Foremost, a Man

The Reverend Gregory Thompson is awake. As he does every night the Reverend stares through the encapsulating blackness without acknowledging it's presence around him. Instead, he peers through it with a tunnel-like vision, gazing beyond it to where a singular, technicolor memory plays on it's other side, a memory that shines beacon-like, carrying him back 40 years, back to the day when it became obvious to him that his wants and desires must be stashed away in the deepest depths of his mind lest they derail it all; his future, his mission, his eternity. Those wants and desires had been hidden away his entire life, it should be noted, but for one April afternoon; that one indelible, and undeniable, Sunday in Miami.

Like it was yesterday The Reverend recalled how the clerical collar had scratched the razor burn on his neck as he roasted hatless beneath the tropical sun. He recalled the children in swimsuits and flip-flops giving him a wide berth, as though he was begging for money, rather than trying to help them... to save them, even. He remembered the colorful, frozen cocktails the women carried down the boardwalk at one o’clock in the afternoon, and how they avoided his eyes as they passed him by. His cheeks burned as he recalled the way the more muscular men’s eyes warned him away before he even spoke to them. Moreover, there were those others, the ones who politely accepted a prayer card only to drop it to the sun bleached boardwalk once safely past the “crazy preacher man.”

But then "she" was there, slicing through the tourist throngs as she had that day so long ago, just as she had every night since, smiling as she approached. He took note of her straight white teeth, and the way the buttons of her blouse strained to contain her toasted brown skin, as though she were overripe, and in need of peeling. “Jou are too hot, mi Predicador," she had purred. "Come... I cool jou.”

She had taken his hand in hers, pressing it to her side as her tiny, bare feet drew him to a dark cantina where she leaned toward him across a table for two while a leathery old man with compassionate eyes poured iced sangria from a metal pitcher into tall glasses. From above the table an ancient ceiling fan sighed down it's own delicious coolness upon his soaked shirt, and perspiring skin. Her pink lips had cooed kindly sounds at him as if to engage a child, whispering nonsensical words while he slouched in his seat, the sun having drained him of energy. He drank the sweet wine she held to his lips, and bit into the orange and lemon slices rendered him from her delicate fingers. Those slices had been sweeter even than the wine, and had burst sugary syrups when punctured by his teeth. The same dainty fingers had been quick to wipe the stray juices from the corners of his mouth, and slow to linger there after, as if tempted to enter.

He had never learned her name, yet she was still with him these forty years later. He remembered her eyes; the way they had never left his, and the way the tiny beads of sweat like bubbles had formed on her upper lip. He recalled the wooden banana crates stacked haphazardly against the back wall and ready to tumble, and how the smell of frying tortillas had complimented the sounds of happy laughter from the outside sidewalk. He remembered like yesterday the waves of desire, guilt, and inebriation that did battle for his awareness. He remembered how his heart raced in a way it never had before, leaving his head light, and his groin heavy. He remembered the desperate urge to get away, and the even stronger urge to stay, but mostly he remembered the bare foot that found it's way up to his lap under the table, it's toes kneading him, massaging away any remaining resolve.

He remembered more wine, and a dark, narrow stairway with loose, creaking steps. He remembered rounded, swaying hips barely concealed by a worn, cotton skirt. He remembered eager eyes turning to ensure he was still following, their excitement feeding his. He remembered a dimly lit room with dust hanging in the valance. He remembered soft lips, and a beckoning tongue. He remembered pressing his own lips tight to keep the tongue out, but it had pried, and probed, before slithering serpent-like inside. He recalled dueling with it before succumbing, whipping and lashing it with heavy breaths.

And he remembered the way her bare skin felt against his, cool and soft... how the darkness of it had contrasted with the pale of his own. He had absorbed her smells of perspiration, and her woman’s cassolette, exhaling them reluctantly. He recalled with a thundering pulse the way her nipples had caressed his thighs, and his chest, and he recalled bursting directly before he died.

He had awakened from death that day on a beach bathed under a tangerine twilight; shoeless, wallet-less, with even his clerical collar gone... but those things were of little matter. Couples walking the beach, lovers holding hands had looked upon him without approaching; curious people, perhaps even concerned people. He had sulked past them to the water where he tried to wash away the smells, the feels, and the sins, only to discover the earthly limits of what sand and saltwater had the ability to scrub away.

Forty years later they still lingered in the dark of night, those sins and sensations. Forty years later her breasts still caressed his skin, and her tongue still probed his lips, desperate for a way inside. She might have been a devil, that woman, but Reverend Thompson would have sworn she was an angel, his angel, an angel who showed him what it was to be a man. He remembered her lessons well, every night of his life, as they were lessons he hoped never to forget.

Yes, he would remember. Even when he was called home the Reverend Thompson would remember. His faith assured him that he would remember, a faith every bit as strong as the one he had in his God, and in another life after this one. The Reverend Thompson needed to believe that love was forever, both when he was a man and when he was not, and so he prayed each night to his loving, eternal God before invoking his secret, sacred memories of a sinful, earthly love.