Lessons in Sin

by Pam Godwin

“Spoken like a true Catholic.” I held up my whiskey.

He removed every garment I put in the bag. When my temper finally blew, I threw a bra at his face and told him to pack the bags himself.

In any other situation, I would’ve felt under-dressed in a T-shirt and bikini underwear. But it was six in the morning, and I was chasing a girl wearing butt floss.

“Yes. I can and do imagine it. All. Day. Long.” “You’re going to hell.” “For him, I’ll go on my knees.”

“I swear on all that is holy, I would suck the Jesus out of his cock.” “Same, girl. Same.”

“Morning worship begins at six,” the girl in the back said. “His body is our temple, and we come to pray.” A chorus of Amens erupted, followed by laughter.

Jesus. Most of the skirt had been sheared off. It was so short that only a strip of plaid peeked out from beneath her shirttails. Rather than hiding the destruction, she held the box of cookies out to the side and struck a pose. “Rate the fit.” “The fit?” “Old people,” she huffed under her breath. “The outfit. Rate the outfit.”

“They call it Morning Worship.” I stared at the wall before me, basking in his discomfort. “To think, when the lights go out, all those dutiful prayer hands are petting the kitty in your honor.” “Enough.”

“Only two minutes late. Are you seriously going to be a vagina about it?”

Then, in a tone as black as Satan’s abyss, he said, “You foolish girl, all you had to do was read the correct passage.” My hackles bristled. “Here’s a passage for you, straight from the Gospel of Tinsley. Thou shalt fuck off.”

I wanted his lessons in sin.

“I tried to protect you.” He curled his fingers around my throat and scraped his teeth against my jaw. “I tried, and now, it’s too late. I won’t be able to stop. Not with you.”

Then he beat the unholy hell out of me. The instrumental church music played on. His strikes kept time with the toll of the bells, and his labored breaths built in crescendo with the flute.

Gray, crust, wet, toes, blood, pink tails, Mickey Mouse ears. My chest burned. Opossums. Mangled. My heart raced. Jaden and Willow. Dead. My throat caught fire.

Do I make myself clear?” “Oh, Miss girl. Is that supposed to be a threat?” Miss girl?

all signs of holiness out the door.

“If you leave, I’ll haul you back.” “What? You’ll come for me?” “Yes. Then you’ll come for me.”

But my interest in their kind had changed over the past six weeks.

Maybe I should call my mother and tell her that her decision to send me to an all-girls Catholic school had cured my curiosity with boys. I was no longer interested in giving blow jobs to college guys who worked at Burger King. Now I only wanted to spread my legs for men twice my age who bit and spanked and wore clerical collars.

“What the fuck?” I jerked away from him, appalled. “I don’t know whose rectum you crawled out of, but you should’ve been flushed. Ugh. You’re disgusting. Huge turnoff.”

“Eat a dick, Tucker.”

“Are you staring at my ass?” Daisy strode ahead of me in a sparkling pink dress that did amazing things to her figure. “You wish.” I paused in the dim entryway of the gym, totally staring at her ass.

I wanted to strip that man and fuck him like the good Lord intended.

“Holy shit, you’re hot. I kinda wish I was gay right now.”

She could refuse me. There was always that possibility, and I would accept her rejection without retaliation. I’d been very clear with her on that point. I was nothing like her mother. I would never force her into something for my own personal gain. But it didn’t hurt to remind her.

I almost had sex. In a confessional. With a priest. Now would be a good time to start praying.

“I’m going to hell.”

“Not without me.”

“I want to do it again. Unless, of course, you can’t? What’s the recovery time for old men? Will you be needing Viagra?”

“No, I wasn’t prejudiced against women. I hated everyone equally.

and you’re already emotionally constipated.

I would never leave her. She belonged to me for always and in all ways.

More than anything, I hoped he wasn’t hurting. I hoped he didn’t feel the suffering I felt over the past three months. This was only the beginning. The beginning of the rest of my life without him. I would never see him again.

I was profoundly, inconsolably sad. The kind of sad that couldn’t be medicated or counseled. There was no cure for heartbreak.

How could I eat? How could I, knowing it wouldn’t fill the emptiness?

“You’re a fucking bitch.” “Does that make you feel better? Does calling a woman a bitch make you feel like a big, powerful man? Because you don’t sound like one. You sound like a spoiled little boy who didn’t get to put his fingers in the honey pot.”

He wasn’t a mistake. I would never regret the time I’d had with him. He’d taught me how to live and let live, how to make every moment count, how to be more than what I was, how to experience what I learned, how to be taller and stronger for the struggle. He taught me that the best things in life didn’t come easy. He taught me how to love.

I was surviving, but I wasn’t living. I was barely breathing.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” I tapped the signature line, my pulse quickening. “No, Miss Constantine.” He held out his pen. “I’m demanding it.”