I am Not Pious

Right now, I'm waiting in the choir loft of St. Pat's while the rosary is recited in a monotone voice. My thoughts drift to what others would classify as irreverant. I'm covered almost head-to-toe in stifling layers of clothes because it's looked down upon by the traditionalists to expose any extra skin. And trust me, I have lots, waiting to be revealed, aching to be touched by you. My breasts are already impatient, pushing against the cotton of my blouse. I cross my legs a bit more tightly on the folding chair, release then repeat. I keep my lips pressed together, resisting the urge to open my mouth wide. The priest begins mass in a booming, commanding voice and all ears listen attentively. No one sees a hand slip under my long skirt, cupping my mound once then returning my hand to its prayerful position. No one sees or smells the glistening perfume, the sweet anticipation of sex. I tuck a hand under the waist of the skirt again and lightly trace below with my pointer finger. Then another finger. Soon my whole fist. I jolt and pull the hand back as our cue for singing the Gloria is given. Instead of joining the other cantors at the group mic, I retreat behind the organ to the bell tower, barely making a noise as I open then close the door behind me. You wait for me here, wearing lavender pants and a blouse that's one size too small. It hugs your round breasts, pulling them close. You smile and quickly bite your bottom lip. I feel the fullness and presence of you from even eight feet away. The way your nipples harden and before I know it, the Gloria is being sung with the organ pipes triumphantly sounding. I hardly have control. My legs are cramped, wanting to move. My hands give up their restraint. They roam freely over my body and I know you feel them too. Their purpose. Their search. Their desire. Sunlight warms us from the beams and dust motes sparkle in dawn's arrival. I see a twinkle in your eye and suddenly, you reach over and grab the thick rope for the main church bell. You slip it between your legs then tug it back and forth, slowly at first then more roughly. The bell chimes a few times but the joyful noise of the chorus is far louder. We don't touch each other, not yet. But I can't fight the moan escaping my throat as I smell the sunshine and sweat and perfume of your body coming. ------ I bet if our priest saw the gleam in our eyes, the way we kiss without contact, he would immediately pray for us and demand we live chastely. Or, his face would contort in utter confusion, asking how we could disobey the call to be holy. Perplexed that we could openly indulge in something we were always taught was a sin. If you're a sin, then I don't mind being condemned. I don't mind being called dirty. They can throw prayer beads at me, sharpen knives in place of words, snarl in disgust and hold a grudge. It will not stop the way my thighs quiver at your name, heat between them, pressure building and building til I'm hovering on the edge. I imagine you and I laying naked on the altar, adorned in white lilies, perhaps alone or maybe in front of the congregation. You would laugh softly, mischief dancing up and down your skin. You would circle your tongue around the rim of my lips, traveling to the nape of my neck and resting playfully at my raised nipples.Gasps would follow, and I would no longer be able to differentiate between the sounds we're creating or the sounds from the pews. Holy water would be sprinkled then doused on our already slick bodes, two entangled demons, too far gone for an excorcism. Chants would start "Forgive them Father" and I would beg "Jesus, make me come." My legs would shake, no, tremble, as you would descend on me. Hips bucking at the sharp inhale then exhale of your breath between my thighs. A crescendo almost completed. He would pour scented oils on our skin, demanding that Satan leave our feral bodies, as I would annoint you with my own oils, flowing forth and soaking the stainless altar cloth. You would sip then suck the sweet perfume, puddling and running like teardrops down my legs. I would let everything go, becoming dizzy, eyes seeing the coveted entrance to Heaven. I would cry out your name then shout in thanksgiving and no one would be able to stop us. A force no one would or could ever control, a lust that should never have been rooted in shame.