The Confession

 

 

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession, and in that time I have been full of lustful thoughts as the result of a fall from grace.

That's nice of you to say, Father, but I really don't think I'm able to resist these thoughts. I had a very intense experience last weekend, and I just can't get it out of my mind. Prayer hasn't helped. And, uh, well, I guess I'm here on behalf of the part of me that wants prayer to work, if you know what I mean. Part of me does not want it to. So I'm hoping that together you and I can convince the rest of me to take the high road.

What happened? Alright, I'll tell you, but I guarantee you, Father, you're not going to know what to say when I'm done.

You say that now, but really, you're not. Okay. Here goes.

Last June I went to the Gay Pride Parade downtown like I always do. Yeah, I'm gay. Hope that doesn't upset you, because there's nothing I can do about it, and God knows I spent years as an altar boy trying. Anyway, so I'm at the parade, right? The sidewalks are packed all along the route, people are hanging out of windows and balconies and lined up on the rooftops, it's general chaos and lots to look at. Seriously, it feels good to be in the majority for once, to rule that part of town, just for a few hours. I never miss it, even if the weather's shitty. Oops, sorry, Father. So I'm standing there on the sidelines, watching all these floats and marchers go by, when my heart does a drumroll and my mouth drops open. He was so good looking my nervous reaction just about preceded my actually seeing him, I think. It was weird. Right there, across the street, talking with some friends, smiling and laughing a lot. He was a big guy, not an inch less than six-foot-four--I know because I'm six-foot-three, and I know how to size people up from a distance--built like a truck, with strong-looking shoulders and huge forearms and biceps. Black T-shirt, really black hair and beard. And he had black shorts on, too, so I could see how muscular his legs were. You know anything about anatomy? I forget the name of those muscles right above the knee. Heck, I don't think I ever knew what they were called in the first place. Hairy, too.

You don't mind if I tell you the whole story, do you? All the details? I didn't see anyone else in the church when I got here, and I haven't heard the doors open or close since we started...Okay. Thanks, Father, this will help me work through this. I really appreciate it. If I start telling you more than you need to know, just say so.

No, nothing happened that day. I just stood there watching the parade go by, occasionally noticing someone else who looked good or interesting or funny, but I kept checking out my buddy there across the street and hoping he'd see me and suddenly the string section in my mind would come up and we'd run in slow motion across the street to each other, y'know? The more I looked, the more I liked, and of course you start thinking that you know more about the person than what they look like . . . daydreaming about how smart or gentle or whatever they are. As though we really know what we're like once we do get to know each other. I really, really wanted to see him take his clothes off and, well, you know.

The parade ended, and I almost got up the nerve to introduce myself but I didn't. He seemed way caught up with his friends, and that was more of a challenge than I wanted to tackle . . . having to entertain not only him but also his pals and have them not think I was some kind of opportunist, which is what I would have been. I'm just not a good liar, or actor, or pretender, or whatever. So I went home.

Now, about three months later I had to go to my sister's wedding. I say "had to" because frankly I don't get along well with her. She has a problem with me being gay and probably wouldn't have invited me except the rest of my family would have stomped on her if she hadn't. Frankly, I could give a . . . I mean, I don't care what she thinks, but usually I don't have to deal with her. I get to the church--and, of course, she's still Catholic and so is her husband--and I'm sitting there in the pew with the rest of my family, and then the music starts up and everyone's singing as the priest and altar boys come striding up the aisle to the altar. We were off in the middle of the left side of the church, and I'm looking in the program, trying to mouth the words as convincingly as possible given that I didn't know the song. The priest turned around behind the altar, and I looked up, and I . . . I am sure if anyone was watching me they saw my reaction. It was him, Father. The guy I'd wanted at the parade was a fucking priest. Oh, gosh, there I go again. Sorry. It's just my luck, is all . . . leave it to me to build up my daydreams around a priest. No offense, but you know what I mean, right? Kind of ill-advised object of my affections.

Does your being that quiet mean you're listening respectfully to my horrible little story or you're disgusted? Like I said, let me know if--Okay, cool. Thanks.

Maybe the fact that I've never been so entranced by a mass is another sin to confess, but I couldn't keep my eyes off him. I couldn't believe that a big bruiser like him was a priest. And what a great voice he had . . . so deep and strong. He gave a good enough sermon about the marriage, which I'd just about forgotten all about, but he could have been reading stock market reports and I would have hung on every word, just to hear how he said them.

Time came for communion, and when I went up, I was so wound up I can't tell you. What's that old saying, as nervous as a whore in church? Well, I can relate. Here I was about to receive a sacrament from a man I wanted to go to bed with so bad I could taste it more than the host. The line moved slowly, and finally I was right in front of him. Maybe he'll recognize me, I thought. He didn't show any sign of it if he did. Up close he was too hot to be real. What a handsome guy. His beard was trimmer than when I'd seen him, and his eyes were really dark brown, almost black. Maybe he's Italian, I thought. He took a host from the chalice, intoned "Body of Christ" and I said "Amen" in response, and then he placed the host in my hand, brushing against me slightly, which made me jump, and I think he noticed that. I caught his eye again and smiled a little and then scurried back to my place before I got a hardon. Heh heh . . . are you keeping tabs on this? Receiving communion while lusting after Christ's vicar. How many thousands of Hail Mary's am I racking up here?

After that I was hooked. I sat there with the host sliding down my throat and wishing he were sliding down my throat, too. Whatever it takes, I thought, I'm going to have that man. It's your fault, Jesus, for picking someone like him, I said to myself.

Okay, now here's where it starts to get weird. I usually go to St. Cornelius up on Foster because that's where I went to school--although I can't claim to be a regular churchgoer, I'm not--but my plan called me back to the church where my sister got married. I'd rather not say where. I went to mass there once to see if he'd be there celebrating it, but instead some Baptist wannabe who delivered a loud sermon was in charge. I did manage to get a missal and saw when confessions were heard.

Yup, that's right.

I went in that Saturday afternoon a few minutes before confessions were to begin. I got a seat far away from the booths. The other folks there were all old ladies. I waited to see who would hear confessions that day. He walked in looking as though he'd just finished running or something, he was all red in the face, just wearing the usual regulation black pants and shirt, which he filled out like a dream. Damn, er, dang, I thought, he looks so good in black. He stepped in his booth, the light turned white above to announce he was ready, and the old ladies started filing in one by one. After about twenty minutes into the hour, they had all dispersed . . . they probably didn't have too much in the way of sins to report. I sat a few more minutes with my heart pounding and my mouth dry, looking up at the crucifix up above the altar and hoping He'd understand. Yeah, maybe part of me just didn't care at that point. My mind was made up. I stood and walked toward the confessionals, I stepped in, the door closed behind me with a whoosh, and I knelt. The panel slid open to reveal the screen, and I heard his voice again. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit," he rumbled. Who would have thought that a prayer could be so sexy.

I took a deep breath. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been sixteen years since my last confession. In that time I have lied several times, I have been a jerk to people at work now and then, and I have lusted in my heart for another man."

Silence from the screen. "Have you done anything about your feelings for this man?" he inquired. "Have you sinned with him?"

My heart was beating so fast I was sure that my voice was shaking in time with it as I replied. "No, but I really want to and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to resist the temptation, Father. Help me."

"How can I help you do that?" he answered. I was impressed by the mildness in his voice. Thank goodness he wasn't the type to compensate for his double life by being a real hardass. "You're the only one who can help you here. And God doesn't throw us any temptation that we can't overcome. As you know, the Church teaches that homosexuality in itself is not a sin; it's acting on it that is--"

"Forgive me, Father, but I saw you at the Pride parade talking with your friends. I was right across the street from you. You . . . uh, you . . . I've remembered you ever since then, you're so good-looking and you seemed like so much fun, the way you were making your friends laugh like that . . . and then when I saw you at my sister's wedding two weeks ago, I couldn't believe it. You touched my hand when you gave me communion and I kinda got startled, remember me?" I blurted it all out. It was like my mind had already composed my speech and all I had to do was open my mouth and it flew out. Either he'd throw me out or he'd forgive me and ask me to leave or who knew, but I couldn't keep it inside any more.

I knelt there waiting. Absolute silence. It was like the blackness in the confessional had blended with the silence to become a presence that filled my ears and mouth.

"I remember you."

That's all he said. Maybe getting into a flotation tank is like what was going on in that confessional. It was so dark, I felt like I was spinning in space or something. Then he spoke again.

"I remember you. You're a redhead, right? With a goatee? What's your phone number?" he asked. Plain as that.

"Why do you want my phone number?" I had to ask him. Maybe this was a trick.

A few more seconds of silence. "Because I want to see you later tonight," he growled through the screen, "because I did see you at the parade and I recognized you at the wedding and I want you bad. Bad enough that I've had to jack off every night for a long time now thinking about you."

Of course, that's what I wanted to hear, totally what I wanted to hear, but instead of feeling happy, I was very scared and confused on top of being so horny. Almost thought I was going to throw up. Maybe all those tongue-lashings I received from the nuns in grammar school were replaying in my head: I was being bad, and I was being bad in church. With a priest. Problem is, that made me even hornier.

"Hello?" he asked. Then I heard him chuckling.

"Sorry, Father . . . you kinda caught me off guard," I replied, and then I gave him my phone number.

"And now, your penance. Why don't you get up and look to see if anyone else is out there."

So I did. The church was still empty. Not a lot of sinners in this parish, I guess. I stood under the vaulted ceiling, watching the banks of candles flickering under the statue of St. Joseph. Then I heard a knock. The middle confessional door was opening a crack.

"Come in here," he said. And I did. As the door opened farther, the light shone in on him, and I saw him looking up at me, grinning. "Close the door." I knelt next to him and then I felt his arms around me in the dark, his hot breath on my neck, and then his beard brushing mine as he kissed me. Very gently. I thought I was going to explode or pass out, or both. He said that he would give me a call later and could he come to my place? The rectory just wasn't set up for gentleman callers, he laughed. I laughed back, but I was still so turned on and freaked out that I must have sounded funny. He didn't kiss me again, just kinda patted me on the head and said he'd talk to me later. I said goodbye and was about to leave when I thought, Gee, aren't you forgetting something? So I told him my name, and he smiled--the door was open--and told me his. Without the "Father" attached. Then I went home and drank half a bottle of wine and smoked a joint by myself trying to calm down. It didn't work.

I really do appreciate your listening to this, it's helping me sort things out--feels like I've got two or three minds working at cross-purposes to each other. You sure you want to hear how this ends up? Okay then.

I woke up from my nap, guess you could call it that, when the phone rang. Tripped over my own feet trying to get to it, but I managed.

"Hi," said his voice through the receiver. "Want me to come over?"

"God, yes," I said.

He laughed. I liked his laugh. "Don't be swearing now! Remember who you're talking to, handsome."

"Uh, okay, yeah, sorry--yeah, please come on over, I'll just pick up a few things around here so it's presentable."

"Should I bring anything? Food? Wine? Beer?"

"Just you will do," I managed to blurt out.

"I can tell you're smiling now," he said in a way that made me sure he was smiling, too. "Do you want me to wear anything special?"

Well, I had been smiling, but I froze again. "Uh . . . well, I really like jockstraps."

He guffawed. "That can be arranged. So how do I get to you?"

I gave him directions and within about ten minutes he was at my apartment door. I let him in after the first knock. He brought flowers! I couldn't believe it. I mean, I don't have anything against flowers, or guys who like them, but I've never thought to give anyone flowers myself, and it never occurred to me that a guy I thought was hot would give me some. I do tend to gravitate toward the gruff, rough types I guess. But I didn't give the flowers too much of a lookover, moving my eyes instead to his. What a gorgeous man he is. Curly black hair so black it's almost blue, with those deep brown eyes to match, and that trim beard hugging his jawline. I don't know if he works out at the rectory or goes to a gym, but either he works out somewhere or being a priest involves lifting heavy stuff a lot. Does it? How much does Jesus weigh? Just kidding. Anyway. He was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt--the ones we were forbidden to wear in Catholic school, "dago tees" the nuns called them. I'm amazed that they got away with an ethnic slur like that, but now I hear them called "wife beaters," which isn't really an improvement--but I just wanted to start licking his shoulders right there. His pecs stretched the T-shirt so that the little lines and ridges in the fabric curved around them. Nice, tight, new black jeans below that. Sneakers on his feet, black ones. Beefy and furry, just like I like 'em, and he brings flowers, too. I'm not sure how long we stood there staring at each other, but it can't have been that long before I put the flowers down and kissed him hard as he closed the door behind him. I felt like a teenager again. This wasn't just lust, Father, it was like the biggest crush you've ever had. I mean, you did have crushes, right? It almost hurt to kiss him, it was so good. And he was a great kisser, too, really, um, enthusiastic. He smelled so good, and tasted so goodand suddenly his right leg went behind me and he knocked my feet off the floor, catching me with his left arm and bending over me, still kissing me as he held me there. Okay? I know this is hard to explain, but St. Anthony's temptations were nothing compared to mine. Nothing. Not that I had any intention of resisting. Not at all. I was being crushed in the furry arms of this gorgeous man who just happened to be a Catholic priest, and I was not going to let that last bit upset me. Especially because this priest had a hardon that was pressing into mine.

He brought me up, and I might as well have just come up from underwater, that's how breathless I was. And wet, too, because his body heat and my excitement had got me all sweaty. He nuzzled into me again and asked me to show him around. So I showed him. My taste in decorating is pretty minimal, I suppose, but he said he liked it. If he was being polite, it wasn't a big lie on his part, because there's not much to pretend to like--it's pretty tiny. As he checked out the apartment, I checked him out, over and over. When we got back into the living room, he said he had to use the bathroom, so I took a seat on the sofa and waited, watching his ass in those black jeans--sorry, you don't need to know all this. Really? You're sure? Okay. I won't stop myself again. You want to hear it all, you're gonna get an earful, Father. Don't say I didn't warn you.

A few minutes later he came out wearing a big smile and a jockstrap. That's it. His eyes narrowed a little as he strode toward me. I hadn't seen him with his shirt off before, of course. He has an extra nipple, under his right one. Really nice. And dang, did he ever fill out that jock. I could tell he was more than half hard already. One of his balls was trying to pop out. He walked right up to me, and just stood there, grinning down at me. He reached down and put his fingers under my chin, lifting my head up. His bulge was right there. I could smell it.

"So that kiss I gave you in church the other day was only part of your penance, you know," he said, really quiet, looking at me, his face all serious except for the hint of mischief in his eyes.

Suddenly I was freaked out again by the whole scene. I mean, how seriously could he be taking his vows and calling and all that, being here now? Then he said something that blew me away so completely that I went around the bend and stayed there.

"This is my body, which shall be given up for you." He cracked a grin as he said it, adjusting his jock so that his cock fell out and began to stiffen in the air in front of my face. "Your penance, my son."

Like I needed any encouragement. I took him in my mouth and sucked on the head, then licked up and down the shaft as he moaned and sighed. I felt him lift my chin up again, grabbing his dick with his other hand and shoving it far down my throat. I didn't even gag a bit, just letting him sink in. My hands moved up and down his body, flicking his nipples, stroking his back, as his cock pulsed in my throat, my lips sliding over him. I felt his hairy calves and the muscles in them like heavy cords shifting under his skin. He called my name and gently pushed into me over and over, and then he withdrew and stood me up, kissing me while pulling off my shirt and then diving for my chest. I just about lost it as my left nipple and then my right was engulfed by his mouth. I'm sure the neighbors heard me. He unbuckled my belt and made quick work of getting my jeans off, too, and suddenly he was on his knees, his mouth on my dick through my shorts. I cried out, it was so fuckin great. He felt like was running a fever or something, that's how hot he felt. And wet. I pulled my shorts off and he started lapping at me. I've gotten lots of blowjobs before, but he is really the best. Oh my gosh. It felt like my dick had been soaking in ice water, his mouth was so warm and moist in contrast. And I was just pushing into him and he was taking me, taking all of me, Father, and then he stood up and put his mouth on mine hard. We just stood there making out, tasting each other's cocks on our lips and tongues, and then he led me into the bedroom.

Yeah, I fucked him a couple of times. His ass looked so good in that jockstrap, so furry, and he was gripping me and then letting me sink in deep before grabbing at me again--yeah, I wore a condom. Lord knows where those altar boys have been. Okay, a joke, sorry, I mean, this is kind of weird for me here, Father? Usually I like fucking guys on their backs, but he wanted just to lie down and grind his hardon into the bed as I plowed him. He turned his head around and licked my neck and face while moaning, begging me to give him more. I finished him off by sucking him, and he was so turned on from just having gotten me that after about thirty seconds he was squirming and grabbing at my shoulders and then I felt him twitch and spurt in my throat. I really wanted to drink his cum. Then I jacked off all over him. And he just curled up into me after we came, my hands on his pecs and his ass still against my cock as we fell asleep. Hah, well, the next morning he fucked me so good I came without even touching my dick . . . he just wouldn't let up and finally I hit this plateau and just rode it, kinda moaning like a mental patient for minutes until I saw stars and lost it, bucking and shooting. I've never had an orgasm like that. He liked my reaction too, and he went for it another time about an hour later, but he had to jack me off that time. We both had cum in our beards and we licked it off each other. He had to run off after we had coffee, but he said he'd call me. I hadn't really had much time to chat with him, and talking with him I got the idea that he was really smart. And a nice guy. Of course, he's breaking his vows, but I still really trust him somehow. Feel sorry for him, too. This was last Saturday. And here I am.

You're really quiet, Father.

Yes, that's Jack I'm talking about. Father Jack to you. But you've known that for a while now, haven't you? I recognized you at the wedding, too. You're a redhead like me, and you were standing behind Jack at the parade. I know that all of you guys there were priests now, and there's one other guy from your group who's on my list. In some ways, I think you're hotter than Jack, you know. I love really hairy redheads like you. Hell, I could suck on your nipples all day, Father. So what's my penance?

© 2000 Gregor Everitt