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1 John 2: 15-16: “Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.
“For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.”
Malthus slammed the door of his quarters behind him, out of breath from running all the way to the convent from the ill-timed riot… and from Hilda. Taking the wrapped shoe from his cassock, he dropped it onto the dresser before stumbling away, and looked up at the crucifix on his wall. His hands shook, and his body felt warm. He could not stop thinking of the kiss…
“It was so sudden.” He looked up at the cross, at the carved image of Christ. “I didn’t have time to think, and everything was—”
He’d thought the world had been ending, with the smoke and the people running and shouting. And, seemingly out of nowhere, Hilda had appeared in his arms, and he felt his heart thump in his chest not only from adrenaline but the closeness of her. He paced his room, feeling strangely restless even after his run. His breath escaped him in shaky gasps and he turned back to the cross, fixing his eyes upon Jesus’ image, trying to keep himself steady.
“I was scared,” he whispered, as if in confession. “And I kissed her.”
Upon admitting it, he was overtaken by a wave of heat, so strong it bowed him over, and he placed his hands on the altar, leaning his sweaty forehead on them.
“I kissed her,” he whispered again. Even if he tried to will the memory away, recall the danger he had just escaped, the memory of her lips pressed against his took over every time.
He remembered exactly how she looked at him when he caught her, the way her blue-grey eyes widened when she found herself in his arms. As he rested his head on his arms, he could even smell her perfume on the sleeve of his cassock, the sweet and maddening scent of lily-of-the-valley. Exhaling harshly, he let his arms drop from the altar, turning towards the small mirror he kept on his wall, staring at his haggard reflection.
He had never been so aware of his own body before, not like this. Every nerve had been set alight; over and over, he remembered how she looked into his eyes, then at his lips, pulled towards him as if by a string; how she put her arms around his neck and pressed their lips together.
That had been his first kiss. Before that, he had only ever received kisses from his mother, or from some of the ladies at church, when he was younger. Of course, none of those had been like this kiss. Hilda's lips had been soft and warm, and she had a unique taste, sweet and musky. Her hair had smelled of spring, which had filled his senses despite the smoke that drifted around them in that chaotic place, where it felt like the end of the world. Her eyes, when she looked at him, had been the color of the sky with a storm about to break.
Most of all, he could not forget the way she kissed him: there was something demanding in it, thirsty, as if the most precious drop of water lay behind his lips. But water was the last thing he was. Her kiss had set him aflame, ignited sensations in him he didn't even know he could feel. Even now, after he had left her, the feeling of holding her in his arms lingered, as did the sweet lily scent of her skin. And the look on her face, as if she had momentarily been transported to Paradise, after they had pulled apart… Suddenly, he remembered a part of the prayer he recited every morning as he got dressed:
Lord,
You have set your sign upon my head that I should admit no lover but you.
Amen.
He felt hot. He pulled his white capuce over his head, followed by the long scapular that covered his tunic. He could only compare the heat beneath his skin to a fever, but it was wholly different; he had never felt quite like this when he had taken ill. He couldn't describe it, but somehow, he could no longer bear to feel all the layers of cloth on his skin. It had never bothered him before. He had only ever felt from his heart to his head, but as he gazed at his expression in the mirror, he thought something must have changed somehow.
He reached down to unbuckle the black cincture around his waist, dropping it along with his rosary on top of his discarded clothing before pulling his tunic over his head.
Even stripped down to his last layer of clothing, his body felt heavy, his garments tight. The heat had not abated. He took his shirt off, looking at his bare chest for the first time in a long while.
He still looked the same, even if he felt so different. The same slope of his shoulders, the muscle he had built. There was hair on his chest and down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
His core ached. It felt as though there were a beast trapped beneath his skin, chomping at the bit for release. His breaths were coming ragged, now, as he stared at his reflection, red-eyed, chest heaving, before looking down.
Swallowing, he reached down to unbutton his pants. His hands shook as he uncovered the one part of himself that he fervently ignored.
Here was where the heat was hottest; where flames dripped down his spine and licked up his legs to meet in the middle. Here was the problem that he found difficult to ignore: in the past, he would keep his hands away from his thighs, bathe in cold water and indulge in the jabuticaba jam he always kept a jar of in his room. Now, the sensation was stronger than it had ever been, fanned from flame into an inferno by the touch of Hilda’s lips, her hands; the memory of her dancing with him in the heart of the red-light district that one night during Carnaval, dressed in a revealing costume that so tempted him to touch…
He let his pants slide down his unsteady legs and fall to the floor. Fully nude, he stared at himself in the mirror, a sheen of sweat on his skin and a feral look in his eyes. A deep ache was beginning to build up in him, not painful but needy, desperate for touch. No wintry baths or jars of jam could save him now.
Do not take your shirt off in the shower, for it is a sin. God can see everything you do and think.
He had never read these words in the Bible, but he heard them in Father Nelson’s voice. When he had been an altar boy, this lesson was ingrained into them every bath time, as they went in line to the showers. Back then, he hadn’t known why or how it could be sinful to simply wash one’s own body. Now, he understood.
Feeling like a man possessed, he grasped at his chest, feeling his hammering heart, before slowly sliding it down his body. He thought of Hilda’s hands in his own, smaller than his, with soft smooth skin that could soothe him with her touch. He remembered her shoe, hidden beneath layers of cloth like a shameful thing, with its heel and glittering black stones. Her favorite shoe.
Looking at it reminded him of her. Sometimes, during his evening prayers, he found his eyes drifting away from the cross and to the shoe as he knelt, hands clasped, and he felt like he loved the world more than he loved God. He would look at it and imagine her slender calves, her soft thighs under the wide skirts of the dresses she loved to wear. They were exquisite when she moved, drawing the eye to those shapely hips, her slender waist. Now, such imaginings were enriched by that night during Carnaval, when she was not Hilda Hurricane and he was not a Saint, but simply a man and a woman, dancing together. By that morning, when her arms were around his neck and her lips were on his, and he had kissed her back, and she had liked it. The expression she wore afterwards was like a work of art: it reminded him of the images of Saint Teresa, an angel standing over her with his spear in hand, its tip penetrating her body, driving her to a state of ecstasy.
A soft gasp left his throat as he felt the heat of his palm. He was hard, harder than he had ever been before, and he bit his lip as he watched his body in the mirror. Never before had he seen himself like this, so exposed, so vulgar. It almost felt like his body was not his own, because he could not stop. Even just the memory of her touch and her kiss was enough to bring his immaculate restraint to its knees, closing his hand in a loose fist, sighing shakily at the tiniest bit of relief from the fire raging in his veins. It was almost too good, the friction, his body paying too much attention to the grip of his hand and the lingering taste of Hilda’s lips. The flesh in his hand was warm, the skin slick and velvety as he stiffened in his grasp, his movements clumsy and unpracticed. The old daydream he had fantasized about—his reward, her hotel room, ropes around his wrists—suddenly burst into being in his mind’s eye, and he had to stifle a moan as he felt the tension in his gut build and build.
He felt weak, dizzy with desire. He was getting close, but he wasn’t there yet. All his reason seemed to have drained from his body the moment she kissed him; he was going mad, insane with a thirst water could not quench. He needed to keep going, he needed her to kiss him again, he needed her.
Choking back another moan, he squeezed his eyes closed as his legs shook. Stumbling backward, he bumped into the table, leaning his weight on it. As his pleasure climbed, he heard once again the lesson from when he was a boy, that idle hands and idle thoughts were the devil’s playthings. And none but Hilda could be the devil that currently possessed him, who led him to defile his body and compromise his soul.
With a hastily muffled shout, he peaked, spilling guiltily into his palm, dripping down his knuckles and the tops of his thighs.
Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes again. They were red and wet, his skin sweaty. There, in his hand, was the evidence of his profanity and the sin he had committed against his body, which was the temple of God, sacred. More than his actions, God must have seen his thoughts, the unspeakable acts he wished to commit to Hilda, to himself. How badly he wanted to get on his knees for something other than prayer, worship something other than God.
His blurry gaze found the crucifix in the mirror, Jesus’ head bowed in suffering. A soft sob escaped his lips.
“Forgive me,” he whispered hoarsely. He had disrespected God, Jesus, himself. “Forgive me.”
He could not stay standing any longer. Sinking to his knees on the wooden floor, he grabbed his discarded shirt, hiding his shame. He was shaking, his soul flayed and raw, playing right into her twisted game.