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.