Feature Writer: ConnieChatterly

Feature Title: MICHAELA GOES TO CONFESSION

Published: 03.01.2022

Story Codes: Religious Themes

Synopsis: She discovers a new sort of spiritual life

 

Michaela Goes To Confession

I’ve been asked, “Didn’t it feel weird?”

The answer is no, don’t be naive. When a priest takes his pants off, he looks and acts like any other man. Which, if things get to that point, you already know, because you’re taking your clothes off, too.

I grew up devout. I still am. For all its tortuous history and recent scandals, the Catholic church will always feel like home to me. I guess it has something to do with my Italian ancestry. I couldn’t imagine trying to live without God, and the church gives me a stable, familiar program to stay in touch with Him. It’s a supportive community where I find ways to be of service to others. The old prayers comfort — and, truly, enchant me — there are the sacraments, through which we believe God helps us. Communion, obviously. And confession.

I first talked with Fr. Frank in confession. Its current name is Sacrament of Reconciliation, but everybody still calls it confession. There are no more confessionals. You simply sit down with the priest in a private place. There are smatterings of ritual, but mostly you tell the priest what troubles you, where you think you’re failing, He offers such advice and encouragement as he can, you say you’re sorry for your sins, then he pronounces the formula of absolution. You go into the church and pray for a bit. And you leave feeling more optimistic about yourself. At least, that’s what happens with me.

What I had to talk over with Fr. Frank was my special situation as a divorced Catholic. My Catholic husband was a serial adulterer. After several years of forgiveness and broken promises, I couldn’t take it anymore and we agreed to a dissolution. Contrary to what many non-Catholics think, civil divorce or dissolution is not a sin for a Catholic. The church regards that as the equivalent of a separation. The problem arises when a divorced Catholic has sex with somebody else. That’s adultery, because in the eyes of the church you’re still married. This was my problem.

Freddie (her name is Fredericka) and I worked out at the same club. We hadn’t known each other before, but we began to show up about the same time, chat while we were working out, and then shower together. I’d secretly admired her lithe body. She must have seen something in mine, because one day in the shower, she came over to me and softly kissed me on the lips. I was too astonished to do anything.

She looked into my eyes, said, “Think about it.”

We didn’t exchange another word until we left.

The next time we were alone together in the shower, I kissed her and said, “I have thought about it.” We went to her place and she taught me how one woman makes love to another. I went back home late that night with my body glowing and my heart singing. I had done something wrong, but it made me feel sooo good.

Well, you tell things like that in confession, and I told Fr. Frank. At that time we hadn’t met yet; he was new in my parish. I was very self-conscious, but I told him everything. I told him that I missed sex so much I couldn’t resist Freddie. While I’d always enjoyed my husband in bed and had never even thought about being with a woman, now that I knew what it was like, I wanted to keep doing it. Even though I knew better, I nervously suggested to Fr. Frank that maybe, since it was between women, it wasn’t really adultery, not serious adultery, anyway.

Fr. Frank took it slowly. He said he was glad I’d found somebody to share intimacy with and satisfy my sexual need. As far as the church was concerned, though, it didn’t matter whether it was a woman or a man, that kind of sex was against my marriage vows. He also reminded me that the church regards same-sex relationships as “intrinsically disordered” — whatever that means. Still, he said, God doesn’t condemn you for this. He accepts you in your frailty. The worst thing you could do is give up on your spiritual life, cut yourself off from prayer and the sacraments. If you can’t help sinning, at least keep coming to confession, keep trying to see how what you’re doing keeps God at a distance. Fr. Frank said he would always be there for me.

And then he said something I thought a little odd.

“Another woman may be able to satisfy you physically. But I have a hard time seeing you fulfilled by a woman. You married a man, and I think, emotionally, you still need a man.”

At the time, I thought he meant simply to discourage me from the same-sex part of it. But as I thought about it, he seemed to be suggesting that it might be better for me to commit adultery with a man than a woman. And I thought: well, why not? If they’re equally sinful anyway?

Things continued like this for a while. I kept seeing Freddie, and confessing it to Fr. Frank. On the one hand, I wanted to be right with the church — I did think that my marriage vows were, for better or for worse, forever. I didn’t doubt that there was something not right about Freddie and me, but it was a whole new world, sexually, and I hadn’t finished exploring it.

Freddie and I weren’t worried about love. For all the affection we felt, we admitted to each other that this would be transient. Freddie surprised me when she said she was bisexual; the cool way she had picked me up had made me assume she was a lesbian. We talked about the men we had known–in my case, man–and even went into some detail (Freddie more than me). And I slowly realized: Well, I must be bi, too! Enjoying sex with a woman was apparently in my nature. But, on the other hand, missed being close to maleness. I missed a man’s bigger body, his strength, his driving need to possess me.

xxxxx

When they’re young and have complete faith in their idealistic intentions, priests take a vow of celibacy. Then life happens. They get tired, they get discouraged, they get lonely. They face ingratitude, and sometimes criticism, from their own parishioners. Sometimes it all seems a big mistake. Of course they pray — a lot. They go to confession, just like we do, and if the temptation is sex, they tell their confessor. Much later, Fr. Frank told me about that.

It took courage for him to face his shame and tell Msgr. Frode that he had become addicted to pornography. The monsignor tried the usual advice — when you’re tempted, go into the church and pray to the Blessed Sacrament, remind yourself why you wanted to be a priest, call me anytime you want.

Fr. Frank said he already did all that and it didn’t remove the temptation. He told the monsignor that at the end of a long day, it just seemed overpoweringly natural to pour himself a beer, sit down at the computer, and look at all he was missing out on. He’d jack off a couple of times, then go to bed and sleep fine. The next morning he’d feel ashamed of himself all over again. He said he was sorry to be breaking his vow — which covers not just sex with somebody else, but sex with yourself, too — but it was really the shame he couldn’t go on living with.

Then he told Msgr. Frode something even harder. He said he wasn’t really satisfied with masturbation. He desperately wanted to feel a woman return his desire.

The monsignor then said something a little unorthodox. He told Fr. Frank that he, the monsignor, had had a similar problem many years earlier, and that it had led him to have an affair with a woman in the parish he then worked in.

Fr. Frank didn’t know what to say.

“The affair lasted several months,” the monsignor continued, “She was divorced, so I was committing adultery as well as breaking my vows. At the same time, weirdly, my commitment to my priesthood seemed to burn more brightly than ever. I really, really wanted to go on being a priest. That was on an upward curve.”

There was a pause.

“And my need for sex was on a downward curve. As I began to understand the complexities of a relationship with a woman, I became somewhat less enchanted. I enjoyed the sex, yes. For the first few months, I couldn’t keep away from her. But we both knew it was just an affair and our two lives would have to stay on their separate tracks. I wanted to free her to find a man she could plan a life with, if she couldn’t go back to her husband. And I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my priesthood. So it sort of petered out. I guess that is the word. I never had sex with another woman.”

Then Msgr. Frode said something even more startling. “Frank, every priest masturbates. Yes, in the eyes of the church it’s a sin. You confess it, you tell God you want to go on loving Him despite everything, and you move on. To me, that always seemed the important thing. Try to stop feeling ashamed. There’s no need for it. No creature on earth should feel ashamed of its natural needs. This need is part of our nature. You do your best with it. That’s all God expects.”

xxxxx

Several confessions later, I told Fr. Frank that Freddie and I had broken up, not so much because I felt guilty but because Freddie is one of those restless people who always has to move on to another partner.

Then I said, “I’ve thought about what you told me. About needing a man. I do need a man, but it will never again be my husband. And there are no candidates right now. I work with mostly women. My boss is a very attractive man, but he’s married and I wouldn’t know how to go about suggesting anything to him. I couldn’t possibly go to some bar or club and try to get picked up. I don’t know what to do.”

As I said this, I looked right at him.

Fr. Frank gave me his standard advice and encouragement and pronounced absolution. It seemed rather hurried.

The very next day he called me. (The parish has a list of all our phone numbers.) He said he wanted to talk. I asked about what.

“It’s personal,” he said.

My heart leaped into my throat. It wasn’t hard to guess what this was about. Fr. Frank suggested we meet in a park on the other side of town.

I had butterflies as I waited for our appointment. My decision was already made. If Fr. Frank wanted it, I wanted it too. That he was a priest and it was forbidden to both of us perversely made it that much more enticing. I was already a sinner and, well, this looked like a very exciting sin.

The one thing I hesitated over was: would it derail his priesthood? Would I be responsible for wrecking his vocation? I didn’t want to do that, because Fr. Frank seemed a natural as a priest. He might not be happy doing anything else. Would he accept that, like Freddie and me, this could not be a love affair but just casual sex to satisfy a mutual need?

And could we both accept that it had to remain hidden?

When I saw Fr. Frank coming, I couldn’t help smiling and waving at him a little enthusiastically. Of course he was wearing civvies. Since we were around the same age, we would look like any thirty-ish couple taking a walk in the park. The only thing that could go wrong was a parishioner seeing us. I didn’t care about myself, but I knew gossip would harm Fr. Frank.

We met without touching and began walking, keeping a respectable distance between us. For a bit we talked about the fine weather and how we planned to get out in it.

Then Fr. Frank said, “Mike — my name is Michaela but everybody calls me Mike — I don’t have any experience at all in this, so I’ll just get straight to the point. You know what we’ve hinted to each other, and now I want to come right out and say it. I think about you all the time. More exactly, I think about us together,” he paused, “Now, I’ve said it. It’s your turn. If you’re offended, please don’t spare my feelings.”

I’ve had more romantic moments. But I was already excited and didn’t need romance.

“Fr. Frank,” I said, “I’ll do it. Plain and simple: I’ll do it. At least once. After that, well, we’ll see. Both of us.”

That, by the way, was the last time I called him Fr. Frank.

We faced each other, as you have to at such moments. His face was working, with what I couldn’t tell, but his eyes were steady and I saw the flame in them. Brown eyes. I had noticed that before. I’m not sure what my face looked like, but my feeling at the moment was a mix of yearning and anxiety.

“How much time do you have?” I asked.

“I don’t have any commitments for the rest of the day. Or night. But my phone can always ring. I have to answer it. And if it’s an emergency, I have to go.”

I admired his dedication. I gave him the address of my apartment and told him to drive around back and use my parking place, I’d park on the street. A few parishioners lived in my neighborhood, though none in my building.

xxxxx

Inside my apartment, the inevitable awkwardness set in. I offered him a drink, which he took but drank very little of. He was very tense. It was possible he’d back out. I’d be disappointed, but I knew he would keep thinking about me. I told him, if he was having second thoughts I would understand. I thought to myself, it will happen sooner or later anyway.

“No, no,” he said, “I want you, I’ve rationalized it enough on my end. I can’t stop it anyway.” … A long pause … “But, Mike, I’ve had very little experience, and that was a long, long time ago. A girl in high school, that’s all. In my car.”

He choked a little saying that.

I sat on the coffee table across from him and took both of his hands. It was the first time we had ever touched. Our knees were touching, too. We looked each other in the eye.

“Frank, Frank,” I said, in the most reassuring tone I could summon, “I know that. I’ll help you. It doesn’t matter what happens, as long as we try something. Anything. Just getting under the covers and embracing, if that’s all that happens, it’s okay with me.”

He managed a small smile.

“I think something will happen. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

I gave him a gentle smile.

“Frank, that’s impossible. I’ve wanted you and now … you want me. That’s enough, right there,” I paused, “I think the sooner we start, the easier it will be.”

He smiled again, wryly, but his eyes were trusting.

“You’re the boss.”

I took his hand and led him to my bedroom. With the blinds drawn the light is low. I turned to him, put my hands on his shoulders, and said, “Frank, go ahead and put your hands on me. Any place you want.” He put his hands gingerly on my waist.

“Now pull me to you.”

And we embraced, stroking each other and making little noises. I could feel the tension and stiffness in his body. I tucked my head and arms into his chest and let him protect me. I could feel his heart beat and his breath in my hair. I gave him time to get used to it and relax.

Then I suggested that I undress first.

“I want you to look at me,” I said, “I’ll like that.”

It was no striptease, but I did it slowly. I didn’t have much to take off anyway, just a shorts and a light blouse. I took the shorts off first. I could see some kind of reaction in Frank’s face, but in the dim light I wasn’t sure what. I raised my arms over my head and turned around slowly so he could see all sides of me in panties. My face is more individual than beautiful, but I have a nice body, at least in my opinion. I keep in shape. I turned slowly to face him and began unbuttoning my blouse. I took my time, challenging him to look into my eyes. I wanted him to feel how much I wanted to please him. When I finished unbuttoning, I left the blouse on and put my hands down by my sides, palms turned out, with a sort of questioning look on my face. I could see how curious he was, so I let him look for a bit. Then I suddenly shrugged the blouse off. Now I was only in my underwear.

Frank stepped toward me–his first initiative since the park. He took me into his arms again. I knew he could smell me, both the soap I used and the woman scent that arose from my heated skin. He put his nose in my neck and breathed. Then he stepped back and waited for the final act. I unhooked my bra, looked at him for a moment, then let it slip to the floor. My breasts are medium and firm. They stand up well. My nipples are large and conical, my aureoles dark. I motioned Frank over, then I pressed them together and invited him to put his face down and smell their special scent. He buried his nose between them and nuzzled me cautiously. I smiled.

He stepped back and I slipped my panties off. I stretched my arms out, went up on my toes, and did a turn for him. I actually studied ballet for several years, although I hadn’t practiced for a very long time. But I could still mimic some of the moves. Moving my body, that was the thing, so he could see everything. I spread my legs, bent over and grabbed my ankles, then slowly turned so he could see my asshole. As I straightened, I stroked the insides of my thighs, and then my bush.

I think Frank enjoyed it. With a smile he started pulling his clothes off. I kept dancing, brushing past him. I stooped to yank his pants down. He laughed and hurried up. When he was naked, he spread his arms so I could look at him. His cock was long and hanging out enough to show it was getting a little firm. He made a few flat-footed twirls in imitation of me. We both laughed fell together on the bed.

I was starting to get over-excited, being with a man after so long. It flashed through my mind that he would mount me, drive into me again and again, and then come inside me. My juices were flowing. With me, they’re usually copious enough to wet my thighs. I had a flash of worry that that would strike Frank as gross. He may have watched a lot of pornography but he knew so little about real women.

We tangled enthusiastically together, kissing, petting, murmuring. I felt his cock stiffening.

I murmured, “Frank, would it be okay if I stroked you?”

He nodded, a little uncertainly. “If you want to.”

I smiled, kissed him, and said, “Of course I want to.”

I reached down and my fingers slipped around his hardness. Because of my lying down angle, I couldn’t give him the sort of steady jerking off motion I wanted to, but what I was doing seemed to be the right thing, because I felt him twitch and swell. I reached a little further and gently ran a fingernail down the back of his scrotum. He looked at me wonderingly then closed his eyes as if it was too much.

I smiled again and said, “Frank, I could handle you all day. Why don’t you lie on your back and let me take charge for a bit?”

He complied. Now I took in his whole body. He was a little shorter than average, thick-chested, with a tight belly. His chest was haired; the hair trickled in a line down his belly to his dark pubic forest. He also had hair on his arms and thighs. His cock stood up like a flagpole. I could see a glisten of precum at the tip. I hoped he would precum a lot. I love that. I began stroking him, at first making it as light as I could.

He sucked his breath in and groaned. I took a quick glance at his face. It was contorted into something like anguish, yet not anguish, something that expressed both pain and pleasure, like when a masseuse hits a pressure point and you shudder, so great is the pleasure of release, but it also comes with a deep ache. While Frank was no stranger to masturbation, he was a stranger to having someone else do it for him.

I put both hands on, tightened my grip a little and stroked faster. I had to be careful; from all those years of self-pleasure, Frank was likely to come easily, and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed because he felt it was too soon. I handled the sensitive place under his dark bulbous head, pressing and stroking with thumb and forefinger. I was pleased with his moans and sudden twitches.

Abundant precum trickled out out of him I couldn’t help myself, I had to taste it. I scrunched into position and flicked his tip with my tongue. He made a desperate sound. And then, suddenly, I needed to feel his stiffness filling my mouth. I slid my lips softly down over his head and worked them, sucking gently at that sensitive spot. God, it felt good to have a penis in my mouth! But it was too much for Frank. His cock swelled and hardened even more, and then he spurted into my mouth, several times, while making loud gasping ohs and ahs. I sucked a little more out, swallowed, then threw myself on him, kissing him wildly and rubbing my sloppy cunt on his softening but still semi-firm cock. It excited me to make him taste his own semen. He didn’t object.