A Sort of Religion

I visited the Greek Orthodox Church today. That place of golden domes and splendor, the newest iconography in the world. Saints and six winged Seraphim stood between windows; amber light flooded the space, reflecting on the floor's pearly marble. That place, a monument to a religion not my own-felt sacred to me.

I stood there beneath the impossibly high ceilings for a long time, craning my neck in painful angles to absorb the illumanted, gauzy paintings. The air felt clean, holy. It seemed to vibrate; to crave the incense that surely had been burnt there recently.

I am a heretic. A thing woven of stellar darkness and desire. I had flashes-perhaps of a past life, perhaps of a fantasy-of such debauchery. I was there, in my too-vivid imagination, at night. Torches cast long shadows against the sanctuary's walls. I was naked on the cold marble floor, directly beneath the Christ's watchful eyes. A man was there-one I had not met, or didn't recognize. His hard muscles were accentuated by dark, dark hair. His eyes were black, his features olive-bright.

He was fucking me there, against the hard stone floor, The sounds of sacred music and sacred grunts echoed against the round room's walls. Wax, cum, blood, and chains stood out-all too mortal-against the heavenly surroundings. The beautiful sinister man left me there, locked in the church-perfectly broken, usurped, pleased.