Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Five
Father
I finished writing my homily. I’ve given them before under the watchful eye of Father Morris, but come Sunday, this will be my first as parish priest. Father Morris joked that I’d never get it done in time, and I’d like to think it was divine inspiration that gave me the fortitude to finish. But that would be a lie. This past week I’ve focused on my homily to avoid putting my focus on the young woman outside the door, the woman whose face I see when I close my eyes, even in prayer.
That sweet face is stamped on my memory. The wide, expressive eyes—brown like my own. The dark cascade of hair I long to touch. The cupid’s bow of a mouth. The slightly upturned nose. And her body; she dresses conservatively, but even so there’s no hiding the soft curves, the round breasts. I move the Rosary faster through my fingers and pray for strength. Strength. That only makes me think of her again.
There’s something so vulnerable in Carmen’s features, in her small stature. And yet there’s poise there, a resilience that has enabled her to endure what I suspect is a terrible home life.
She brings her lunch to work each day, but on Friday I ordered a pizza for us to share and she seemed uncomfortable with even this small gratitude and kept telling me that I shouldn’t have done it. When I told her she deserved it, she’d looked away and muttered a quiet, “Thank you.”
I tread lightly asking her personal questions even though I’m burning to know more about her. I tell myself that I’ve only gotten the information I’ve gained so far because she’s a parishioner and an employee, and I should care about her spiritual health. She tells me about school, about how much she enjoyed it. Her face lights up when she mentions the dorm and the little town that somehow felt bigger than this one.
“I think because there was a college. They had better bookstores and coffee shops,” she said. “The feel was different.”
“You liked it there?”
“Oh, yes,” she’d replied. “I just wish I could have gotten a job, that I could have stayed.”
Her voice had trailed off. “I suppose you’d tell me I should be grateful that I have a job here,” she’d said, and I could see her body tense as if bracing for some criticism. I’d wanted to hug her then. Instead, I’d taken a sip of my soda.
“No, Carmen. Feeling disappointed is natural. You’re not a child. I can understand why you’d want to start the next phase of your life independently.”
“I feel like a child,” she’d said, and then had risen suddenly, obviously ashamed that she’d said this out loud.
Child. I want to make it better. This had been my thought, but I’d not said it out loud. Instead, I’d begun to pick up the paper plates, but she turned to take them.
“I’ll clean up,” she said. “I know you have important things to do.”
When she’d reached for the plates, our fingers had touched and she’d frozen for a moment before pulling away. I’d looked at her, hoping she’d raise her eyes to mine, but she hadn’t.
The kneeling bench is cushioned, but I’ve been here so long my knees are slightly sore. I knew the risks of entering the priesthood later in life. Father Morris said if you’ve never tasted an apple, you won’t miss them when apple season passes. We both knew he wasn’t talking about apples.
“Help me to help her in a way that honors You,” I pray, fixing my eyes on the crucifix behind the alter where I’ll preach the homily tomorrow. “Help me stay on the path.”
I need to go to confession. Perhaps I’ll drive to St. Sebastian’s on Monday and unburden my heart to a fellow priest. I think of last night, of waking with an almost painful erection. I’d reached for it without thinking, slipping my hand into the waistband of my pajama pants and grasping the base of my cock.
“It’s beautiful,” Jenna used to say. She was a very sexual woman who’d been with other men, but she said my cock was as close to perfect as any she’d ever seen. “This vein,” she’d say, tracing the purple ridge with her finger as if it were a road on a map. “This vein is sexy.”
But then the memory of Jenna had faded to be replaced by that of Carmen. I’d felt my erection bob in my hand. I’d wanted to pump my cock, to feel the friction while thinking of Carmen. Sin upon sin. I’d groaned in the dark and gotten up from the bed, walking outside in the cold air until I was shivering and my cock wilted back to reluctant softness.
I stop talking to God and talk to myself, saying what I know I need to hear. You’re not at St. Thomas to seduce young women. You’re here to lead the flock, to guide them, to set an example. You are a Father, and if you fail in this then you make a mockery of what called you here.
I remember the day I got that call, standing alone at the cemetery looking at the mound of fresh dirt on the grave in front of me. I felt like my soul had been ripped in half. I’d come there after realizing I’d lost almost everything that mattered, and that I would lose myself if I continued the self-torture of repeatedly asking what I could have done to change things.
I’d not been to church in years but I’d walked down to St. Luke’s, trying not to think of the day a month earlier when I’d walked up the same aisle of this sanctuary as a pallbearer. The priest was lighting candles the day I returned. He’d turned to me.
“Dominic,” he’d said, his face kind and sympathetic. He knew how torn I was. “How are you?”
I’d stopped in front of him, suddenly feeling peaceful.
“I want to join the priesthood,” I’d replied.
