He slid in the back door of the strip club with a sideways glance and the scuttling motions you'd expect from a sick crab or someone feeling guitly as hell.
Once inside, he made his way quickly to the door he spent nights dreaming of walking through, and pulled out his bundle of quarters and started dropping them into the slot.
The shutter came up, and there she was, dressed in her school girl outfit, 19 going on 13, underfed and waifish. He pulled his zipper down, started the urgent and very unsatisfying process of getting himself off. It took longer and longer each time, and by the time he did reach some relief, it was a thin, pallid moment, gone too quickly. He felt dirty, spent and even more frustrated.
He had the sinking feeling that this was a monster he would never get around, his attraction to little girls.
The following Sunday, his whole parish just couldn't get over how much energy he put into his sermon against the dangers of the gay community.
All the while clutching his secretary's daughter's dirty underwear in his left pocket.
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2 comments:
i have this belief that when a minister preaches, since the words they draw on, and the situations/evils they address, are from past experiences, they're most frequently preaching to themselves.
in this case of this story, i wonder what it could possibly say about you as the preacher? heh. [g]
in any case, the absolute seediness captured in the text makes for a very lovely story, and well done.
i love you so much. played the jumbo today for a bit, too.
At least he's not a Unitairian preacher playing with his unit.
I know that the heart of baby jesus loves me,even if it doesn't beat for me anymore.
I know because it's here in a jar on my desk, I bought it at a vatican yardsale for 20.00 from JohnPaul II. At least he looked like the pope.
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