The Nun

Some people might find this story offensive, but it is actually based on true events. People sometimes forget that nuns are human too. These days many of them leave a celibate life and start another life. This is one woman's story.

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I was a nun for 12 years before I finally left and discovered my true self -- my true sexual self. I was raised Catholic and pushed into religious life from a young age by my strict Catholic parents. I went to Mass and attended parochial schools my whole life. I never had a real date -- only a quick kiss from a boy after he walked me home from a dance -- a 15 second peck on the lips, no tongue. By the time I graduated from St. Margaret's H.S. Academy, it was pretty well decided I'd become a nun. My teachers wanted it. My parents wanted it. I am not sure I ever really wanted to, but by junior year I had convinced myself that what my parents wanted for me was what I wanted too.

In the convent, I took college classes and studied hard since there wasn't much else to do except pray. I never really bonded closely to my fellow sisters, so it was a solitary life with a lot of alone time, but I kind of liked it. Still, I often longed to be out in the world, working in the Inner City and doing social work -- doing God's work with the poor.

By the time I took my final vows, I had a BA with a double major in religious studies and social work. My first assignments were brief -- a school, a nursing home, and a day care center. But what I wanted to do was work in the city parishes of downtown Detroit and I finally got my wish. My order is fairly modern and we didn't wear habits -- just conservative street clothes and a large gold cross around the neck.

St Andrew's was a small, run-down church that had once been a busy parish but was now 1/3 full on Sundays and had a leaky roof and a broken pipe organ. In fact, we didn't even have our own priest. Father Murphy covered three parishes. He was based at St. James but said two masses at St. Andrew's -- Saturday evening and Sunday morning. The rest of the time, the elderly Black parishioners on the Church Council ran everything, and I was assigned to be their special minister.

The Chairperson of the Council was an 82 year-old woman -- a nice lady but a weak leader, so I found myself practically running the Church singlehandedly, chairing several committees, and doing all the bill-paying and bookkeeping myself. I was only 24 and ran prayer groups, helped at Mass and other services, visited the sick and elderly, etc. People started to think of me as the pastor, even though I had no such rank or authority.

Part of my duties was overseeing maintenance in that leaky old building. When our old African-American janitor died, I was pleased that his 25-year old son asked to take over the job. I happily agreed, even though it was well known he'd had a colorful juvenile arrest record and had been fighting off bouts of alcohol abuse. Like his father, Jeb was a good worker and was good at fixing things. But he had a tendency to fall off the wagon and start drinking if nobody kept an eye on him. I made a point of giving him close supervision. He was charming and we became fast friends. And I admit, I didn't mind seeing him labor around the church. He often worked shirtless on hot days, and the shiny black skin covering his well-chiseled and heavily-muscled upper body glistened in the sunlight. I tried not to stare, but it was beautiful and it seemed harmless enough to sneak a glance at his chest -- after all, his body was a work of God, right?

One night, I was locking up and saw the mop and bucket still in the main aisle of the church with the floor unfinished. I went looking for Jeb and saw light coming from under the door of the maintenance shop/storage room. I suspected he was drinking again and burst in. Jeb was there all right, and he had been drinking. But what I hadn't expected was to see him sitting back, reclined against some large boxes of toilet tissue, with his denims at his knees and his fist wrapped around his erection. He quickly covered himself with a magazine he was holding in his other hand -- one with pictures of naked women on the cover. Embarrassed even more than he was, I exited quickly. He slipped out the back way and I finished mopping the floor myself.

The next day he came to the church office and apologized, asking for forgiveness, and promising he would go back to the AA meetings. I sat him down and talked with him. He sounded legitimately sincere and contrite, so I sent him back to work. I mention this because from that moment on, every time I laid eyes on Jeb, all I could think of was the vision of him and his large erection. No matter how much I prayed to God for forgiveness for thinking evil thoughts, they never went away. Jeb was a constant reminder of my vows to sacrifice sex forever and to never let it be part of my life.

I counseled Jeb many times, helping him work through his alcoholism. I supervised his work closely to make sure he didn't backslide. But still, even after 3 months, I couldn't look at his face without thinking about his penis. It was the only man's penis I had ever seen, and its dark skin, veiny shaft, and pinkish knob on top took me completely by surprise. I had thought men's penises looked like the line drawing I had once seen in a biology book that showed a short, downward curving hose-like structure with a triangular nozzle at the end. I knew men had them for urinating, but -- to show how naive I was then -- it had never occurred to me that it would look so large and different when the man was aroused. I couldn't stop thinking about it and began to worry if my chosen vocation was really such a good idea. If I was so obsessed with sex, should I still be a nun?

I loved my work in the parish. And, happily, the parishioners -- most of whom were quite old -- seemed to love me. I enjoyed the work, but began to long for the life of a wife and mother, like the people I saw in the outside world. Father Murphy was of little help, and I didn't dare tell him of my obsession with our janitor's erect penis.

I tried denial, but in hindsight, denial only got me into deeper trouble. Jeb and I spent a lot of time together, talking, counseling, as well as work supervision. We grew closer as friends, and my denial of my feelings, made it possible for intimacy to grow between us.

Jeb called in sick one day, leaving a voice mail, which didn't raise any concerns. But late that night, I heard the sounds of someone stumbling around in the church foyer around 9 pm. I investigated carefully. I found Jeb, and I could smell the booze on his breath from six feet away. He was drunk and singing loudly, and almost falling down with each unsteady step. I rushed over, put one of his arms around me and helped him to the church office and let him collapse into a chair.

I tried to talk to him but he was far too drunk to be either coherent or remorseful. Remorse might have to wait until the morning. I let him dry out awhile, knowing he was in no shape to walk home. When he said he wanted to leave, I kept him seated, and kept him talking to me. But finally he got up and announced he was walking home. I didn't want to see him stumble into the road in front of an oncoming car, so when he began to stumble out, I rushed over and caught him as he began to tip over. We ended up in an embrace with my face pressed into his throat.

"Thizzz izzz nice," he slurred.

I looked up at him and before I knew what happened, he was kissing me. For a few long sinful seconds, I kissed him back, but then caught myself and let him fall back into the chair.

"I gotta be goin'" he said as he stood up again and began to tip over.

Once again, I grabbed him, and I found our lips locked in a kiss. This time, I let the kiss linger for a few moments, and even let him push his tongue into my mouth. I pulled away when I felt one of his hands grab my breast. I blame myself. He was drunk, but I was sober and should have known better. I guess I was weak, and fell victim to our intimate friendship, his neediness and my repressed sexual desires.

I didn't let him kiss me again. I got a blanket and let him sleep it off in the maintenance room. But later, safe in my own bed in the parish residence, I lay back thinking of him. I closed my eyes and tried to pray and ask God's forgiveness, but all I saw on the inside of my eyelids was Jeb's erection.

Things went back to normal for a couple of months. Jeb went to AA and got sober again. I counseled him and listened to his troubles, but we never spoke of what had happened that night. It was the elephant in the room we never acknowledged. I suspected Jeb was embarrassed too and may have felt just as guilty about it as I.

But then it happened again. I had just finished a novena and rosary session with the ladies prayer group and was locking up the church, when I heard someone near the church office door, calling out my name. I finished locking and rushed over. As I got closer, I recognized Jeb's voice.

He had been drinking again, but was far more stable and capable of walking this time.

"Ah need to talk wiff you," he said. "Ah bin drinkin' and ah need you to help me stop."

"Okay, c'mon in to the office and sit down. I'll make some coffee and we'll talk."

This time I let him walk to the chair under his own power. He wobbled slightly but seemed to have sufficient balance to get there on his own.

"I'll make some coffee and be right back."

I found the coffee but had trouble finding the filters, and began opening and closing the kitchen cabinets. I didn't hear him enter, but I heard the door latch close and lock. I looked over and Jeb was leaning against the door, staring at me.

"Go back and sit down, Jeb. I'll bring the coffee to you." He shook his head no and began walking toward me.

I backed away until my back was pressed against the countertop. Jeb was a foot in front of me and slowly moving closer. His breath reeked of gin. I could tell he was going to kiss me. I suddenly reached up and slapped him hard across the face. He was stunned momentarily, but shrugged it off and smiled at me. When I went to slap him again, he caught my arm and bent it behind me. Then he forced his mouth on mine and kissed me hard.

I resisted for the first two minutes, but even drunk, Jeb was far too strong. I realized my best chance was to play along and hope he'd let his guard down long enough for me to escape. When his tongue pressed into my mouth, I played along and kissed him back. I wasn't really going along with it. Or was I?

When his hand touched my breast, I thought there was a narrow opportunity to break away from him. But he felt me moving almost before I could twitch and he quickly pinned me again.

"Now, don't you be runnin' off, sista. We jes be gittin started."

I cursed myself for attempting an escape so quickly when there was so little chance. I knew I had to wait until his guard was down. And now his guard was way up. I turned my head to the side and tried to ignore him feeling up my breasts. I was doing my best to talk him out of what he was doing with a nonstop barrage of pleadings, warnings, threats -- anything I could think to say.

But he ignored my words and nuzzled my neck. I squirmed, but I have to admit, it felt kind of good. Small waves of pleasure went through me as his persistent kisses stimulated my neck. He aroused my nipples to hardness and my heart was pounding.

"You a real pretty lady," Jeb mumbled as he groped me.

His hand took hold of the top button of my high v-neck blouse, and with a single strong downward swipe, he tore my blouse wide open -- buttons popping off in sequence. He took hold of the heavy gold cross and chain and swung it around my neck until it hung down my back. Then, as he tongue-kissed me hard, his hand roughly forced itself under my bra cup and he began feeling up my breast skin-to-skin.

No one had ever done anything like that to me before, and I felt a mix of emotions. I felt guilty that it felt good, but simultaneously frightened that this large Black man's long fingers were assaulting my virginal body. I am not sure when it occurred to me that I had stopped fighting and was putting up only token resistance. But by the time he had undone the belt of my long skirt and slipped his hand down inside my panties, I was surprised that my womanhood was wet and tingling. His body weight pressed me backwards against the kitchen countertop. He had his tongue pressing down hard into my mouth, one hand inside my bra and the other sliding down the front of my panties. I probably could have broken away at that point, but I didn't. Maybe I didn't want to.

I felt a stirring against my upper thigh and hip bone. Distracted by his hands groping me, I didn't realize at first that the other limb brushing against me was his fast rising penis. His hand left my panties and wrapped around my waist. He pulled me to him and kissed me deeply. I felt the hard bulge press against my lower abdomen. I didn't have to look at it. I knew what it was. The vision of it had been burned into my memory since that night I had found him masturbating.

With strength I didn't know he had, he lifted me off my feet, spun me around and carried me a few feet until my butt was pressed against the kitchen table. He pushed me backward until I was laying on my back with my legs bent and dangling, and with Jeb on top of me. I struggled and tried to hit him but he was too quick and strong. After blocking me a few times, he pinned both wrists over my head with one hand and began stripping off my clothes with the other.

It didn't take him long to expose my body to his lustful desires. My panties fell to my ankles, blocked from falling off by my clunky shoes, where they acted almost like ropes, keeping me from kicking or using my feet for much. I only had one good opportunity to break away -- when he undid his denims and slid them down to his knees. I immediately sensed his weight lift off me and I used all my strength to twist to one side. I even got my feet on the floor for a few seconds, but the panties that hung at my ankles caused me to lose my balance long enough for Jeb to grab me and pin me back down again.

Jeb stood between my spread knees with his exposed erection ready to take my sacred virginity. He pinned down both of my wrists and rubbed his hard member back and forth between my hips until he felt himself slide into the place he wanted to be.

"You gonna enjoy this, I promise," Jeb said just before he began pushing into me.

He moved slowly, but he pushed hard and steadily until I felt it penetrate me. The end of it pushed up against and then broke my hymen. He let out a pleasurable "Ahhh" and kept going. He didn't stop pushing until he was all the way up inside me. The fight went out of me. I turned my head to the side and tried to ignore the fact that my friend was raping me.

He began plunging in and out, gradually building up speed. I tried to close my eyes and block it out of my mind, but I felt waves of sexual pleasure rippling through me, which made me feel guilty and joyful at the same time. It seemed the more I tried to ignore what I was feeling, the more pleasurable it became. I am ashamed to say it but when my panties finally fell off my feet, instead of trying to kick him or run away, I lifted my legs up and folded them together behind Jeb's knees, widening my hips so he could plunge into me deeper. He let go of my wrists because Jeb too had realized I was no longer fighting him. Instead he used his full weight to shove his penis deep into me. I let my head fall backward and stared up at the ceiling above and behind me. So this is what sex feels like, I said to myself. I guess I can understand why people like it.

I could hear Jeb getting louder, and from his deep groans I wasn't sure if he was experiencing pleasure or pain. His contorted face and gritted teeth confused me about what he was feeling. His thrusts made my body shiver and shudder each time he brushed my private parts in certain ways. I know I felt guilty for not hating what was happening to me. I had never even masturbated as a teenager, so the feelings of sexual pleasure were completely new to me and I was overwhelmed by their power.

As it became clear that Jeb was nearing some sort of climax -- something I only knew about in a textbook kind of way -- I realized that whatever happened next ran the risk of making me pregnant, since Jeb hadn't bothered with a condom. I panicked and tried to push him away, but it was too late. His orgasm had already begun. Seconds later I felt it. I felt a throbbing inside me and fluids being pumped into me. Jeb let out a final loud grunt, and then collapsed on top of me as dead weight, crushing me onto the table top.

He lay breathing heavily, and I lay still, as his thing shrank and popped out of me. Jeb rolled off me and stood unsteadily looking at me.

"Hope you liked that as much as I did," he muttered as he pulled his pants back up and buckled them. "I'm gonna go home now. You be ok?"

I didn't know how to answer. I just said in a loud stern voice "Get out of here!"

He left quietly and I lay back on the table, re-living the experience and recalling the strange mix of feelings from what had just occurred. I ran through it in my mind. Had I invited it somehow? Was it my fault? Had I seduced him in some way? Could I have fought harder? Had I really found part of it pleasurable?

I felt a small amount of blood flowing and went to the bathroom and washed myself. A few whitish drops of something were still wet and clinging to my thighs. I felt dirty and bloodied, so I washed myself with warm water. No matter how much I washed, I still felt dirty, so I kept washing. Oddly, I knew enough from my social work training to counsel rape victims not to wash or bathe, but I had scrubbed myself raw before it had even occurred to me that I was indeed a rape victim. Your mind works in funny ways in stressful situations -- you don't always act or think the way you would expect when you are clear-headed and watching as a third party. It is very different when something happens to you yourself.

I didn't cry but I felt too guilty to be elated. It was a mix of emotions. Probably the strongest emotion was shame -- I felt I had sinned, and needed to ask God to forgive both of us. I dressed, and walked back to the church, knelt down and prayed.

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I decided not to report it to the police. Instead, I sought professional (confidential) counseling. The counselor listened, helped me work through my issues, and told me I needed to confront my rapist and talk to him about it. He also said I needed to think about my own desires and whether I should continue as a nun.

The next time I saw Jeb, he was sober and he acted shy -- probably afraid I might still report what he had done to me. I didn't plan to because I felt responsible for what happened -- if not completely, at least partially. Just like in the past, the experience became the unacknowledged elephant in the room. We talked fairly normally but with some degree of awkwardness. I tried hard to be businesslike.

I knew my therapist was right -- that I should talk to him about what happened and I did try to raise the issue a few times, but never got past the small talk or work-related business. It was too hard for me to bring the topic up, so we didn't talk about it.

I think, like many women, I tried to block the experience out of my mind. But I had multiple flashbacks. I found myself dreaming about it -- both sleep-dreaming and day-dreaming. But they weren't nightmares. I remembered the experience with dulled emotions. I remembered the feelings of pain and pleasure, and of course the feelings of shame and guilt for having sinned and violated my vows. If I had been 100% certain that I had not caused it in any way, perhaps I might have reacted differently. But I believed I was more responsible than Jeb was. He could argue that his judgment was impaired by alcohol. I had no such excuse. Hadn't I lusted after him and stared at his shirtless body? Hadn't I encouraged our intimate friendship? Hadn't I let him kiss me? I couldn't tell anyone or report it. I could not tell the police I had fought him because I really hadn't. There were no scratch marks on his face, and no bruises on my body. I had only put up token resistance when he ripped my clothes off. I had let him feel up my breasts, hadn't I? God knew the truth. I couldn't lie and say it was all his fault and that I was an innocent victim. I had to forgive him, ask God to forgive him, and move on.