Impact 08: of Confession

I'd suffered for what I'd done in Rebekah's bed. I'd left her house hardly able to meet her eyes. Had gone back to my dorm and been unable to eat I'd been so racked with guilt. I had wept myself to sleep swearing I'd never do anything like that ever again. But I'd looked forward to seeing her all that week; couldn't wait for our next meeting. And when Rebekah had excused herself to run an errand for her roommate, telling me to keep studying, that she wouldn't be too long, I couldn't stop myself, I'd masturbated in her bed again.

After that she always seemed to need to step out for something. I began to get suspicious that she knew. Looking back on it, I'm sure she knew; that she was party to it. I'd wondered then if she had watched or listened to me. The idea of it had given me mind blowing orgasms - if she did know, however, she never let on. But now I felt sure she must have. Her timing was always so... convenient. She never interrupted me, but she always came so close to catching me just after. Perhaps in some sort of twisted fucked up way we had been lovers somehow. I had cried at her graduation, she'd kissed me on the forehead like a child and told me I was going to do great things.

I had fantasized about Rebekah, but it hadn't been the same. It'd been so frustrating. After years of watching Danny cum, of listening to girlfriends talk about the joys of sex, to have finally felt it for myself, only to have that part of myself once again out of reach.

That's when I started taking risks. It's like I was addicted to the thrill. I masturbated repeatedly while sitting at one of my favorite professor's desks; Dr. Hendren. I was meant to be helping her grade papers. She'd leave me there and I'd jill in her chair with the door unlocked. Once the door had been open. I'd been terrified she'd catch me, but equally excited at the thought. I had liked to masturbate in the locker room of the field house as well. I'd do it when there were other girls around. Maybe just around the corner, where I could hear their voices and they could easily walk in on me.

I knew it was perverse, even sad, but it was very hard for me to make myself cum otherwise; difficult without the risk, but impossible without the fantasies. In college I'd gone on birth control. Danny and I had started having sex when we saw each other, but like everything else that was for him, I never came. I thought of my fantasies, and of my "excursions", as my sex life, as opposed to my sex life with Danny, which had never really felt like mine.

Often, as I approached crisis, to make myself cum, the fantasies would become extreme and crude. Like squatting over Claire's mouth, or wiping my fingers on Rebekah's pillow. But I never touched them and, besides gripping me by the arm or the hair, they never touched me in my fantasies - or almost never. It was just... mostly... having them catch me, having them see, making me finish.

Sometimes I'd fantasize that they'd hold me by the back of the neck while I masturbated, forcing me to look at myself, or grab me by the wrist and move my hand. Occasionally things would go too far, like my fantasy of watching Claire, of eating her out, but I stopped myself when they did. I'd always told myself that I wasn't attracted to any of them, that it didn't have anything to do with how beautiful they all were.

Fantasies aside, however, it was the possibility of actually getting caught that truly terrified me as a teen and in college: getting a reputation as a slut or whore, or expelled and forced to tell a priest about my sex life.

'Is that what this is with Claire?' I wondered. "Is this just more thrill seeking? Am I chasing highs like a drug addict?'

And here I was walking down First Ave, like some kind of Catholic zombie.

'What if he tells me to stop seeing Claire?' I wondered, my guts were hot and my skin felt flush. 'What if Claire tells me it's over?'

I pictured her kissing me on the forehead like Rebekah had, telling me I was going to do great things. I felt dizzy, like I was going to get sick again. I took deep breaths willing the feeling to pass, pushing the question from my mind.

I had sat in Port Authority for a long time after Wes' bus had left, my head in my hands, my heart racing. I'd never had a panic attack before, but I was pretty sure that's what had happened to me. At some point, a Central American woman had come over and asked if I needed help. I'd told her no. Still hyperventilating I forced myself to stand up and walk away on weak legs.

I didn't have a therapist to call. Couldn't call Kwasi and I didn't have anyone else I felt like I could talk to about this. But then I remembered I had Father Mike's number in my phone. All I really knew about him is that he helped people for a living and he couldn't tell anyone what I told him. I might not like what he has to say, but at least I could safely tell him what I was feeling. He had to listen,had to keep my secrets.

"You'll like him, Sarah," my mother had told me. "He's not like Father Tanner, you'll like him. He's very... kind."

So I called, but only after throwing up in a Port Authority bathroom.

In my daze I turned at First Street and Father Mike's parish was there, just ahead of me. It was a motley collection of plain storefronts and a chapel that looked more than a little run down. When I had called ahead from Port Authority, to ask if he was available today, they'd told me which door to use, that Father Mike would be expecting me. But I saw a big burly priest out front with a group of men. He was in worn looking black slacks and a rumpled black shirt. His black running shoes were filthy. His sleeves were rolled up showing off bulging muscular forearms. If it weren't for his collar he'd have looked more like an aging caterer than a priest.

'That can't be Father Mike,' I thought, but stopped to watch.

The way my mother talks about Father Mike, with such admiration and reverence, I'd always assumed he was elderly. "He studied at the Vatican," she'd told me. I'd pictured an ancient scholar in velvet slippers.

And while my father never really talks about Father Mike, only rolls his eyes when he comes up, I've heard him mutter, "that pansy," under his breath when my mother talks about him. So I thought I would be meeting someone thin, maybe a little fay. But this priest was my parents' age, balding but vigorous and powerfully built - like a weightlifter. Not at all fay.

He was laughing and directing a group of men who were unloading crates of vegetables and other food from a box truck into an industrial looking kitchen behind a graffiti scrawled storefront. His voice was booming and deep. I watched the men working. They looked like homeless men - not the way they were dressed, but the way they carried themselves. They were dressed in clean clothes and bathed, but they all looked, in their various ways, like they'd lived hard lives. Some of them were very serious, others laughed with the priest, a couple looked sullen, or a bit blank. But they all looked... broken.

'He'll be able to tell me where to find Father Mike,' I thought, watching the giant priest.

I stood off to one side, waiting for an opening, my mind returned to Claire, how easy pleasure was for her, how easy it was with her. I thought of her palm against the back of my wrist, clasping and pulling my hand over her belly until she'd brought my fingers to rest, just touching her little bush. She had been gentle but insistent. Urging me on with a need we shared, but while I was too afraid to act on it, she wasn't. I had needed her to guide me. I had wanted her to make me touch her, but she hadn't.

"Please..." she'd begged.

I thought of the first few times I'd touched myself, so tentative - worked up after dates, feeling a need but not knowing what to do. It had been so maddening. I remember how jealous I was of the way Danny would cum, how he'd erupt like a volcano. I'd wished I could do that. The pleasure he took for granted had seemed so out of reach for me. It was only when I began to fantasize that I was able to bring myself close to cumming at all. It was only when I risked getting caught that I really orgasmed. I'd told myself fantasizing about men would have been cheating, that masturbating somewhere where men could catch me risked rape. Still, the shame had been terrible, weighing on me.

Claire was so sure of herself, of what she wanted, so unafraid and unapologetically obscene. I thought of the way she orgasmed, how demanding she was, how loud and free she was. The way she had sprayed my face with her cum, in my hair, drenching my eyelashes, making it hard to open them, to see.

'Marking me,' I thought.

Someone yelled "Father Mike!" from across the street. I saw the big priest turn and wave. I was holding my fingers to my mouth, touching the tip of my tongue. I felt a spike of shame and dropped my hand.

I gathered myself and walked over to introduce myself and apologize for interrupting his day.

"Father Mike? I'm Milly and Eddy's daughter, Sarah... Sarah Beth? I'm so sorry to bother you but I was hoping we could talk?"

"Sarah Beth! Oh wow - look at you, it's no bother at all," he said with a warm smile, wrapping my hand in both of his. "I've been expecting you. It's so wonderful to finally meet you again. You won't remember, but we met when you were a girl. Amelia's a very dear, old friend," he said.

I tried to picture him and my mother. I wondered if they knew each other in high school, imagined the two of them hamming it up in gray wigs and fake mustaches for a corny production of Arsenic And Old Lace and almost laughed.

But I could feel the eyes of the men around us on me as Father Mike gestured for me to take the lead, away from the kitchen and the staring men, and down the block to the chapel.

"I've been following your work at the Times," he said as led me inside. "Your mother is very proud. She calls to tell me whenever you have something in the paper. The Afghanistan piece is really something. Some amazing reporting."

Unlike with the men, his voice was quiet and gentle with me. Hiding under a thick brow he had small pale gray eyes that were a bit too close together. He wasn't handsome, but he looked kind. I could see why my mother liked him.

"I'm just the junior designer," I explained. "But thank you..."

"Well, to hear Amelia tell it, you're all but storming the gates of heaven."

I felt myself blushing. Not so much from the compliment, but the shame of imagining my mother praising me. I felt so unworthy of her praise.

"So what's going on?" he asked. "What can I do for you?"

I let a heavy breath out, it's shaky with fear, or maybe sorrow. Whatever it was, I couldn't help but think of how my breath had quavered as I'd touched Claire's pussy for the first time.

'Jesus, Sarah, get a grip!'

I squeezed my eyes shut.

'Am I ending it?' I wondered, feeling weak and hollow.

"I haven't done this before," I'd admitted to Claire, my heart thundering in my ears. Her expression had been soft and wonderfully kind.

"Neither have I," she'd assured me. And then, her voice rising to a whine, she'd asked, "Will you do this for me Sarah? Please?"

I opened my eyes again, forcing myself to focus. Father Mike had stopped, he was looking down at me, concerned. Did I stop walking first? We were standing just short of the arched doors to his church. I really was in a daze.

"I haven't done this before," I explained. "I mean, not really... not on my own. I'm... I've... I'd like to give my confession, Father?"

Father Mike smiled down at me.

"First time for everything Sarah," he said, and opened the door for me, leading me to the front of the chapel offering me a seat in the nave.

"We won't be disturbed," he assured me as I looked around for the confessional, offering me a place to sit at a pew instead. "We're pretty informal here."

I must have looked uncomfortable, because after a moment he told me, "We don't need to sit in a cabinet for the seal of the confessional. Whatever you tell me is just between us."

I sat on the pew and he settled in next to me.

"I'm not sure when my last confession was," I admitted immediately. "It was before I moved out of my parents' home... that was six years ago?"

"One and done?!" he asked, confusing me. "You never moved back home when you left?"

"Oh yeah, I guess..." I admitted, blushing. I've always felt guilty for the way I stayed away. I knew it made my mom sad, like I was rejecting her. I tried to explain, "They didn't want me to go away to school, told me I had to pay for it myself. So I worked summers, took internships... and... well, I think I was also afraid that if I moved back home they'd make me stay?"

"Our first confession," he said with a warm smile. "Six years is a lot of ground to cover Sarah Beth, and my secretary said you were in crisis?"

"I didn't say 'crisis'?"

"Well, she's been at this a long time." he said with an apologetic smile. "I'm guessing she's not wrong, that you're here about something more pressing than not visiting your mother more often. Why don't you tell me what's weighing on you right now?"

In my mind's eye I saw Claire's face.

"I have a new friend," I told Father Mike, my eyes welling with tears. "And we've become... close."

I thought of dancing with her, of how sexy she had looked, how beautifully she moved, of how easy she was with herself, how easy pleasure seemed for her, of watching her cum, of how fast pleasure was for me when I was with her. I remember cumming on her leg dancing in the crowd of Korean girls.

"So not a sin of the spirit," Father Mike prompted after a pause.

"I just need you," she had whispered in my ear, our bodies touching, "Please Sarah, do this for me."

"No Father, it's... not, " I admitted, tears running down my cheeks. "We touched... together... We've... I've done things."

There was a long silence as Father Mike studied me, perhaps waiting to see if I had more to say, but I couldn't. I was beyond mortified, beyond ashamed, my heart was pounding in my chest. I realized I was touching my tongue, and dropped my hand into my lap. My face was so hot I worried I might get sick again.

"Do you love your friend?" His voice softened, there was a kindness.

"HUH!" I gasped, my whole buddy lurching with the violence of my drawn breath.

His question shocked me, it was not at all what I'd expected.

I thought of how my heart had hammered as I stroked her skin with a shaking hand. How soft she'd felt, how excited I'd been, the smell of her. She'd made me feel like I might faint. I had never felt that way with Danny.

Claire had just said please and I'd put out my tongue like a whore, wetting her. But none of that was love I knew, it was lust.

I was looking at tears spattering my lap, big hot drops leaving dark spots on my jeans. But even as I watched them fall, I could feel Father Mike studying me. He reached out and took my hand. His hand was pale and meaty. His fingers were as thick as sausages. They looked more like the hands of a plumber than a priest... 'or maybe a carpenter' I thought with a nasty sneer of self-deprecating sarcasm.

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, my tears dropped on his great knuckles.

"I don't think-" I started. I thought of Claire's smiling face. Of how I felt when she smiled at me. Of listening to her stories, of how she looked when she listened to mine. I thought of the thrill I felt when she took my hand in front of all her collector friends at brunch; squeezing my fingers.

'That's not thrill-seeking,' I told myself. 'That's not lust.'

"Yes," I told him firmly, "very much."

"Does your friend love you?" he asked.

I thought of Claire dancing backwards up her street, pulling me by my fingers, singing that little French love song, of her conviction as she explained the meaning of the song's "completions". Of her naked body, soft against mine, her lips near my ear, her husky voice, singing, "Tu es le verre, je suis le vin", of waking up to her smile.

"I think so, yes," I told him.

"The early church didn't consecrate marriages, did you know that, Sarah?" Father Mike asked me after a very long pause.

I blinked at the tears, confused by the change in subject. I didn't understand what he was talking about, so I just shook my head. My face burned with shame, I felt certain he must know the things I'd done, that I'd licked her cunt, her asshole.

But there was no judgment in his eyes.

"You must remember," he explained, "the ancient world was unimaginably violent and cruel. Christ was crucified between two thieves - what do you imagine they stole? Bread maybe? God knows. But for that they were tortured to death. Cruelty was the norm."

But I don't think of Christ on the cross, I think of the night Danny finally had lost his patience with me. He had been drinking, we had left a party where he'd been talking with an older girl all night, one of the McNamaras - Katherine. She was home from college on holiday break. I had never thought she was as pretty as Michelle, the great beauty of the family, but college had been kind to Katherine. She had lost weight and her skin had cleared. She had the "McNamara physique" - as my father called it. She was wearing a tight shirt with no bra and her jeans were low slung showing off her flat smooth belly. I remember feeling dowdy and intimidated by her. She had been flirting with Danny right in front of me. Talking about sex. I'd seen how turned on he was getting, He'd gotten angry when I told him I wanted to leave. I had tried to make it up to him in the car, had been kissing him trying to get him off with my hand, but he wouldn't kiss me back.

I remember looking down at his shining wet erection in my hand, thinking it had looked furious.

I'd been afraid he would leave me there; stranded in a dark parking lot, miles from home. The look on his face had been so cold and angry. I'd pushed back my hair and bent to take him in my mouth.

Katherine had been joking with Danny about giving blowjobs, about deep throating, spitting or swallowing. She had seemed simultaneously sophisticated and crude, somehow Danny's equal, joking like one of the boys. I meanwhile was beneath her contempt and all but forgotten by Danny, even as I squeezed his hand in mine. I was his "girlfriend" - but I'd felt so foolish, like a child listening in on adults.

In the darkness of his front seat, looking down at his lap I'd imagined Katherine was there with us, watching me as I lowered my head and gasped in shock as Isucked him for the first time, grunted as I forced his cock into my throat, grabbed at me.

I'd imagined it was Katherine's hand on my neck, that she was the one feeling jealous now.

Then I'd choked.

I couldn't breathe and had begun to panic. Danny had held me there. He had shouted something, his cock pulsed between my teeth, twitching and throbbing on my tongue as if it had a life of its own. I'd gagged as the first warm rope hit the back of my throat.

I had gotten sick, vomited on his lap and front seat, he'd gotten furious at me. I had cried and he'd called me a baby, which had just made me cry harder.

"The powerful were all-powerful," Father Mike continued, unaware of my drifting attention. "Sex and even death were theirs to command. Marriage at that time was entirely transactional, a transfer of property negotiated between fathers and perhaps certified by a clerk or notary of some sort - because it was entirely a worldly exchange, a matter of taxes and inheritance, but also sex. Chattel."

'Wherefore rejoice? O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,' I thought, picturing Danny's face as he had driven me home in stony silence while I wept. Dropping me off at my parents' house and screeching off without saying a word. I had been so afraid to go inside.