A Good Man

Hello, all. This is part one of my story, 'A Good Man'. It is about the relationship that develops between the pastor of an aging and struggling suburban congregation, and an agnostic Dominatrix. The pastor is a tormented soul - simultaneously wanting to be the perfect husband to his cold, asexual wife, but needing the intensity of his newfound Dominatrix to fulfill his desperation for passion, and give him the fiery motivation to save and grow his congregation.

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The board was comprised of five members. Fred Mastison, the Board Director, owned a small, gasping-for-life landscaping company, and this combined with being a type-A heart attack waiting to happen, he imagined himself a natural-born leader. He sat at the head of the long rectangular table which had a layer of hardened glue and tempera stains across the top from years of youth projects. It was his self-designated place of importance.

Roberta Dickerson was a humorless, unimaginative 50-something who had served on the board for 20 years. She sat to Fred's left. Bundled in a turtleneck with a thick outer sweater, tonight she still remained in her winter coat for the additional warmth. She rarely spoke, not from being socially anxious, or perhaps shy, but from legitimately having nothing to say.

Grace Shetler sat at the table end opposite Fred. She had a no-nonsense, curmudgeonly exterior which hid an interior that was bubbling with life.She possessed both wisdom and a sharp wit, if you could excavate beneath her faulty, outdated hearing aids and foul language.

I sat between Grace and Roberta. Mel Rillip sat directly across from me. Mel could be a reasonable man, but he was only on the board to placate his wife, Wendy, who was everywhere, all the time, until someone actually needed her for something. She attempted to have her say on the board vicariously through Mel.

Between Mel and Fred sat Mae Gigillianta, a cold-hearted, self-righteous sort with undiagnosed depression. She hated her job, disliked her husband, barely tolerated her kids, and had no interests outside of her church involvement. She never smiled.

These people, in most instances unfortunately, were the ones I answered to - my bosses. We met bi-monthly, and tonight was that dreaded night.

Judy, sitting off to the side and not at our table, was the church's administrative assistant and my right hand. She once told me that the reason she sat apart was that she was worried she couldn't hide her facial expressions adequately. She was there to take minutes, and hated these meetings as much as I did. Selfishly, I was always glad that attendance was part of her job description. It was a comfort having my friend and closest ally nearby. Sometimes after the meetings, she and I would meet up at a local bar for a beer or two to commiserate, or recover, whichever was needed, before heading to our respective homes.

The spacious room was down a hallway off the sanctuary, and served as the after service lounge on Sunday mornings, and the Bible study room Thursday evenings. The smell of coffee continuously permeated the room, and the walls were decorated with outdated, fading framed pictures of inspirational sayings against nature-themed backgrounds. It was a comfortable space furnished with two couches, coffee tables, upholstered sitting chairs, with there still being enough room for the long table at which we sat at one end of the room.

As I sat there listening to the first hour and a half of arguing over whether or not to purchase new handrails for the exterior entrances, my thoughts wandered. I watched Fred's face flush various shades of red from the passion he apparently felt for this topic, and thought about how ridiculous this conversation was in light of the incident that occurred two Sundays prior. The handrail collapsed, causing a woman to break her foot, and knocked her 4-year-old son down the main entrance steps, resulting in three stitches to his head.

Fred's argument defied reason - something about it being the child's fault and the small boy must have been "horsing around" on the rail to cause it to collapse. Six witnesses backed up the mother's account - it simply collapsed, and her son was on the other side of her, holding her hand, not near the railing.

Mae went into a tirade about the "undisciplined" children of the church being indicative of a societal problem, and that I not only have a responsibility to preach on the topic, I should be engaging in more direct confrontation of the parents of the congregation. I glanced at Judy who was running her hand across her forehead with a 'you have got to be kidding me' look on her face. I understood why she needed to sit alone.

With an aging congregation, every body under the age of seventy in a pew was a welcomed and appreciated sight. The older folks brought stability and wisdom, but it was the younger generations that signified growth and vitality. The confrontation Mae called for would not be coming from me, not that it was necessary anyway. Growth and vitality - my main objective which the board, the same board now arguing over a long overdue, necessary building repair, claimed to share when they hired me to be their pastor a year and a half ago. They failed to mention that growth and vitality, supposedly being held dearly by each of them, would be the one goal they would fight hardest and most consistently against.

Mel interrupted Mae, "That is not the issue here. The issue is the railings are not safe, and we need to take care of this before someone else gets hurt...."

Grace, who had been knitting through the meeting as she always did, dropped her needle and called out, "Aww, for shit's sakes!" everyone ignored her. I bent from my chair and retrieved the knitting needle from the carpeted floor. As I did so, I noticed she was only wearing one sock - the other thick, varicose-veined ankle was bare.

Mel's insolence sent Fred into a rant. Mae furiously searched her Bible for pertinent verses to support her position. Roberta shivered and said nothing, as usual. Grace knitted. Mel appeared to be restraining himself from lunging across the table at Fred's throat. Judy got up and was fixing herself coffee. I started thinking about Tina.

She had been affectionate the past several days. There was cuddling on the couch last night as I watched her favorite crime show with her. There were coy smiles, and gentle caresses for days now - the types of flirting married people tend to do. I had finally fixed the ka-lunk ka-lunk sound from the dryer she had been asking me to take care of for weeks, which made her happy. Our morning 'have a good day' kisses had been longer and more intense than the norm. Today she had sent a text asking for a foot rub when I got home after the meeting. Finally, after four months of there being cold and aching spouse-enforced abstinence since my "affair", tonight was going to be the night - if only I could get out of this never ending, ridiculous meeting and get home.

"The fact is, we can not afford new handrails...." blathered Fred.

"And we also can't afford to do nothing and wait for someone else to get hurt and our insurance rates to skyrocket," I said, stopping Fred in his tracks. "We've talked about this for almost two hours now. It's time for a vote. Mel, second that?"

"I second that," said Mel smugly.

"All in favor of new handrails, raise their hand."

Church by-laws stated my vote was worth two votes. My hand - two, Mel made three. Fred, Roberta, Mae, and Grace meant we had lost, but I still had to continue the formality.

"All opposed to the new handrails raise their hand."

Fred, Roberta, and Mae raised their hands. Grace continued knitting. We all looked at her.

"Grace!" Mae yelled.

"What? What is it?" a surprised Grace asked.

"We're voting," yelled Mae.

Grace adjusted her hearing aids. "What's that?" she asked.

Fred decided to take matters into his own hands. "WE. ARE. VOTING." he yelled.

"Voting on what?" asked Grace, finally able to hear sufficiently.

"We are voting on the situation with the handrails," yelled Fred.

"The handrails? Shit, someone needs to do something about those before someone kills themselves," she said, shaking her head and going back to her knitting.

Fred yelled, "They will cost a lot of money," trying a last attempt.

"Everything costs money. Stop being such a cheap asshole," said Grace, not looking up. "And stop yelling at me, peckerwood."

"The ayes have it, and new handrails it is," I said, standing and putting on my coat. "I have a date with the wife. I wish you all a pleasant evening." And with that, I walked out.

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It felt good to be home. Tina was repapering kitchen cabinets when I walked in, but paused from her work to return a long hug, and exchange a longer than usual kiss - a good sign.

We took the plunge and turned from apartment dwellers to mortgage payers when I got the job as pastor. The home was a modest but massive old colonial in a west side suburb of Cleveland. It being located a ten minute drive from the church saved on the gas and commute time. It had been bank owned, and we picked it up for well below its pre housing crisis value - a lucky thing for us, as men in my profession do not often become wealthy from this line of work. Being an older house, seventy-five years old, actually, meant that there was constantly a repair, adjustment, replacement, or update to attend to. Constantly. This made Tina unsettled, although she tried her best not to complain about it too often, and when she wasn't doing one of the thousand things she did during a day to keep our lives running smoothly, she was doing a project to the house.

The kids were an hour away from bedtime. I sat on the living room floor with them as we built Lego houses and discussed their day until it was time for them to "turn off", as Tina and I liked to call it. The kids weren't babies anymore, Matthew being 11 and Eva being 9, but they still needed some pre-bedtime routine prodding and supervision. I would have done this anyway, but tonight there was the additional motive of giving Tina the extra time to work on her project. Unfinished business left her in a very bad mood, which would not do tonight.

Once the kids were tucked in, I brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas before I went down the stairs to find her. She sat in the living room with her legs stretched out next to her on the couch, one of her crime shows on the t.v. I sat next to her lifting her feet and replacing them on my lap. My fingers began to work their magic. Tina worked an occasional, as-needed part-time job doing inventory. From what she described, the work itself was not difficult, but there was no sitting during a shift. She moaned softly as I rubbed out the soreness, and an erection began to form. This was looking very, very good for me. When my task was complete, I moved closer, and put my arm around her. She snuggled into me, resting her head on my chest just under my chin. Her soft blond hair taunted my senses. I breathed her in and kissed the top of her head. My free left hand caressed her cheek, and descended to gently stroke her breast. She stiffened. My heart sank. I removed my wandering, hopeful hand.

"You really think something is going to happen tonight, don't you?" she said, her tone seething.

"Honey, it's been 4 months. I need to feel close to you...."

"You didn't need to feel "close to me" when you had your affair." She moved her head off my chest. The absence created a cold spot on my body.

"Tina, there was no affair. I was looking at pornography. That's it. You said it upset you. I stopped..." The truth was, I hadn't stopped. Tina couldn't check my church office computer, and many nights, when everyone had gone, I stayed to "finish paperwork" or "work on a sermon". None of the women who filled my screen were ever more beautiful to me than Tina was, but every single one of them wanted me more than she did, which was truthfully never.

She huffed and pushed me away from her. "You don't understand, do you? It wasn't a one time thing. I saw the search history. And it wasn't just pictures either. You were in chat rooms. You were being sexually stimulated by women other than your wife. That's called an affair. And I know you haven't done that since then, but I'm not over this yet. You hurt me, Phillip."

I was trying to control the anger in my voice. "And if it wasn't this so-called affair you've fabricated, it would have been a headache, or you being too worried about a relative, or you pretending to be asleep, or you thinking the kids are still awake at three in the morning, or the windows are open and you think the neighbors can hear, or it's too hot, or it's too cold."

"You're addicted to porn, Phillip. Denial is a part of your disease."

"What disease? Tina, I have never once touched another woman in the eighteen years we've been married. I have never had an affair. There is no porn "addiction"! I looked at some adult pictures, on a computer screen, in the privacy of my own home, when my kids and wife were in bed for the night."

"You have a problem," she countered. "And it's not just me saying this. Everyone in my on-line support group says the same thing."

"Your on-line support group? Oh, I forgot. You can't play the victim without them validating your delusion. Did you happen to mention to them that we had sexual relations a total of four times last year? Does your support group think that's healthy or normal in a marriage, Tina?"

She stood up. "Don't think you're sleeping in our bed tonight," she warned.

"I know I'm not missing out on anything," I retorted. I immediately regretted saying it, yet another part of me was not only glad I had said it, but wished I had screamed it.

Tina got up and stormed up the stairs.

I stomped to the kitchen to see what leftovers were available, the fight playing on a loop in my mind. Why does she do this? She does the affection part of things well enough for me to be hopeful, but then when it comes time for things to progress, nothing happens beyond excuses and arguments. Me being the dumb guy, I fall for it each and every time. I pulled a pan of homemade lasagna out of the fridge. I got a bowl out of the newly papered cabinet, and filled it with a thick, cheesy slice. Tina and I had waited until marriage to have sex, just like good Christian kids were supposed to do. Our wedding night was nothing more than cuddling, which I didn't find too odd until it became three months after the wedding and our marriage had still not been consummated. Around that time I pleaded her into it, but often, I wished I had instead committed the sin of divorce before that point. I covered the bowl with a piece of wax paper, and placed it in the microwave. I set the time, and stood there watching the turntable go around. If we hadn't had remained married, there would be no Matthew and Eva. I couldn't picture my life without the joy my children bring me. The microwave beeped, and I took my meal to the kitchen table. It was delicious, the cheese melting over the sides of the fork, and the spices just right. Here I was, many years later, still pleading. What does a good man do at this point? The 'right thing' didn't pan out for me the first time around; I couldn't help but consider if maybe the 'wrong thing' was what I had to do at this point. But to break up my family, jeopardize my career, destroy Tina, and start over at this point? All because of sexual difficulties? I finished eating and rinsed my plate before putting it in the dishwasher. I stood there leaning against the counter, staring at the faded linoleum floor praying and wishing for guidance. My anger had dissipated into the familiar frustration and sadness I carried in myself quietly at most times.

I walked through the living room and went up the stairs to our bedroom. I sat on the bed next to Tina. I could hear her crying. Tissues littered the carpeting.

"Honey, I love you. We need to be honest with each other and admit there's a problem here."

I could tell by her breathing that she was listening. Finally she said, "I know there is," sniffling.

"I know the porn thing hurt you, Tina, and that's why I stopped, but you need to acknowledge that you're hurting me too. I try to be a good husband to you, and I just don't understand why you don't want me."

I was glad it was so dark. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes.

"I do want you, " she sniffed. "It's just that it's different for women. We don't have the same drive that men do."

"That's not true. It's a false stereotype," I responded gently. "Please, for the sake of me and our marriage, would you at least finally talk to your doctor about this? Maybe there's a hormonal imbalance of some sort." This wasn't the first time I had asked her to do this for us.

"I can do that," she acquiesced. "Please sleep here tonight," she requested, taking my hand into her own.

I got into the bed next to her.

"Can I put my arm around you?" I asked. I could make out her head nodding yes in the darkness.

I wrapped my arm around her, not letting the rest of my body get too close. I didn't want her to feel the hard and desperate need in my pajama pants, the anxiety in my muscles, the frustration in my breath.

"Maybe this weekend," she said quietly.

I sighed.