The Son of A Preacher Man.

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I don't know why I come here anymore. My naively religious parents are sitting upright, straight backed like they're nailed to a pole that's holding them that way. My sisters are twiddling their thumbs, bored out of their brains. Eva is a spitting image of mom, or pretending to be, but Lillian is playing with her doll beside me on the floor. Mom hasn't noticed yet but when she does, Lill is going to get scolded. I'll likely just laugh and get in trouble too, by my dad and by Father John who will just stare at me until he thinks I've endured enough of his 'wrath'.

I should've stopped coming here six months ago after I left for college. I should be enough of a rebel now to have the confidence to tell my parents where to shove their Sunday services. Alas, there is one reason why my gay ass is back here on God's holy ground. The reason is standing beside Father John; is standing next to his father, Father John.

Bronze, golden eyed, Benaiah. Ben. He's in a white gown with a bible open in his palm. He's mouthing the words to his Father's sermon. It's not like he's not religious, but he completely strays from the words that his daddy speaks.
Little does the homo-scared (homophobia totally isn't a thing; you can't be scared of dudes just for liking dick, so homo-scared is suitable) preacher know how special I made his son feel in the confessional that day, robe and all. Father John doesn't know that even as Ben mouths the words to this sermon, he keeps glancing up at me anxiously. 

We didn't exactly date, and we didn't exactly end things either. I just left for college and he stayed to practice religion, following in his Father's footsteps. I think he went to Rome, or wherever, for a few months, wherever the truly religious go. Yeah, Rome, I think. That's where the Pope is, right? Sorry Mom.

I have my phone tucked between my leg and Lillian's empty seat beside me. I'm a professional typist. I can text with one hand without looking. I text Ben.

The thoughts I have about you right now in your little cloak.. I've never felt more unholy. Instead of calling you Father, can I call you Daddy?

I'm teasing and it's completely selfish. It's just for my own amusement. I don't really care because the satisfaction I get when Ben's phone buzzes in his pocket beneath the gown is enough.
He jolts slightly, ignores it for a second, then shoots his eyes at me.
I smirk. He tries to ignore it and the pleasure is all mine. I love watching him squirm. I love watching him through the rest of the service, desperate to see what I've said. But by the time the service is finished and he ducks out the back to check the phone, I've had my fun. I'm over it already.

I'll meet you when you're out of the church. Come to the back door. He messages me.

I've already gotten to the car. I make a point of slamming the door and grinning with satisfaction in the back seat of Mom's Buick Enclave.

Maybe next time.

Making the Preacher's son sin is a favourite hobby of mine, but damn, I've already made my confession for this year.
Hell, that's where I'll be going if I keep fucking one of God's holy Sons, deflowering his good boys.
Well, Hail Satan, I guess, because God, I love me a man in uniform.