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I’m a sinner with a dimpled smile and perfect hair, and I know how to make sin feel like heaven.
“Fine,” I say, and I set my glass down on the ledge next to us. “I think you’re more than pretty. I think you’re fucking gorgeous, and you’re not impressed by me, which makes me want to work very, very hard to impress you. I want to impress you with my mouth…” I take a step toward her, my hands safely in my pockets, so she sees I’m not going to touch her. “…and impress you with my fingers…” Another step forward, and she lifts her face up to see mine better, her mouth parted and her eyes wide and blinking. I can see the vulnerable place where her pulse thrums in her throat, the rapid rise and
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“And I do want to get to know you better. I want to know if you scream or if you moan when you come; I want to know if you prefer my mouth or my hands; I want to know if you like it deep and slow or fast and hard.”
I can show you, I want to say. Let me take you up to a deserted balcony. Let me show you how to brace your hands on the railing and present your ass to me. Let me show you exactly how a man uses his mouth on a woman from behind.
Fuck a damn duck.
“Mom says that we’re only supposed to say things like ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ but Ryan and me thought you’d want to know that Jurassic Park is on the TV in the basement.”
I’m not past it! I’m not past the memory of her touch, the memory of wanting her—which isn’t even a memory right now. It’s real; it’s present, wanting her is my current state of being—and how the fuck am I ever supposed to get past the fact that this is Elijah’s little sister? Someone I held as a baby? Oh my God, I’m going to hell. I don’t even believe in hell and I’m going there, and what’s worse is that she believes in hell, probably; she believes in all this stupid stuff; she’s giving her life to the same church that killed my sister.
“Well, yes. And also you’re so young. And I’m not a good man. If you’d told me you wanted it, I would have spent the rest of the night with my mouth on your cunt.”
“I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you today,” I say, watching her blanch with surprise at my blunt lewdness. “I can’t stop thinking about pushing that jumper up to your waist and nuzzling into your cunt until my face smells like you. I want to bite your tits through that white shirt. I want to see that cross necklace sliding around your collarbone as I find out if you prefer two fingers or three.”
And I leave as quickly as I can, forcing myself not to look back at the thoroughly kissed nun still perched on the counter.
So I can stop imagining what it would be like to kiss her again, what it would feel like to hoist her on another counter and then drop to my knees and prove to her how little oxygen I need when I’ve got a pussy to eat.
I imagine how her pussy would taste against my lips, how she’d smell, how she’d shiver when I circled my tongue around the dark rosebud between her cheeks after I suckled on her clit.
Just two fingers would be all I need, right down the front of her jeans. Two fingers and two minutes, and I’d make her feel so much better. Bad Sean. Focus.
“Well, I do feel like I should mention that I think virginity in general is an arbitrary construct designed by men as a system of control and fear. And it’s heteronormative. And limiting, because why do certain sexual acts preserve virginity and some destroy it? What if I fucked a dildo every night, but I hadn’t fucked a man? Why doesn’t anal sex count? And what if I was with someone and penetration wasn’t an option, for any number of biological or emotional or identity reasons—would that make our sex less somehow? I’d be a virgin forever?”
I grin up at her. “I’ll be happy to show you all the things other than talking you can do in my lap, sweet girl.” SEAN BELL. FOCUS.
The most selfless people, the most driven people, they need permission to take care of themselves; they need someone who will put them first because they won’t do it for themselves.
In fact, I even get so far as standing up before I remember myself, before I remember THE PLAN, SEAN, THE FUCKING PLAN, and instead I smooth a gentling hand up her back and press a single finger inside her.
“Oh” is all she says. But I think it’s a good oh because she’s currently rubbing her pussy against my thigh like a needy cat. I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it.
“Mine, Zenny-bug. All mine.”
Of course I’m only joking that I want to spend the rest of my life with the most beautiful, fascinating, sexy woman I’ve ever met. It’s all a joke. Ha ha ha. Hilarious. Oh my God, I’m so fucked.
Teach me how to make my pussy feel better. Jesus, I can’t resist that shit. I let out a wounded, hitched breath and she knows she has me. A triumphant smile plays over her mouth.
“Good. You’re mine to treasure, sweetheart, and I want to savor each and every part of you as you flower open.”
And before I know it, I’m in some strange giant hallway outside the ballroom, tucked behind a plant where I can’t smite anyone. Before Zenny even says anything, my eyes are on the ballroom doors, because I’ll be patient and let her tell me whatever it is that’s so urgent, but then I’m going back in there and I’m killing everyone, killing them and then stomping their corpses into the parquet floor until they’re flat enough for Zenny and me to dance on. Then I’ll calm down, I decide. Once I’m waltzing on their corpses.
“I can’t get angry. If I get angry, then I’m the Angry Black Woman. If I admit to having my feelings hurt, then I’m being too sensitive. If I ask for people to treat me thoughtfully, then I’m being aggressive. If I joke back, then I’m being impertinent or sassy. If I cry, then I’m hyperemotional. If I don’t react at all, I’m intimidating or cold. Do you see? There’s not a way I can react where I win. I can’t win.”
“I’ll fuck you every time you ask me,” I promise. “But I need to make sure you’re doing okay first.” “I’m okay,” she pouts. “Now come over here and do it again.”
God, the fucking irony of a sinner loving a nun. It’s agony. I’m dying. And as I’m both alight and aflame with loving her, these splashes of thought keep coming out of nowhere, like raindrops on a sunny day.
“Sean, faith and belief are the practices of committing a life in the face of no answers. God is and always will be outside of human comprehension. And loving Her is an act; it’s not stubbornly repeating creeds and trying to force Her into modern expectations or rational paradigms. She’ll never fit in the same boxes we apply to science and reason; She’s not meant to. And to try to force it only breeds spiritual violence in the end.”
And just when I think for sure that he’s not here, a light flicks on and he comes skidding out of his doorway, still yanking up some pajama pants. A penis definitely flaps around in the process. “Aw, Jesus,” I say, throwing my hand up over my eyes. “Why, man? Why?” “What do you mean why, you—you cat burglar!” he splutters, stomping down the stairs to me. “Haven’t you heard of fucking knocking? I don’t know, calling maybe?”
“Zenny and I have been…seeing each other,” I say. “And I love her,” I add, knowing this absolutely makes nothing better in Elijah’s eyes. “You’ve been dating my sister?” I’m too raw for this. “You’ve been fucking my brother?” I demand back. Aiden flinches. “Guys, please.”
“Actually…well, there was a girl.” This piques her interest immediately. Girl???? She underlines the word several times in case I don’t appreciate her eagerness. “Yeah. But I messed it up, Mom. I’m pretty sure she hates my guts now.” … She actually writes an ellipsis on the board, gesturing for me to elaborate.
“We bring it in for every family transitioning to palliative care,” a respiratory tech explains, like it’s a door prize and not a congratulations on choosing death box filled with cheap snacks.
Belief is this. Praying when you don’t feel like it, when you don’t know who or what is listening; it’s doing the actions with the trust that something about it matters. That something about it makes you more human, a better human, a human able to love and trust and hope in a world where those things are hard. That is belief. That is the point of prayer. Not logging a wish list inside a cosmic ledger, not bartering for transactional services. You do it for the change it works on you and on those around you; the point of it is…itself. Nothing more and nothing less.
the whole “earning their trust for three decades before abruptly robbing the nun-cradle” thing.
“I love you, Zenny-bug.” And then I add, sternly, “And drive safely in the snow. I will spank your beautiful ass raw if you so much as look at anything above twenty miles an hour on your speedometer. Got it?” “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says with a laugh. “But I got it, Daddy,” she adds with a coy smile as she spins away. Lust hits me in the stomach like a cannonball. “Daddy? Really?” She’s never called me Daddy before. I didn’t even know that was a thing she wanted to call me. And now I need to find out how fast I can make her use that word again, if I can make her say
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Tyler once left the priesthood for a stripper, but don’t let that little vocational speed bump fool you—he’s very serious and responsible and good. (Unless it comes to red-lipsticked socialites-turned-exotic-dancers. Then he’s very bad. His one Kryptonite, I suppose.)
Sometimes, looking at that ruthless stare, I do worry that he might grow up to be a bit of a villain, but I put it out of my mind for now. Wedding first, potentially evil baby brothers later.
He reaches up with one hand and slowly loosens his tie. His other hand stays between my legs, fingers still inside me, like he’s worried someone is going to come take his favorite toy away from him.
I find him in the room the church uses for donations, standing over a big lump of blankets and coats on the floor. He gives me a proud, dimpled beam. “I made us a bed,” he declares, like he’s just hunted a giant animal and dragged it to our doorstep to provide for me. “Behold!” “It’s a great bed,” I say, coming to sit on it. “And look what I found in the scarf pile!” He hands me a silk scarf, and I smile up at him as I take it and wrap up my hair.
I ache for her lack of veil though, and instead of reaching for her waist or neck to kiss her, I lift my hands to the empty air below her chest. I carefully pinch the air with my fingers and then raise the invisible veil up and over her head and settle it at her back, taking as much time as I would to lift a real veil and then make sure it was smooth and hanging straight behind her. A single tear slips down her cheek, and I brush it away with gentle fingers before I lower my mouth to hers and finally kiss my wife.
“Is there a problem with our exit music, Mr. Bell?” she murmurs. I look back at the rest of our family, not seeing my annoying brother. I’m going to have some words with him later. “There’s a problem with Aiden. And that’s Daddy Bell to you, by the way.” “Yes,” she says warmly, as we get to the doors to the lobby. “It is Daddy Bell to me. And…to this little one here.”
