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My confession

(Written December 23, 2003)

It started with waiting; just one of the many things worthy of confession that start with waiting. I was waiting for him in the car in the church parking lot. I’d been away from Joanna for five days. I brought a book to read while I waited but it was less a book for reading than for browsing, so in a few minutes I was left to my own devices to entertain myself. It was dark, and although there were other cars and people present, I could say without reasonable doubt that I could behave without concern of being seen.

As is natural for a young man of my age, I thought of Joanna. I thought of the attractive friend I had spent the day with. I thought of how I stole glances at her chest showcased behind her tight blue button-up shirt. I thought of the glimpse I caught of her white lace bra inside the crack of the buttons of her shirt. It fed my imagination, I thought. It was feeding my imagination now.

I was within my element throughout the incident, and a greater part of the reason I did what I did was for the artistic outpour that I’m giving now. I am a God-loving man but I do not fear God. I revere the church to the extent that my conduct is not irreverent. Indeed, I admit to being somewhat curious as to how I would feel after the fact, after having done something so grave in a place the world considers so holy. I will also admit to feeling a sense of superiority to the world for not sharing in the feeling formerly mentioned, that of revering the church for holy reasons, for I find their reasoning less holy and more filled with holes; less from within and more from vanity.

So there I was, sitting in the dark, reflecting over these and similar thoughts. I reclined the chair and glanced at the people walking about, taking pictures outside the church like tourists. They didn’t see me or they didn’t care to notice, either way it didn’t matter to me. I slowly reached in, still looking about and being vigilant. In just a few seconds, thoughts poured through my head with the usual fervor attached to that very particular state of being. I thought of Joanna. “Oh Joanna…” I thought of the girl, I thought of her sister. I envisioned graphic details of each of them, of myself with them, of enslaving them in my rapture. When my mind was overwhelmed with all I was feeling, I couldn’t help but verbalize what I felt. They were short, potent sounds, but they captured – as they always do – the essence of what I was feeling.

In a few seconds the deed was done. I had fulfilled my curiosity; I had done what at first thought struck me as something horrible but then grew into my skin like the heat from the cheap heater of a cheap car slowly permeates through the feet on a dark, frigid night. On one end I was slightly disappointed because the experience itself wasn’t terrific. It started without incident and ended too soon and much too abruptly. The redeeming factor, however, was the fact that I had done it in the least likely of places, in the parking lot of a church, a place of worship for hundreds of local pretentious people, and one of thousands of institutions throughout the world which perpetuate such affectations.

All in all, it was a “religious” experience and a worthwhile artistic endeavor.

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