What Manner of Man: Chapter 7 🦇

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.

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EDITOR’S NOTE: As I have stated elsewhere, I have not considered it my place to censor or suppress any of the details of this text. Readers, therefore, may wish be advised of the sexually explicit nature of the events in this chapter. 

JOURNAL ENTRY 

Dated March 20, 1950.

Oh Lord, forgive thy servant — am I, then, a failure? Has all my work been for nothing? It is hours past midnight but I must attempt to lighten this terrible burden on my soul. What hope of salvation can there be for a man who has such dreams? If I can only write it down, perhaps then I’ll be free of it.

Tonight, for the first time, I have seen his face.

The dream began as so many, of late: I found myself sitting in the familiar darkness of the confessional. Slowly I became aware that I was waiting for him — whoever he may be. As ever, my sensations were far more vivid and real than any mere, natural dream. Even now, I can almost smell the lacquered oak of the confessional; feel the silk and velvet of the cushioned seat beneath my palm.

Then, barely audible over the clamorous beating of my heart, I heard the muted sounds of a body entering the adjoining compartment and kneeling in the penitent position. There was a pause which felt endless. From just beyond the thin partition I could hear him — softly breathing. I don’t know why the sound caused me to shiver.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” How those words didn’t turn to ash on his tongue, I’ll never know. “It seems an eternity since my last confession.”

“There’s always time to return to God’s embrace,” I said, exactly as if this were any Sunday, as if he were any lost lamb. Another pause. “Of what sin do you accuse yourself?” I prompted.

“I am wracked with unspeakable hungers, Father.”

“We must all strive to emancipate the will from the tyranny of the flesh, my son,” I assured him. “Begin by practicing small acts of self-denial and self-discipline; try to avoid all near occasions of sin.”

Even as I spoke, I could feel it — that dizzying pull upon me which I can only describe as demonic in nature. I should have stopped him there, instructed him to say seven Our Fathers, (or some other such simple penance,) but the hook was in my heart already. I listened.

“I feel as though all I ever accomplish by acts of self-denial such as you suggest is to continuously push back upon an ever-increasing weight of suppressed desire so that, one day, my strength must inevitably fail and I shall be drowned in the ensuing flood.”

I understood at once, and I pitied him. Then, however, before I could speak, he continued.

“I fear there is no release from this tormented existence but the kiss of the knife; no ecstasy greater than that which is to be found in the arms of death. What must I do, Father, to truly rid myself of these desires?”

I hesitated, possessed by a strange sense that I needed to answer this question correctly. “One may strengthen the enthronement of conscience and intellect over appetites and cravings by frequently attending Mass and receiving the sacraments,” I said.

He spoke again, as if he hadn’t heard me. “My body longs for things the mind recoils at; it speaks a language more carnal than spiritual. I lie awake so many nights feeling that I am an animal, that I want for little more than to lay down with others of my kind — to rut and howl and lose myself in the slaking of my thirsts.”

It was at this point that the demon began to fill my mind with images; using the same means as the tempter used for Christ. A dazzling panoply of sin was spread before the bewitched eyes of my unconscious mind. I could feel as much as see myself utterly debauched: bent forward over the altar, my cassock rucked up —

EDITOR’S NOTE: Several lines of text are missing at this point. Great pains seem to have been taken to render them undecipherable.

It was a sight that should have been unutterably humiliating to me, and yet — some dark thing inside of me responded to it, growing warm at the thought.

He continued in this vein for some time, conjuring for me all-too-brilliant images of the ways the body could be used — the ways my body could be used. His words made me long to be taken apart, to be rendered helpless by my own pleasure.

“I fear my soul is growing sick with longing, that resistance turns my thoughts monstrous, and makes me want these monstrous things only more. What should I do, Father, to rid myself of these desires?” he asked again.

“You must —” I paused. My mouth was strangely dry and I cleared my throat to disguise a break in my voice, “You must seek to amend your life; through penance and good deeds you may sponge out the black stain of these desires upon your soul.”

Even as I spoke, however, my body’s response to this pitiless inundation of lewd, diabolically calculated suggestions was growing unmistakable. I shifted, keenly feeling the close proximity of the man in so small a space. Looking down, I could plainly see the extent of my undoing through the folds of my clothing.

My hand fluttered experimentally over my lap, hardly brushing against the uppermost layers of the fabric which bulged obscenely there. (I had reached this point in the dream many times before; yet every night I had resisted the urge to debase myself by an act of self-abuse. I felt certain that, were I once to yield, I would be lost forever.) I shivered, hearing myself emit a soft gasp at even that hint of touch — then drew sharply back.

The sound, though slight, was enough to draw his attention. “Did you say something, Father?” he asked.

“No — nothing,” I replied, but the breathless tremor of my voice doubtless gave me away.

He laughed — a rich, melodious sound — and returned to whatever forbidden tale he’d been weaving. I flushed as he detailed all the things could be done to me, to turn me into an instrument of pleasure.

What happened next — at the memory of which I burn with shame — has never occurred on any previous night. Something which I can only describe as a spiritual shadow, invisible yet palpable as a sea mist, passed through the lattice of the confessional and crept under the door into the central cabinet with me. An unbidden sound slipped uncontrollably from my lips as I felt — oh Lord, how can I even describe it?

I recall once, in Vienna, seeing a painting by Antonio da Corregio depicting the nymph Io embraced by Jupiter in the form of a cloud — reclining, with legs parted, the nymph faces away from the viewer, her face thrown back in ecstasy, as the god fills her lap and embraces her nude body.¹ The sensations I experienced were such as one imagines animating Io in that scene.

It was impossible, of course. I was fully dressed, and could see myself clearly in the dim light of the confessional; and yet the feeling — as if the mouth and hands of an invisible lover were acting directly upon my naked flesh — grew each minute only more acute. How could I hope to bear up under such inducement? Defenceless as I was from having starved my body of all pleasure for so long, feeling the unhallowed caress of lips and tongue on my inflamed skin swiftly drove me wild.

I could do nothing to prevent my mortal part taking control; my hips rocking forward into the sensation. All the while I was drawn more and more into the deep, velvet timbre of his voice, filling my mind with visions of the wicked joys and the exquisite suffering that might be delivered upon me. Needy, breathless sounds escaped in a stream from my lips as I writhed, helpless against such ecstasy; yet still I kept my hands at my sides — even this not sufficient to break me.

I longed for the sight of a pair of broad shoulders leaning over me; to feel the reassuring weight of masculine forearms pressing me down into the cushioned seat. I imagined the earthy musk of his scent and the low purr of his words combining to fill my senses, surrounding; intoxicating me.

May God have mercy upon me — have I, then, allowed this evil thing to come between me and my rightful Lord? For in that moment I yearned to give up all control — to be dominated utterly, to embrace all that should be distasteful to me; wishing him to bend my heart and mind to his fiendish will.

What a spectacle I must have made as I lay there — collapsed back from the partition which divided us. For, by that point, I was beyond all control. The privacy of the confessional felt suddenly dreadfully public, and all the while I knew he was watching me. I could hear it in his voice that he was pleased by the sight; and, though I knew I shouldn’t allow him to see me thus, to my lasting shame, I found that the knowledge only quickened my enjoyment.

No matter how I strove, though, I could do nothing to achieve completion. No matter how desperately I ground into that delicious sensation which engulfed me, my body would not let me be satisfied. Lord though I tried, becoming wild with it, arching up off my seat.

I was aroused beyond what I could bear before I pressed a hand into my lap. Oh, what relief that mere pressure brought — and yet, as I rutted against it, I found it still was not enough.

In some dim corner of my mind it was borne in upon me that, if I wished to end this, I would have to touch myself directly. Feverishly I began to pull aside and undo my layers of clothing until my palm met bare skin, blushing to disclose so much of my naked body to the unseen eyes which I felt vividly upon me; burning on my uncovered skin.

“Tell me, Father — what should I do to rid myself of these desires?” That question yet again.

“Yield to them,” I gasped.

How can I hope to describe the unutterable sweetness of the relief that washed over me, then, at the first touch of my hand upon my bare, heated flesh? I nearly wept from the intensity of the sensation. There was no art to that which I did next, no slow build — my mind and body singularly focused on chasing mere animal gratification.

The ensuing climax overwhelmed my senses, leaving nothing else in me but blinding, rapturous pleasure. I’m sure I cried out, though my ears were deaf to it. Everything narrowed to that single, flame-like point — a moment that might equally have lasted for seconds or hours. And it was in that state of utter helplessness that the demon watched me, and knew that he had triumphed.

Afterwards I rose, suddenly needing to confront my tormentor. My hand trembled as I thrust aside the curtain of the adjoining compartment. I found him kneeling there, head bowed in prayer, and he turned his face toward me in surprise. I staggered back, stupefied, and instantly awoke.

The face which had looked up at me had been my own.

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1. The painting to which Father Ardelian is referring here is Jupiter and Io by Antonio da Correggio:

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