"Oh, you've got to go to church with me today," my mother pleaded with me as I groaned and tossed on my bed."Oh, you've got to go to church with me today," my mother pleaded with me as I groaned and tossed on my bed. "We've got a new minister and I'm sure he'll be just a wonderful man." "Oh, all right, ma, all right, I'm getting up." I groused as I dragged my limp, nude body out of my bed and into the bathroom. My mother's voice, now having to go through the bathroom door in addition to the stairs, yelled at me from the kitchen, "Now, wear a nice suit, dear. We don't want Brother Michael to think we're uncouth." "All right, ma, all right." I grumped. I showered, shaved, pulled on that damned suit, and managed to eat some breakfast before we had to go. I hated church, my mother knew that. What a new minister was supposed to do was beyond me. I watched with a pleased fascination from our usual front-row seat as Brother Michael took the pulpit. You know how most ministers for a small town look; either fat and covered with acne, or tall, thin and gangly, also covered with acne. Brother Michael, in a sea of acne, was a vision of clear-faced masculinity. Strong, sharp cheekbones, coal-black hair and the strongest, piercing blue eyes I'd ever seen. His body showed a lifetime of working out, strong round shoulders, his rippling muscles defying their confinement in the harsh black shirt and pants he wore. I had to keep looking at his collar, that square of white at his thick throat, to remind myself not to look at his crotch. Then he stepped from behind the pulpit and perched on the railing; and I was lost. He was sitting right in front of me, his legs spread wide in tight black pants, showing, to me and only me, a bulging basket with a thick rod making a lump down one inseam. Brother Michael definitely "dressed left", and did not wear underwear! I rubbed my own crotch while I feasted on the sight. |