Did Jesus Want Us To Fuck?
Drinking with an old fling at a religious conference brings back more than memories
The hotel room was small and dark, and we should not have been alone.
The conference was sponsored by God, which made the whole thing more sordid, even if you count our absent spouses. But we were drunk (as Jesus commanded), and we were in the unfortunate position of having fucked before.
Three years and two months earlier, to be exact.
We had fucked for a week when she was in New York, and both of us were (for all purposes) single. And it had been good. Very good. When I pinned her wrists above her head, she moaned; when I tested her response with a gentle hand on her throat, she gasped, and when she called Mr., I fucked her so hard we broke the bed.
All of which is to say, we were drunk, married to other people, and highly focused on the singular memory of my cock buried inside her as she told me she was too young to be fucking.
I sat on the chair, which felt like a safe bet.
Both of us had carried our glasses up to her room (mine a martini and hers a single malt), and both of us didn’t need to drink anymore. But the alcohol and the memory left us wanting, and if there’s anything more enticing than temptation after a day of religious revelry, I don’t know what it is.
When she sat on my lap, and I slid my hands beneath her dress, I still held out hope for us.
“You know Mr. I’m a married woman. So if you want something from me, you’re going to have to take it. Forcibly.”