Page 5 of Forgive Me, Father

I’m hard thinking about her. I’m hardforher. At the idea of touching her. Having her.

I can see it in my mind, clear as day. Olivia, in my bedroom, looking up at me with adoration and lust. I undress her slowly. Reverently. I unbutton her blouse, one tiny button at a time, revealing more of that olive skin that haunts my dreams and rules my fantasies. I slide the fabric off her shoulders, down her arms, and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts are full, spilling overthe top of her white bra. I reach around her, unhook it, and let it drop. Her nipples are dark, hardened peaks, begging for my fingers. For my mouth.

I cup her breasts, feeling the weight of them in my hands. I lean down, take a nipple into my mouth and suck gently. She gasps, her hands coming up to grip my hair as I teach her about pleasure. About the beauty, the holiness of what can happen between a man and a woman. I lavish attention on one breast, then the other, until she’s squirming against me, her breath coming in harsh pants.

I whisper sweet, filthy words in her ear. “You’re so beautiful, Olivia. So perfect. I want to taste every inch of you. I want to make you feel so good.”

I drop to my knees in front of her, ready to worship her the way she deserves. I unbutton her jeans and slide them down her legs, revealing her thick thighs. Her panties are white cotton, innocent and pure, just like the rest of her. I press my face against her, inhale her scent. She’s aroused. I can smell it. I can see the damp spot on her panties. I hook my fingers in the waistband, pulling them down so she can step out of them.

She’s naked before me, her body a landscape of curves and smooth skin. I run my hands up her thighs, feeling her tremble at my touch. I lean in, press a soft kiss to the curls on her mound, then another, and another, moving lower and lower until I’m tasting her, my tongue sliding against her slit, licking over her clit. She moans, her hands gripping my shoulders for support.

She’s going to do all of this with another man. A man who paid for the privilege.

The thought shatters my fantasy and wrenches me back to the here and now.

She’s going to give this priceless gift to a man who doesn’t know her. Who doesn’t care about her. A man who won’t worship her the way she deserves.

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. The thought of Olivia with someone else, giving her virginity to a stranger, is unbearable.

I can’t let it happen.

I know I can’t have her. My feelings for her, my lust, my adoration, my obsession, are my cross to bear. I accept that.

But I can try to save her. I can at least do that.

The door on the other side of the confessional booth opens, and I scrub a hand over my face, needing to get it together. I have other confessions to hear. Other parishioners to support and encourage.

I don’t know how I get through the next forty-five minutes, but I do. I listen, I make gentle jokes, I murmur sympathetically, I give out penances. I try to be present, but I fail. My mind is still very much on Olivia, and what she’s going to do. On what I can do to save her.

Once confession is over, I rush from the booth to my office, hoping no one stops me on the way. When I reach the small office just off the vestibule, I close the door behind me, sealing myself away in the small, wood-paneled room. My heart is galloping again, my neck and shoulders tense. I lean against the closed door and take several deep breaths.

I know I should let Olivia go. I should try to forget these feelings I have for her. I should cut them out, metaphorically speaking, get rid of the sweet sickness of my lust for her.

It’s more than lust. I know it is.

But it’s still wrong for me to want her the way I do. It’s wrong in so many ways.

I open my eyes and make accidental eye contact with the painting of Jesus hanging on the wall behind my desk. This Jesus isn’t your typical blond-haired blue-eyed man. It’s a painting I bought myself, a historically accurate renderingportraying the Son of God with short, dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes and a thick, short beard.

The painting’s eyes seem to bore into me. I swallow thickly and tug at my collar, which suddenly feels too tight. I should pray. I should beg for forgiveness. I should beg for God to take this lust out of my heart. I should ask for guidance. For more self-control.

I don’t do any of that.

No, what I do is sit down at my desk and flip open my laptop, my mind whirling with how I’m going to find this website.

My old chair creaks under my weight as my laptop flickers to life. I drum my fingers on the desk, weighing my options.

I decide the most obvious one is the best. I don’t know how much time I’m working with here. What if the auction’s tonight?

I open my email—my private Gmail, not my church one—my fingers hovering over the keys for a moment before I start typing. I’m really doing this.

I put my brother’s email in the “to” field. Matt’s a detective with the Toronto Police Service. If anyone can find this website, it’s him. I doubt very much I’ll be able to find it with a simple Google search.

Hey Matt,

I need your help. I need you to track down a website for me. It’s a site where women can auction off sexual encounters, based here in the city. It’s urgent. And before you ask, no, it’s not for me. I’m trying to help a parishioner who’s in trouble.

Gabe

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