We made out on the lawn in front of the building that held Mother Cabrini’s relics, and I couldn’t help but think that she might be able to see us – she is a saint after all – and it felt dirty and thrilling all at once.“What, have dinner? ” I picked a powder blue shade the color of the Virgin Mary’s robes.Standing at the Mc Donald’s counter, Patrick looked like a sad puppy in a windbreaker. Insert all of the usual excuses here: he didn’t love her, she didn’t understand him. All I did know was that this wasn’t the first time I’d been a nice Christian guy’s side-piece. But before going all Jodi Arias on him, I swung out of the booth and walked out with some of my pride intact. During my tenure on Christian Mingle, I didn’t meet any saintly superheroes, just normal guys with lots of problems: a mega-church lay leader who confessed to me that years ago, he'd done porn; a pilot who quoted scripture as much as he prompted me for chat-window sex; an entrepreneur who confessed that he was horrified after being "tricked" into falling for a transgender woman.As we walked, he opened up, admitting that he occasionally still worked with his ex-wife, whom he met while studying in Mexico City.I imagined a sun-bronzed goddess in an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse.He was handsome, wore glasses, was going slightly gray, and edged a little on the nerdy side: perfect.I was a 33-year-old Lutheran deacon-in-training trying to convince myself I didn’t want to have sex with him, even though I did.I was convinced that God was keeping a tally of my sexual indiscretions and punishing me for them.
“You’re accent is superb,” he said.“Thank you,” I said, flattered.“That’s a little promise I made between me and God.After the divorce I bought this ring in a junk shop, and told God that I wouldn’t take it off until I found the right woman.” I wanted to reach out, hug him, and tell him I understood.A pastor’s daughter, my upbringing included the strict moral code of “no sex before marriage.” This code was promptly discarded in my teenage years, when I learned, all too painfully, why my parents had tried to protect me from being prematurely thrust into the turmoil of physical intimacy.
In my late twenties, my live-in boyfriend dumped me and kicked me out of his apartment.
We agreed to meet again a few nights later, and took a walk around his neighborhood in Washington Heights. I had been alone for a long time and I was looking to intertwine limbs with someone soon. It wasn’t long before the dreaded text message came.