheap wine into Christ’s blood? Of course not. It’s the symbolism that I can understand and get behind.
This faith was what I subconsciously leaped to whenever I felt so strongly that my life was over. Maybe becoming a priest was extreme, but extreme was what I needed at that time.
After what happened, I had sat hungover on the steps of a Boston Catholic church, feeling drained, beaten, and unsure of what to do. How to move forward. Who to tell.
My now mentor, Patrick, eventually saw and sat beside me silently. I needed him that day. Soon enough, the days faded into weeks and months following that fateful night. The night I would never forgive myself for.
Patrick reminded me a lot of my da.
He believed that God was guiding me on the path I needed to experience. That I could be forgiven but I just had to forgive myself first.
That was something I knew I could never do.
Instead of working on forgiving myself, I poured myself into the Catholic faith and began helping Patrick at his church. I went through the daunting process of becoming a priest to show how much I could change my ways. Years later, I was finally ordained.
For a moment in time, I believed I was a new person, but it was fleeting.
I never once slipped into the temptations of drugs or women in those beginning years. I still allow myself to have a few drinks. I didn’t have the same desires I did at twenty-three, but drugs and women were clearly off the table.
A whiskey neat periodically is still acceptable though. It wasn’t until the day the busty adult film star came into my church that I faltered and almost gave into temptation.
Since then, I’ve been less confident in my role and the purpose of this path I’m on. The actions of a twenty-three-year-old man were not those of a thirty-four-year-old one. Not in my case, anyway.
I continued as a priest, albeit questioning it.
It all came to a tipping point the moment I laid eyes on Avery only a week ago. The moment that my fate changed.
After Mass ends, I take my place on the outside steps to greet the parishioners. It’s a beautiful day with birds chirping and all, but I can’t really appreciate any of it. Not when a temptress in a pale pink dress is walking up to me with a wide smile, looking like a doll.
She wore this dress to test me. I know it. She can clearly tell I love the dresses she’s been wearing.
Instead of sitting toward the back near one of the pillars, this week, she sat in the third row, right in front of the altar.
Her dress dips low, but not too low. It curves around her delicate collarbone. At the altar, I was wishing to lick that collarbone right there in front of the congregation. She brought these wicked desires to the forefront of my mind every time.
She leaned forward more times than was necessary during Mass. Either to pull something out of her purse on the floor or to pick up the Mass pamphlet she kept tucked in the seat in front of her. Avery knew what she was doing to me. I shouldn’t have fucking cared, but the depraved part of me loved every second of it.
Tits are one thousand percent my weakness. I don’t care what kind of cliché that makes me. Seeing hers made me wish I could make them my new religion.
I would worship at the altar of her tits, giving them every bit of the attention they deserve. Thank fuck, this robe can’t show what is my very apparent bulge.
“Good morning, Mrs. Matheson,” I say in greeting.
She flinches again at the name. I can’t call her Avery here, not with so many eyes watching both of us, including Missy Jenkins. Calling Avery by her first name is too personal for how little everyone would assume we know of each other. No one knows this isn’t the second time we’ve met.
