Lust

You’re baptized at two months old. Your parents cry. Your pastor praises the church. Donations. Salvation. Time passes. Sin becomes a first date. Tempting. Glorious. Soft hands, soft lips. You’re hard, gripping the wheel, driving thirty miles per hour over the speed limit to chase away fantasies. She’s sultry. She makes you wonder how wrinkled the sheets can become when two bodies procreate. How easily a mental image of an untouched woman turns into an experienced lover who whispers your favorite word to make you finish. Yes.

Yes to your parents. Yes to the church. Yes to videos of women you don’t know giggling and rubbing themselves. Yes to the sweet Christian girl your parents introduced you to. She’s never kissed. Her dresses reach her ankles. She confides in you, asking if it’s wrong to have certain thoughts of others. You tell her to elaborate. She blushes and ends the conversation. You’re curious if you can taste her virginity. You explain how feelings are natural. She touches your hand, then apologizes. To deny her what she’s longing for will kill her.

The youth minister tells you that you’re a good kid and to never steer away from God. You sit on a broken bench and learn the significance of pressure. What your brain tells you is what your heart doubts, what your desires latch onto. Women are delicious whether you know them or not. There are too many. On screens, in real life, over the phone.

Now there’s one leaning in to understand a science problem. Her hair smells like coconut. Her neck is fruity. She’s religious but not religious enough. She’s sleeping with her boyfriend. He’s on the baseball team. He’s talkative yet quiet. She has more homework questions. She invites you over one day. No one else is home. You open your textbooks and sit on her bed. You ask which problems she had trouble with. She shows you. She can’t focus. Neither can you.

There’s tension and stillness between you two. She’s taken. You want her. You’ve never done this. She hugs you, her cheek against yours. You feel her nibble on your neck. You have your first kiss and learn how quickly you can toss your morals. Her hand wraps around your hardness. Your fingers become wrinkled from feeling her. God scans the room in disappointment. This is not what a good Christian would do. But her moans. How easily they pulse in your ears.

She’s close. Closer. You can’t undo this. It didn’t feel amazing. But it felt nice. Different. It wasn’t worth it. But somehow it was. You see her in class. She smiles. You smile back. She asks you to come over again. You don’t mention her boyfriend. You just say, yes. She needs you to be inside her. You can’t. You shouldn’t. You have to. Clothes come off. Knees are spread. You push. It’s all over too fast. She cuddles with you. It felt amazing. But not amazing enough. Different. It wasn’t worth it. But somehow it was.

You and the sweet Christian girl who wears long dresses take a walk in the park. You think about how easily you could raise her skirt. She speaks passionately of God. How she enjoyed last week’s sermon on giving back to the community with love in your heart. Her compassion melts you. Her hair reaches her elbows. You caress it. She doesn’t speak. You ask if she wants you to do it again. She nods. You run your fingers through her strands very slowly. You want to get her used to this pace. Her breaths rise. You need permission to go further. She remains silent because God would hear her receptiveness.

You guide her back to your car. You tell her to grab your hand and place it anywhere. She’s shy. You reassure her you won’t tell anyone. She lifts your hand from your lap and places it on her leg. She’s red. Scared. It’s okay, you tell her. The same way you told yourself during moments you created distance between you and God. She moves your hand to her thigh. Then barely higher. You watch her squirm. She allows you to feel underneath. You have to stop. But her whimpers. The sensation of her becoming wetter in your palm. You rub more intensely until she lets out a scream.

You have a simple life with a wife and three children. You’re having supper. Stew with rice and potatoes. Your wife has baked a chocolate cake from scratch. Your children drink grape juice. You and your wife drink white wine. Your children have your eyes. Dark green. Your wife is a pretty woman. She doesn’t wear makeup. Her dresses have patterns that don’t draw attention. You have seven Bibles at home. You read passages to your children at night. They fall asleep with God’s words. Treat others as you would want to be treated. Speak the truth but with kindness and thoughtfulness.

You rest beside your wife and flip through your pocket Bible. Lust. It’s born when you are. It grows with rejection. Denial. Your youngest son can’t have another slice of chocolate cake. He’s already had too much sugar. You tell him no, and he desires it more. What’s a tiny bit more sugar going to do? What’s the harm in one extra-long look at your coworker? She wears skirt suits. She places reports on your desk making sure not to make direct contact. You have a photo of you and your family that she notices. You’ve been married for seven years. She wants to be married but has trouble dating. You tell her she’ll find someone. She hopes so. She begins handing the reports to you. Sometimes your fingers innocently meet.

For everything you have, there’s room for something more. Extra care. Attention. Money. Cars. Your wife kisses you on the cheek when you return home. You hold her. You love her as she is. She loves you for who you portray yourself to be. The glass vase imitates the shape of your coworker. Petals bloom. Lips part with encouragement. The stream has begun. The excitement becomes torment becomes shame. The bed is warm. A figure glides down. Her tongue explores your ridges by memory. You awaken. The morning proves a point. Nothing is as good as you anticipate it to be.

The table is set. Five humans pray. Your wife asks about your day. You’re good at keeping secrets. You’re eight years old, getting out of bed to tell your father you’ve thrown up. Your mother is out of town with her girlfriends. You open your parent’s bedroom door and see your father lying next to a woman you don’t know. Your father tells you to go back to your room. You sit on your bed and wait for him. He explains that the woman you saw is a friend. Nothing bad has happened. He’d never cause your mother pain. Your coworker is just a friend. Nothing bad has happened. You’d never cause your wife pain.

You walk through a tunnel until you reach violet hills surrounding a farmhouse. There are seven women each dressed in sheer white. They dance in a circle, clasping hands. The rhythm of their allure attracts you. The circle breaks, and they ask you to join. You sit on a chair at the center of attention. Each woman takes turns teasing you. Hands through your hair, on your chest, unbuttoning your shirt. One sits on your lap, arms around your neck. She’s identical to your wife. The same button nose and sapphire eyes. Her downturned pink lips touch your forehead. You try to kiss her, but she disappears.

The women’s dresses turn black. Their maroon lipstick leaves marks on your skin. One unzips you, never breaking eye contact. Her mouth is only an inch away. As you grip her hair, she vanishes. Five nude women rest in front of you on the grass, touching themselves. Backs arch. Fingers glisten as they press in and slide out. The aroma of wetness permeates. Moans harmonize. They’re almost there. Just a little more. You wait. But suddenly they’re gone.

Experience can erase your purpose. You’re a child of God. From the womb you knew of the trinity and that Jesus would return. Echoes prevail of the repercussions of sin, the fine line between noticing a woman and admiring her. Pleasure has nursed you like a second mother. The comfort of breasts as a cushion on difficult days. The forgetfulness of suffering when nestling within a woman. The powerful pause in the midst of disorder when you release and she tightens around you. You’re her first. She waited for twenty-six years. She’s unaware of how many women came before her.

She’s on her knees, bobbing her head. You teach her to be free. For the gratification to be uncontrollable. She swallows, and you realize all you’ve done in life is escape. Your mother once slapped you when she caught you watching pornography. Your father told you he was disappointed in you. You heard their yelling in the evenings. Your mother found out what he’d done. Not once but three times. With the same woman. Your pastor reiterated that exploring your sexuality is disobedience to God. It’s sinful. It’s natural. It’s healthy. It’s not the way you’re supposed to be.

Your three boys are still young. They’ll grow quickly. You know what will happen, and this devastates you. Religion is in their roots. Your parents have already taught them. The church has already embedded it into them. This idea of unobtainable perfection that’s expected. Keep them pure. Hide reality from them. Don’t let them be like you. You indulged when you were told not to. And you came back for more. You can’t stop.

Her cleavage shows as she discusses last week’s report. Her fragrance clings. White musk with a hint of apricot. You make love to your wife that night, listening to her groan into her pillow. The next day your coworker sits in your office, crossing her legs. You could unwrap them. Your wife is in the kitchen, making spaghetti. You place her on the counter. She reminds you that your children will be dropped off soon. You shower. Your coworker straddles you. She sways and transforms. You look up at your wife as she says she loves you. You love her. You love the crest of her body. Of every female you encounter. You dig into her waist. The climax comes.

You’re alone. Glass walls reveal what you don’t deserve. A devoted woman having a picnic with three boys. She sings them a hymn. Her bump shows. You’re having a girl. This is a blessing. Yet there’s dread. She enters the world. You cry as she does. You want to save her before others have a chance to infest her. To be a father she’s proud of. But a child cannot change you. Who you’ve strived to be has been kept hostage for years. Your suppressions, untamed. You cradle your daughter and tell her, nothing is as it seems.