When I was younger, I had a slight obsession with the “bad boy” type, the Marlon Brando type, the kind of boy who could melt my heart and break it at the same time. Perhaps ironically, I met the boy who became my biggest weakness through my town’s church. Let’s call him Sebastian.
We grew up together, going to the same potlucks and weekly masses since our elementary school years. I didn’t really take notice of him until he came in to the service one week noticeably taller and sporting a newly squared jaw. It was then that we began hanging out more often, getting to know each other in more ways than one.
After a few months of fooling around, Sebastian’s aloof demeanor and womanizing mentality began to take a toll on me, leaving me questioning more and more if this “bad boy” persona was worth all the drama and stress.
I decided to cut him off completely, ignoring his advances and efforts to hold my hand while we sang the hymn of the week. It was hard to ignore him “accidentally” brushing his hand against my thigh during the service. Something about those small touches and the possibility of being seen made the whole thing even more fun even harder to leave behind. I managed to keep my cool mostly because of the stained glass murals of Jesus and his disciples giving me a weird look with their lifeless eyes.
Regardless of my determination, Sebastian eventually managed to convince me to sneak out during the service, leading me into one of the church’s offices in the upstairs area to “talk” about our relationship.
Once in the room, I began to tell him how much of a douchebag he’d been, but fell silent as he stepped closer and held me in his arms, murmuring apologies into my neck. Something inside me told me not to trust his words, but the idea of running my fingers through his dark wavy hair overpowered my suspicions. Still, I was ready to turn him down— until he gave me “the look.” It lured me into his trap and told me to forget about everything else.
The next thing I knew, his lips were moving ferociously against mine. We were both deprived of each other, and the familiarity of that kiss made us hungry for more. I felt a little uneasy at first, what with all the crucifixes and Christian memorabilia dangling from the walls, but Sebastian had a way with his hands that made me forget about the fact that God was probably watching us—and judging us hardcore—from up above.
We found the nearest desk chair and continued our rendezvous. I was surprised at how much I had missed his firm grasp, which only made the whole thing even hotter. He seemed to miss me too, as he practically ripped off my blouse and threw it across the room.
All was flowing smoothly until the door sprang open. I whipped my head around, and to my utter humiliation I looked directly into the horrified eyes of my pastor. I scrambled up from straddling Sebastian and tried to find my shirt as our pastor (loudly) chastised us for our ungodly behavior. To make matters worse, my family and his family (in addition to some of the other churchgoers) were standing right behind the pastor with their faces contorted into a mix of embarrassment and complete rage. I fell numb and couldn’t focus on anything except for the fact that half of our tightly knit church community had just caught us mid-rendezvous. My face burned red and Sebastian’s eyes were glued to the floor.
I tried to skip church the next week, but as part of my punishment my mother made me go and sit through the entire service with the judging eyes of the other church members burning a hole through the back of my head.
Eventually, the scandal blew over, especially after Sebastian and I both went off to college. Everyone seemed to forget, or at least pretend to forget, about our shocking little tryst. It would be months until I could look my pastor in the eye without turning as red. Thankfully he was fond of the whole idea of forgiveness. As for the big guy upstairs, I don’t think any number of Hail Marys could ever make the guilt of hooking up—and getting caught—in His house of worship go away for good.