From the time I was a small child, I’ve been led by blind faith. It’s been a collar around my throat, and the church has been controlling the leash ever since I can remember. I was born into a deeply conservative family, not just religious, but obsessed. I would go as far as to call it fanaticism. The uncompromising devotion to God, the extreme obsession to worship him blindly, it has all the makings of a cult. Of course, I’m not supposed to think that. I’m supposed to follow without questioning. I’m a sheep herded by God. And it was always meant to be this way. This is my destiny.
My father is a preacher, and from the moment I could walk, I’ve been taught to bow my head in submission, avoid unclean thoughts, and perceive sexual desires as impure. Demonic influence, he’s always called it. Forcing me to keep my emotions in check has been my father’s main goal in life, and he’s probably pleased that he’s achieved it so far. I’ve been praised for keeping quiet, for keeping my head down. I’m seen as pure in their eyes, simply because I’ve learned how to act to keep them off my back. But deep down, it really is all an act.
I’ve starved myself of affection my entire life, and I can’t deny that now…I’m famished for it. But I can’t have it, and it’s something I battle with every single day. I pretend though. For my sake, I paste a fake smile on my face and go on about my day. I’m admired for it—my strength, my dedication to being the most devoted I can be. By instructors, by my peers, by my family. But they don’t really see who I am deep down. They’ve never been able to because I keep it hidden under wraps, behind punishments and whispered psalms.
My shame rules me at times, but I’m doing the best I can. And when that’s not enough, I make up for it in the only way I know how. By praying the impure thoughts away, fasting for forgiveness, and complete and utter silence. Because these thoughts? They could be my damnation. I can never let anyone know I have them. It would ruin me. The church would deem me impure, my family would desert me, and I would be lost without them. Because I don’t know who I am without all of this. I can’t stand on my own. And so, I could never give any of this up. Which means I bow my head and pretend I’m not different.
There’s terror running through my veins though, poisoning my blood. There’s also understanding. That what I’m feeling is wrong, and that maybe, just maybe I’ll never be right. I haven’t been since I was thirteen years old when I looked at a boy for the first time. Not a quick glance, but a lingering stare. My eyes tracked movements they shouldn’t have, and the first time I admitted it to myself was followed by a promise I made. To fight this, to not let it consume me. Nothing good would ever come from it. But I’m being tempted once more. Every day I’m here, in this seminary, is a struggle to not give in to my base desires. Because I know if I really wanted to, if I craved it deeply enough, Micah would give in with me. He’d change me, and I’d let him.
But I can’t.
So I remind myself of the words my father always repeated to me throughout my life. That my body is a temple, and temples aren’t for touching. Sometimes it works to calm me down. Mostly because the guilt and self-loathing take over and win. But sometimes, on days like today, desire wins out. It perseveres no matter how hard I work to squash it.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants, rubbing them over and over again on my thighs, a nervous gesture I can’t seem to quit. I feel eyes on me, and I know they’re Micah’s. But I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze trained on Father Jacob instead, who is leading noon mass. Micah, however, scoots closer to me until I can feel the heat of his body pressed to my side. Our bodies flush from shoulder to thigh. Entirely too close. If someone were to see, it would look wrong, wouldn’t it? I should probably move. I know that. So why can’t I? Why do I give him hope when there is none for us? It’s bad enough that we share living quarters, that his dorm is next to mine. He probably hears my whimpers late at night and thinks he has a chance because I’m already tarnished. Sinful. Wrong.
But he doesn’t.
Iwillpersevere.
I won’t give in to this, no matter what it costs me. My happiness being one of the highest prices to pay. But I don’t need to be happy. I need to follow God. The devil has his clutches in me, and he’s yanking me around, probably having fun. I need to make him let go. I just don’t know how, and every day, it gets harder and harder to achieve it.
Micah moves his hand to the edge of his thigh, forcing it to brush against mine, fingers touching. It’s indecent, but I don’t move. Mostly because I don’t want to draw attention to us. Definitely not because I like it. There’s nothing enjoyable about another man touching me. There can’t be. I tense, hoping he’ll separate from me. That he’ll come to his senses and move away,put a safe amount of space between us. But is any amount of space going to calm the erratic beat of my heart when he’s around? Can he tell I’m battling with demons in my mind whenever he’s near?
I turn my head to look at him, tearing my eyes away from Father Jacob, and Micah smirks, giving me flirty eyes. It’s obvious even to me, and his eyes dip down to my lips and stay there. I clear my throat lightly, hoping not to draw attention to myself, but also begging him to snap out of it. To look away. Not make it so apparent that he’s watching me. But his eyes stayed trained on me, gliding up toward my own until we’re looking into each other’s souls.
Suddenly, mass is dismissed, and everyone begins to get up from the pews. We’re sitting at the end, near the aisle, and Micah stands immediately and turns, giving me his back. I sigh in relief, feeling my shoulders sag as I follow behind him. Not because I want to, but because there’s nowhere else to go. We still have some time before dinner at the cafeteria, and I need to spend it in my room. Alone. So I can calm down. Pray the impure thoughts away. Possibly take a cold shower.
I side-step Micah and practically speed walk to my room, but I hear footsteps following me, and I know I’m not in the clear. I’ll have to face him before I shut him out, probably give him an excuse. It should be easy. I’ll tell him I’m making time for a devotional. I probably need it too.
Once I make it to my dorm, I stop in front of my door, chest heaving and goosebumps forming on my skin. I turn around abruptly, almost coming face to face with him, but he doesn’t take a step back. I look around, hoping no one sees what’s happening, but there’s no one here to witness my downfall. And that in itself is a mercy.
“W-what are you doing, Micah?” I hiss, my hands shaking at my sides. I itch to push him away, pull him in. I don’t really know what I want. “Are you following me?”
“I thought we could hang out,” Micah says with an easy smile, his green orbs shining with mischief. It sends a chill down my spine, the way he makes me want. “We have some time before dinner.”
“Oh…I’m going to focus on my devotional for a while,” I stammer nervously. But his smile just widens, as if he can see right through me.
“Perfect, me too!” He reaches behind me to turn the doorknob, putting my body flush against the door, his body right against mine. I can feel…all of him. Everything. Muscles. I need to get away from him.Now. Before I make a huge mistake. “We can do it together.”
“Micah, I’m not feeling well.” I clear my throat, pushing him back lightly. He steps away from me with a frown on his face. “I want to be alone. I'm sorry.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his shoes, and suddenly I feel bad for lying. “Do you need some medicine?” Micah reaches up to press the back of his hand to my forehead, clearly feeling for a fever. “You’re not hot.”
I might not be feverish, but I do feel ill.
“S-sorry, I really just want to lie down,” I whisper, and he nods. “I hope you understand.”
“Sure,” he says easily, smiling again, then frowns. Before I can turn around and run away, he narrows his eyes on my face. “You have something right here.” He points to below my lip, and I reach up to scrub at my face.
“Don’t move.” Micah licks the pad of his thumb and reaches for my face, and I go still. Not because he asked me to, but because I’m terrified. He’s going to touch me. Oh, no. He already is. The brush of his thumb against the flesh of my bottom lip isalmost too much for me to bear, the sensation causing sparks of a fire to ignite within me. I thought I’d doused the flames, but clearly embers were left behind. And now they’re coming back to life. “Much better.”
I swallow over and over, trying to keep bile down. Not because I’m disgusted by him, but because I’m horrified. Wicked thoughts fill every corner of my mind, and I breathe in deeply.
“Th-thanks,” I whisper, then turn around and open my bedroom door. I don’t say goodbye before I close it behind me, not even when I hear him call my name softly. And then I lock it, because it’s safer this way.
My chest is heaving as I begin to tear my clothes off. It feels like hell in this room—hot, stifling, suffocating. I’m burning from the inside out. I turn off the lights and grab a match, lighting some candles, then fall to my knees. My erection is painful between my thighs, and I palm it, pushing it down, hoping it goes away. But my touch just brings pleasure, and I hiss. My eyes close, tears stinging the back of them, and one trails down my cheek. I scour my brain for psalms, but suddenly I can’t remember any verses. So I do the only thing I can think of, as a last resort. I begin to chant in Latin through gritted teeth. It brings me a sense of comfort I haven’t felt in a long time. There’s just one small problem—my erection won’t go down. It’s more stubborn than I am, and it’s bordering on painful.
I can’t take it anymore.
