Some people might find this story offensive, but it is actually based on true events. People sometimes forget that nuns are human too. These days many of them leave a celibate life and start another life. This is one woman's story.
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I was a nun for 12 years before I finally left and discovered my true self -- my true sexual self. I was raised Catholic and pushed into religious life from a young age by my strict Catholic parents. I went to Mass and attended parochial schools my whole life. I never had a real date -- only a quick kiss from a boy after he walked me home from a dance -- a 15 second peck on the lips, no tongue. By the time I graduated from St. Margaret's H.S. Academy, it was pretty well decided I'd become a nun. My teachers wanted it. My parents wanted it. I am not sure I ever really wanted to, but by junior year I had convinced myself that what my parents wanted for me was what I wanted too.
In the convent, I took college classes and studied hard since there wasn't much else to do except pray. I never really bonded closely to my fellow sisters, so it was a solitary life with a lot of alone time, but I kind of liked it. Still, I often longed to be out in the world, working in the Inner City and doing social work -- doing God's work with the poor.
By the time I took my final vows, I had a BA with a double major in religious studies and social work. My first assignments were brief -- a school, a nursing home, and a day care center. But what I wanted to do was work in the city parishes of downtown Detroit and I finally got my wish. My order is fairly modern and we didn't wear habits -- just conservative street clothes and a large gold cross around the neck.
St Andrew's was a small, run-down church that had once been a busy parish but was now 1/3 full on Sundays and had a leaky roof and a broken pipe organ. In fact, we didn't even have our own priest. Father Murphy covered three parishes. He was based at St. James but said two masses at St. Andrew's -- Saturday evening and Sunday morning. The rest of the time, the elderly Black parishioners on the Church Council ran everything, and I was assigned to be their special minister.
The Chairperson of the Council was an 82 year-old woman -- a nice lady but a weak leader, so I found myself practically running the Church singlehandedly, chairing several committees, and doing all the bill-paying and bookkeeping myself. I was only 24 and ran prayer groups, helped at Mass and other services, visited the sick and elderly, etc. People started to think of me as the pastor, even though I had no such rank or authority.
Part of my duties was overseeing maintenance in that leaky old building. When our old African-American janitor died, I was pleased that his 25-year old son asked to take over the job. I happily agreed, even though it was well known he'd had a colorful juvenile arrest record and had been fighting off bouts of alcohol abuse. Like his father, Jeb was a good worker and was good at fixing things. But he had a tendency to fall off the wagon and start drinking if nobody kept an eye on him. I made a point of giving him close supervision. He was charming and we became fast friends. And I admit, I didn't mind seeing him labor around the church. He often worked shirtless on hot days, and the shiny black skin covering his well-chiseled and heavily-muscled upper body glistened in the sunlight. I tried not to stare, but it was beautiful and it seemed harmless enough to sneak a glance at his chest -- after all, his body was a work of God, right?
One night, I was locking up and saw the mop and bucket still in the main aisle of the church with the floor unfinished. I went looking for Jeb and saw light coming from under the door of the maintenance shop/storage room. I suspected he was drinking again and burst in. Jeb was there all right, and he had been drinking. But what I hadn't expected was to see him sitting back, reclined against some large boxes of toilet tissue, with his denims at his knees and his fist wrapped around his erection. He quickly covered himself with a magazine he was holding in his other hand -- one with pictures of naked women on the cover. Embarrassed even more than he was, I exited quickly. He slipped out the back way and I finished mopping the floor myself.
The next day he came to the church office and apologized, asking for forgiveness, and promising he would go back to the AA meetings. I sat him down and talked with him. He sounded legitimately sincere and contrite, so I sent him back to work. I mention this because from that moment on, every time I laid eyes on Jeb, all I could think of was the vision of him and his large erection. No matter how much I prayed to God for forgiveness for thinking evil thoughts, they never went away. Jeb was a constant reminder of my vows to sacrifice sex forever and to never let it be part of my life.
I counseled Jeb many times, helping him work through his alcoholism. I supervised his work closely to make sure he didn't backslide. But still, even after 3 months, I couldn't look at his face without thinking about his penis. It was the only man's penis I had ever seen, and its dark skin, veiny shaft, and pinkish knob on top took me completely by surprise. I had thought men's penises looked like the line drawing I had once seen in a biology book that showed a short, downward curving hose-like structure with a triangular nozzle at the end. I knew men had them for urinating, but -- to show how naive I was then -- it had never occurred to me that it would look so large and different when the man was aroused. I couldn't stop thinking about it and began to worry if my chosen vocation was really such a good idea. If I was so obsessed with sex, should I still be a nun?
I loved my work in the parish. And, happily, the parishioners -- most of whom were quite old -- seemed to love me. I enjoyed the work, but began to long for the life of a wife and mother, like the people I saw in the outside world. Father Murphy was of little help, and I didn't dare tell him of my obsession with our janitor's erect penis.
I tried denial, but in hindsight, denial only got me into deeper trouble. Jeb and I spent a lot of time together, talking, counseling, as well as work supervision. We grew closer as friends, and my denial of my feelings, made it possible for intimacy to grow between us.
Jeb called in sick one day, leaving a voice mail, which didn't raise any concerns. But late that night, I heard the sounds of someone stumbling around in the church foyer around 9 pm. I investigated carefully. I found Jeb, and I could smell the booze on his breath from six feet away. He was drunk and singing loudly, and almost falling down with each unsteady step. I rushed over, put one of his arms around me and helped him to the church office and let him collapse into a chair.
I tried to talk to him but he was far too drunk to be either coherent or remorseful. Remorse might have to wait until the morning. I let him dry out awhile, knowing he was in no shape to walk home. When he said he wanted to leave, I kept him seated, and kept him talking to me. But finally he got up and announced he was walking home. I didn't want to see him stumble into the road in front of an oncoming car, so when he began to stumble out, I rushed over and caught him as he began to tip over. We ended up in an embrace with my face pressed into his throat.
"Thizzz izzz nice," he slurred.
I looked up at him and before I knew what happened, he was kissing me. For a few long sinful seconds, I kissed him back, but then caught myself and let him fall back into the chair.
"I gotta be goin'" he said as he stood up again and began to tip over.
Once again, I grabbed him, and I found our lips locked in a kiss. This time, I let the kiss linger for a few moments, and even let him push his tongue into my mouth. I pulled away when I felt one of his hands grab my breast. I blame myself. He was drunk, but I was sober and should have known better. I guess I was weak, and fell victim to our intimate friendship, his neediness and my repressed sexual desires.
