Chapter 1

I was brought up by parents who are devoted Catholics, and religion has consistently been an integral part of my life. Going to Sunday Mass was mandatory, and our Sunday ritual would always be the same. My mom was not a morning person, so we always attended the 11:00 a.m. service. We lived twenty minutes from our church, so at 10:30 a.m., my dad would be prepared to leave. He would get in the car and wait for the rest of the family to join him. A few minutes later, my brother and I got into the car. Of course, my mom wasn’t ready yet, so the three of us sat in the car and waited.

My dad started to get impatient after waiting for five minutes. “I just can’t understand why your mom is late. She knows that Mass starts at eleven. She knows it takes twenty minutes to get there. Why can’t she be ready on time?”

Sitting in the back seat, my brother and I would not speak. We knew better. We would look at each other and try not to laugh. Of course, I knew why my mom was late and my dad was on time. All you had to do was look at their morning routines. My dad got up, took a five-minute shower, brushed his teeth, and shaved. After grabbing the first pair of pants in the closet that were not on the floor, he would find the shirt my mom picked out the night before. After putting on his socks and shoes, he was ready to leave.

My mom’s shower was at least twenty minutes long because shaving her legs was socially obligatory. Not only did she cleanse her hair, but she also conditioned it every time. Then, there was blow-drying and styling. Moisturizing her arms and legs was done before getting dressed. Even though she chose what to wear the night before, she still had to find the perfect pair of shoes and matching accessories. Oh wait, I forgot to tell you about applying the dreaded makeup.

The moment my mom would get to the car, my dad would inform her, “It is ten-forty-five, and we will be late.”

“God understands,” my mom always responded. Then she would add, “Shut up and drive, dear.”

We always arrived at church while the congregation was chanting the opening hymn. The church would be filled to capacity, and our family would have to squeeze into a back pew. My mother would immediately pick up the hymnal and try to find the right song. My brother and dad could not sing if their life depended on it, so they just stood and moved their lips. I was in the junior high choir, so my mom expected me to sing along with her. I would lift my hands and sing hymns to an unseen savior who was all-knowing and all-hearing.

The sound of the church pipe organ would be one of my most vivid memories, not the hymns. The organ was at the back of the church above the church entrance. A wall of sound filled the church as the organist began to play. The sound grew until the stained-glass windows appeared to be vibrating. God’s voice could be heard just before the choir started to sing.

At the start of the first hymn, the priest and altar boys would enter from the back of the church. Most times, our family missed that part. On the rare occasion that we arrived before the priest, my favorite thing to do was guess which priest would offer our service. There were three priests and a pastor in our parish. I always hoped Father O’Callahan offered the 11:00 a.m. service.

I have known Father O’Callahan since I was eight. The priest came to our parish as I was preparing to receive my first Holy Communion. For all non-Catholic readers, take my word for it. It’s a big deal. After weeks of preparation, I, along with twenty-four kids from my catechism class, attended a special mass. The dress I wore was all white, and I wore a tiara veil on top.

The day before, I received my first confession, so my soul could be pure. All twenty-five kids marched to our church, and we waited in the pews until it was our turn to enter the confessional booth. Our church is incredibly old. In the back, along the side wall, there are four wooden confessional booths. Each booth has three compartments. The center compartment is where the priest sits. On each side, a person would enter the booth and confess their sins to the priest. A latticed opening hides the priest. It is my guess that it is supposed to make it easier for a sinner to tell a stranger all their sins.

To be honest, I don’t remember what I confessed my first time. I was eight years old. What sins could I have possibly committed? I did some research for this story, and here are some examples of children’s sins: being rude or sassy to my parents, complaining about chores, and being disrespectful to teachers. Yes, I did all of those, but are they really sins?

I clearly remember Father O’Callahan. He had just graduated from seminary school, and our parish was his first assignment. After four years of college and four more years of seminary school, he was ready to spread the good word of God. What better way to do that than hear confessions from an eight-year-old? I also remember being extremely nervous. For weeks, I had been memorizing what to say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

After nervously fumbling my opening prayer, Father O’Callahan said, “My child, do not be nervous. God is kind. God is lenient. Whatever sins you want to confess, God will forgive you.”

That was a relief. His voice was rich and warm. I was certain the priest was not here to judge me. I was ready to tell him my sins. I ended by saying, “I am sorry for this and all my sins.”

After I was done, he said, “For your penance, say two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.”

Thinking I was finished, I got ready to leave the confessional, but I forgot there was a prayer of absolution at the end. Father O’Callahan recited the prayer and ended by saying, “My young one, this is the beginning of a long journey, and as you continue on this journey, you will come to know God.”

Well, that was not too bad. Of course, when I was eight years old, there was no way I could know how severe my sins could get.

For the next several years, I regularly attended Sunday services and confessed my sins. Most of the time, Father O’Callahan heard my confessions. As I got older, my trips to the confessional were further apart. Usually, what drove me to the confessional was my mom saying, “Ashley, shame on you, come Saturday you will go to church and confess your sin to the priest.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession, and these are my sins.”

Father O’Callahan was always sympathetic no matter what sins I confessed. God may not view sins as hell-worthy as my mom does. More accurately, they were not hell-worthy in Father O’Callahan’s eyes. Although I never saw his face in the confessional booth, I pictured his compassionate eyes. After receiving my penance, Father O’Callahan would say a prayer of absolution and end by saying, “Continue on your journey, and you will come to know God.”

Once I became a teenager, that journey became much more challenging. When I turned fifteen, I began to rebel more often and do naughty things behind my parents’ backs. One of those things was being alone with boys without my parents’ knowledge. I know what you are thinking, but even when I was fifteen, my mom was extremely strict about me being alone with boys.

I discovered kissing around that time. I loved to kiss, but my Catholic guilt was dominant. I would let a boy kiss me, and no matter how much the boy insisted, there was nothing beyond kissing. The boys, of course, were expecting more than kissing, so they lost interest. That went on for a long time, and consequently, I had no real boyfriend until I turned eighteen.

Justin would eventually become my first boyfriend. He was six months older than me, and we had similar backgrounds. I had known Justin since middle school and always thought he was super cute. By senior year, he was over-six-feet tall and had an athletic body. He was the starting forward on our varsity basketball team. I knew he had had previous girlfriends older than him. Early on, he told me that one of them took his virginity right after he turned eighteen. He had greater experience than me, and that made him even more attractive.

At the beginning of our senior year, he asked me to go steady. I said yes and introduced Justin to my parents as my boyfriend. In April, I turned eighteen, and Justin wanted to take me to a fancy restaurant on my birthday. By this time, my parents had accepted Justin as a boyfriend, so they said it was okay for him to take me on this special date.

Justin picked a very fancy Italian restaurant. It felt nice to get dressed up, so I wore a silk blouse and a short pleated skirt. The restaurant was perfect for the occasion. It had only ten tables, and the waiter spent time making sure our water glasses were filled. Justin told them ahead of time that it was my birthday, so the tiramisu birthday cake was complimentary, along with most of the staff singing Happy Birthday.

After our superb meal ended, instead of bringing me home and ending the date, Justin drove us to a quiet, secluded place to park. We started by just talking, but then he leaned in and gave me this wonderful kiss. Making out in the front seat of a car can be awkward, but we didn’t mind. We were leaning over the center console, and our hands were all over each other’s bodies.

At first, the kiss was soft, with our lips just touching. Our eyes were closed, and our hands were on each other’s shoulders. Eventually, the kiss intensified as our lips parted and our tongues began probing. Justin’s hand went under my blouse, and he rubbed my tits over my bra. Justin got to second base for the first time. I knew I was getting aroused because my nipples hardened at his touch. Justin kept rubbing, and I became even more aroused.

Justin continued towards third base. With one hand planted firmly over my bra, his other hand started wandering from my blouse toward my skirt. He kept going down to my knee and back up under my skirt towards my panties. I thought if Justin reached third base, it would not take him long to find out how wet I had become. Justin’s hopes were dashed because I knew a car was not where I would lose my virginity. Justin was not going to make it to home plate.

As soon as Justin got to my panties, I pressed my hand over his and held him there. My other hand moved to his pants, and as I pressed my hand over his crotch, I could feel his manhood underneath my palm. I started moving my hand over his genitals and felt the outline of his cock. Oh my gosh, he was big. While rubbing my hand over his pants, I realized he was not only big but also hard. And becoming harder.

“Ashley, please,” Justin begged.

Back then, this was all new to me. I thought Justin wanted me to make him cum in his pants. Today, I would have known that Justin was asking me to take his cock out of his pants and do what most girls do. That subtlety escaped me, so I kept rubbing harder.

Justin once again tried to tell me, “Ashley, you should...”

He did not finish the sentence, and I just kept rubbing and rubbing. I was so proud of myself for giving my first hand job. I looked at Justin’s face and knew he was getting fabulously close to exploding.

Then I heard, “Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit.”

His body shook uncontrollably, and he almost hit the steering wheel. His cock jerked against his jeans, as I lifted my hand. Justin looked at me with an expression of surprise and embarrassment. My eyes moved from his face to his pants, and I could see a wet spot that kept growing. So, this is cum.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. I was so proud, thinking we were at a new place in our relationship. Justin must have thought, now I have to drive home with sticky pants.

A week after my birthday, I committed a sin so awful, so grave, so hideous that the Catholic Church incorporated it as part of the sixth commandment. Yes, I broke the commandment ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ To me, this was puzzling because not only was I not yet married, but I was still a virgin. That did not matter. The church prohibits using one’s body for personal desires as it ruins its symbolic and matrimonial significance. Wow, that is a mouthful. Or, in my case, a handful.

It was not until the following morning that the wrath of God came down. The form it took was that of my mother. Apparently, I was not as quiet as I thought when performing this god-awful activity.

Dad had left for work, and I had just finished breakfast. I was studying for a math quiz when my mom sat next to me.

“Honey, what were you doing last night?”

“Last night? I was home all night. You know that.”

“No, I mean, after you went to bed. Your door was closed, and I heard you make some loud noises. Noises that were shameful and indecent.”

Oh, shit, she heard me, but I am pretty sure she heard moaning and groaning instead. What I thought was a muffled cry must have been a loud scream. This was a conversation I did not want to have. “Mom, I’m not sure what you heard. I must have had the television on too loud.”

“Ashley, I know it was not the television. I know it was you. I know your voice, and you were the loud one.”

Busted! I was embarrassed and could not look at her. I stared at my math book, hoping this altercation would go away. But my mom was not going to stop the confrontation. “Honey, you know the church does not approve. What you did was a sin against God.”

Please, not God. If she started down the God path, I would miss my math quiz. I would also miss seeing Justin this morning. “Mom, I don’t want to have this conversation.”

Mom continued condemning me. “I am sure God does not want you to touch yourself in that way.”

I thought, if God does not want me to touch myself, why did He make it feel so good? Instead, I said, “Mom, I am going to be late for school.”

“Fine, then you can confess your sins to the priest on Saturday.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession.”

I stopped speaking. I was breathing in and out. I was in the middle of a panic attack. This confession was not like any confession I had made before. Not only would I have to confess that I practiced self-abuse, but I also needed to confess what I did on my birthday. I was debating all week whether to confess. One side of me thought it would be so easy to tell my mom I confessed and go to communion on Sunday. The other side, the one filled with Catholic guilt, saw me kneeling at the altar, ready to take the wafer into my mouth, and out of the sky, a giant lightning bolt would penetrate the stained-glass windows and strike me. I bet you can guess which way I went.

“Go on,” Father O’Callahan said in a familiar voice.

Yes, I was confessing to Father O’Callahan, who had been hearing my confessions for the past ten years. Although he could not see me, he knew my voice. I did not think I could go through with it, and I was about to leave the confessional booth.

As I was standing up, I heard the father say, “There is no need to have dread. Whatever you have done, God will forgive you.”

I kneeled again, and I took a deep breath. Maybe if I eased into this. “Father, I cheated on a math quiz. I took the Lord’s name in vain. I lied to my mom about what I did on my birthday.”

I shifted uncomfortably in the confessional. This was such a horrible idea. But I knew if I walked out, I would never confess to Father O’Callahan again. “And ... Father, I violated myself with my fingers. More than once.” I stopped talking and cried.

He said nothing, and I continued to sob, thinking that I was going to get the worst penance ever given by a priest. When he spoke, I could hardly hear his voice over my sobs.

“Yes, you committed a sin.” He paused again, and said, “But it is not such a horrible one. Please don’t cry.”

I wiped my eyes. Where is the box of Kleenex when you need it? I brought my breathing under control and waited for Father O’Callahan to continue.