She was sitting in the front pew, next to her husband. She might have been about thirty-five years old. She was wearing a decent costume – a decent knee-length skirt, a white blouse and a delicately pleated jacket. Her hair was tied up in a bun, but a few strands fell over her cheeks. A typical churchgoing lady, and yet she was different. There was something in her eyes that immediately stabbed me in the heart and groin.

I was only eighteen then. New to this church, the first Mass since we moved. I was reading the first Gospel—my voice was deep, slow, calm. The words flowed, and I looked at the people for once. And then I felt her. Her eyes. Directly at me.

The next Sunday she was sitting there again. In the exact same spot. She had been watching me since the beginning of Mass. As I went to read, I noticed her cross one leg over the other. Her skirt had risen higher, showing me a bit of her thighs—firm, femininely shaped, with the soft sheen of stockings. A simple movement for some, a clear signal for me. She was looking at me with a smile in the corner of her mouth, and I had the feeling that in the crowded church she was clutching her thighs to hide her own excitement.

She was in church …

I read, I put all my passion into words, and I saw her gently move in the pew. Her lips were parted, her breathing quickened. Her cheeks were flushed. And I knew that those movements were not accidental.

The third Sunday. I was already looking forward to Mass more for her than for the word of God. She sat there, ready, her gaze devouring me even before the first reading was heard. I felt as if she were exposing me with her eyes. Her mouth—slightly shiny with lipstick—was opening as if she wanted to say my name quietly. Her breasts were rising in a faster rhythm. Under her blouse, full, firm shapes were outlined that I would have liked to take in my hands.

I stood next to the priest during communion, holding a tray. The line of people moved slowly and she came. She did not look at the host, she did not look at the priest. She was looking straight at me—in the eyes, at my lips. Her gaze was hungry, burning. As she passed, I could smell her perfume—slightly sweet, feminine, intoxicating. As she walked back to her seat, she discreetly slipped something into the pocket of my cassock.

I had trouble breathing for the rest of the mass. My body was burning, my heart was beating like a bell. When the mass was over, I ran to the sacristy. There, hidden from everyone, I pulled the little piece of paper from my pocket. And on it—in her hand—was a phone number.

I held the piece of paper and it felt like it was burning. I saw her moist lips, her crossed thighs, her breathing. I knew this was just the beginning.