Holy Roller

Part 1: Ruthie's Treats

“Another beer, Father?”

I smile, kindly nodding to Roger as he quickly grabs a glass, positioning it under the tap, and pour and bubble to the rim. He slides it to me as I reach for my wallet, and as per usual, Roger waves me off. He always insists that a young man in my position that has vowed to a life of chastity and poverty deserves some charity. Free booze? I'll take it. But I never want to take advantage of the generosity. Especially when it's the only bar in town. 

I've been coming here since I moved here straight from seminary last year to serve as the priest in a small town parish. I was moving into the parsonage when Roger and his wife stopped to introduce themselves, which included an invite to his bar. He's a regular church attendee, and I guess you could say I'm a regular attendee to his bar after the prayer meetings I host on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

Now, I know what you're thinking: a holy man in a bar? Doesn't that go against your beliefs? Eh, no, not exactly. Anything in excess is a sin, of course, but simply drinking alcohol is not. Even Jesus's first miracle was water into wine.

Also, Roger's bar is nothing like Bourbon Street or the Vegas strip. It's basically the town watering hole, a place to catch up on news and gossip.

Dropping off a few more drinks, Roger retrieves a plate from his display case that holds the most gluttonous looking chocolate cupcake I have ever seen.

Trying to be stealthy, he shoves the cupcake under my nose, offering it to me. And man, this thing is the size of a softball with more layers of icing on top than cake.

“New bakery on Main Street just opened. The owner–cute little thing–gave me 2 dozen of these babies this morning, and I have one with your name on it.”

I smile. “Thanks, Rog, but I'm good.”

“You have to at least taste it! They are sinful.”

“Even more reason to stay away,” I joke. 

Roger gives me a wink, sliding a fork towards me. He moves on to serve another patron, leaving me with the damn thing.

I raise an eyebrow, staring at the beautifully constructed wolf in sheep's clothing. The intoxicating aroma flirts with my senses like an evil Jezebel. The piping of dark chocolate mock my willpower. It's only desire is to make me gratify my flesh, leading me astray as I slip down the path of unrighteousness.

And my dick twitches.

Goddammit.

“Guide me away from temptation and doing evil,” I quietly pray the Psalm as I touch my perfectly sculpted abs underneath my shirt, prompting me to push the abomination away.

It goes without saying: priests are humans too. We very much face temptation, just like Jesus in the wilderness.

My vice? Sugar. My affinity for it is primal. The simple act of tasting it after so long is a euphoric, almost a sexual experience for me. Like a crack addict getting a hit. I know that once I start eating, I won't be able to stop.

Up until I was 16, I was morbidly obese. I was this 5-foot 10-inch awkward band nerd that weighed over 350 pounds. My mother lovingly put me on so many diets growing up–none of which worked.

One day, my priest recommended I read about St. Damian, a monk who believed that good physical discipline helped you obtain godliness, and thus, he would use mortification through self flagellation.

So that's what I did. No, I didn't flog myself or beat myself with a rod like an 11th century monk. But I did work out. A lot. When I was tempted by sugar, I exhausted myself in the gym. If I gave into temptation even the least bit, I would break my body in the gym. I only allowed myself to eat things like grilled chicken and steamed broccoli. In a little over a year, I had dropped down to 175 pounds, my body finally settling between 185 to 190 now that I've gained some muscle. I turned into a different man. I traded my shyness for confidence.