Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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☾ 1986 Gary, Indiana Word Count: 10.3k
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Every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, I'd sit there, right behind that pulpit, feeling the sweltering heat of the Lord's house pressing down on me. The air would be thick, like molasses, heavy with the sounds of the choir and the steady, booming voice of my father as he preached the Word, our Savior's truth, the very guidance our souls needed. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind would drift away from his teachings. I couldn't focus on salvation, couldn't soak in the sermons. No, I was too deep in thought, too tangled up in my own sinful mind to hear a word being spoken.
My eyes would always find her. That sweet, young thing sitting right there in the pews, every service without fail. She was as fine as they come, her beauty glowing like the morning sun breaking through the stained-glass windows. The kind of beauty that could make a man's heart stutter and his breath catch. But me? I was too much of a coward to even approach her, let alone say a word. I'd practice, over and over, how to speak to her, but whenever I'd get close, the words would tangle up like briars in my throat. Sweat would bead down my back, soaking through my Sunday best, leaving me a trembling, nervous mess.
Sitting behind my father, who preached about sin and salvation, I couldn't help but feel the weight of my own unholy thoughts. I felt like a sinner every time I stepped foot in that church, knowing the things I did behind closed doors. My bedroom walls—God forgive me—were covered in pictures of her. They were the same photos that hung on the church bulletin board, pictures from choir practices and church picnics, but I tore them down, took them home, and hung them like idols on my wall. I'd replace the missing ones with duplicates, triplicates, even more if I had to. There was a part of me that knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't let go of her.
On special Sundays, when the congregation gathered for lunch, and I stayed behind to clean up, I'd find her napkin, stained with that deep red lipstick she wore. I'd slip it into my pocket, carrying it home like a holy relic. Some nights, I'd lay it on my shrine, just another piece of her I could keep close. Other nights, I'd lose control—I'd kiss that napkin, pressing it against my lips, imagining it was hers. And when my sinful desires got the best of me, I'd do worse. I'd wrap that napkin around myself, stroking, pretending it was her lips instead of cloth, until my seed spilled out, soaking into the very fabric that had once touched her mouth.
