Angol
"Are you here for confession," he asked gesturing towards the large, heavy wooded confessionals. The wood was ornately carved and gave a sense of privacy but also unrelenting enclosure.
I bit my lip and looked at him nervously. He appeared to be in his mid 40's or so. He had thick, black, wavy hair with hints of grey filtering in around his ears. He wore thin silver wired glasses... the kind that almost disappeared on one's face. He was in the customary all black, but had on a thick black cable knit sweater with a zipper collar. It was unzipped at the neck to show a hint of the white clerical collar beneath. I couldn't help but notice how well fitting his priestly garb was. I groaned inwardly. I was as fallen as the angel painted on the ceiling. Why was I standing here appreciating the fit of his clergy uniform? More awful... why was I imagining what his neck would taste like beneath my lips. Why was I imagining licking the slightly stubbled skin just above that square swatch of white?
