My Affair with a Pastor

My Affair with a Pastor

I never wanted to be a woman with a secret, the woman who would be forced to wear the famous scarlet letter if found out. I was a devoted follower and was in church every week, I sang in the choir and helped at church events. He was the pastor, married, and revered. Maybe it was all that time I was at church, because that’s when our gazes would hold for just a second longer than they should have. This is my affair with a pastor confession. This isn’t to brag but to tell the truth, how we are all human and desires can slip in the cracks of faith.

It began in good faith, as most things do.

Conversations after choir practice stretched long into the evening. His council became warm and personal, almost intimate. When I talked, he listened, making me feel seen and not judged. I told myself that the attention he gave was him being a good shepherd, not a sign that there was more behind that smile, I told myself it wasn’t dangerous. I was lying to myself then to everyone else.

The church office was quiet in the afternoons. It was a good time to talk, to share uninterrupted. We talked about the loneliness even inside a marriage, about our purpose in faith, and we talked about how easy it can become to put on the expected face even when our heart yearns for something else. We never crossed that line, not in words, not at first. The spaces in between grew heavier, though, and the space between us became smaller. The idea of an affair with my pastor began to grow.

I noticed the way he held himself strong, his hands practiced in blessings. When he reached to pray with me, his touch lingered a little long, his thumb gliding over my wrist. My body started to respond before my brain could catch up. I would go home restless. My nights were filled with thoughts of him and his touches, as  I touched myself.

The first time we acknowledged this affair with my pastor, it wasn’t with a kiss.

It was with a look, a look that conveyed I feel this too. The moment I understood the connection was mutual, those embers burst into flames. Our meetings became charged but not rushed. Our desire unfolding piece by piece, daring the universe to stop us, maybe a few prayers in there too.

When the physical line was crossed, it happened softly at first. The door closed, a breath was held. It was late, and we were alone. His hand brushed my waist, and the flames erupted. I needed him, and I took him. His lips met mine urgently and passionately. Our hands had no boundaries. Our clothes came off, and our mouths explored and then we followed the flames down.

The headline “Pastor’s Affair” echoed in my head like a warning bell I kept choosing to ignore. I was aware of the wrongness, the line we had crossed. He was married, and he was our spiritual leader. My guilt ate at me, but the desire was always stronger. We stole as many moments as we could. It was dangerous and powerful to be wanted by the one who should have been untouchable.

My affair with a pastor made he hated, but it also thrilled me to the core.

We became experts at the secrets and the stolen moments. Desire can be a sanctuary but also a mirror. I was complicit and craving, awake in ways I hadn’t been before. This affair with a pastor didn’t end with a big confession, just a realization that this fire would burn the whole house down if we let it.

I had told myself it was love, but I walked away anyway. My heart ached, but I also knew that the love wasn’t mine to keep. It was promised to another and a greater path long before we met. This affair with my pastor taught me that longing doesn’t care about titles or vows but whether you are willing to cross those lines.

If you would like to hear all the naughty details of how we crossed that line or some hot steamy tales on my long distance romance give me a call! I’m your perfect fantasy girl!

Call Mya 1-800-244-0699