Delayed Communion

A flirty Zumiez top, that woman at burlesque, and yearning for wholeness

So this is my latest baby. The events took place during the spring and summer of 2023. I pulled this from literary journal consideration because I just want it out in the universe. (More people will read it here anyway.) I added the “Wafer, cracker, loaf…” section because I’m a sucker for segmented prose as seen in “Wish You Were Here” and “A Mighty Long Time.”

Wish You Were Here (Extended Version)

A Mighty Long Time

I feel alive in these moments when I’m settled in body ownership, but reconciliation can sometimes be elusive.

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I got myself stuck, forearms flailing and hair pulled taut, in a Zumiez dressing room as I tried on a taupe snakeskin bathing suit top with a strategic underboob cut-out. During our spring break trip, I slipped into the hipster store at a bustling outlet mall while my kids were with Dad somewhere safe and respectable, probably Old Navy.

Another mom, one who had her life together, was in the store, but she was busy shopping for platform Converse sneakers for her daughter. The lone sales associate was bored and severely younger than me. I had become quite the exhibitionist at this point in my life at forty as a former pastor’s wife, but he didn’t sign up for struggling with an elder millennial, flaunting her sexual mid-life crisis by trying on scantily clad clothing during her family’s Oregon coast vacation.

If this was going to be his lucky day, it wasn’t going to be gawking at me like this. I was on my own.

Short of dislocating my shoulder and pulling out enough hair to cause a bald spot, I untangled myself like one of those metal brain-teaser trinkets. I didn’t know what sorcery was at work as I regained feeling in my limbs, but I knew I was quite entranced by what I saw.

I turned my body slightly and looked back at the mirror over my sore shoulder, watching my long dark hair flirt with the tattoos on the back of my toned arm. Facing the mirror again, I tugged on the extra-small top, letting my humble breasts display some lower cleavage. After a little hair tousling, I bit my lip and indulged in the view.

I was sexy. Period. Not for a forty-year-old. Not for a mom. Just as me, the ugly duckling who had horrible acne as a teen and a mild pectus excavatum embossed in the middle of her chest. Many of us get over insecurities and juvenile awkward phases, but with over two decades under the heavy influence of evangelical purity culture, I whiplashed between pride and shame. Exuberant and wretched and intoxicating and chastened. As a grown adult entity, I now dabbled in fulfilling an overdue mission: accepting myself as a sensual creature.

My phone buzzed. Hungry family, time to go. My eyes shot back to the mirror once more before I clutched the top and ripped it off over my head in one aggressive swipe.

Slut, let’s go. Buy it already.

Contraband in hand, I reclaimed my position in our nuclear family.

Later in the safety of our room at the rental, I revealed my purchase to my husband. He, the former pastor, approved. At this point in my almost two-year journey in the throes of embracing sensuality, self-love, and coming out as bisexual, I could only imagine his view as I unraveled from built-up inhibitions in our post-ministry era.

A process that proved to be enigmatic.

Sure, my bathing suit top was a simple purchase, a silly bout of mini debauchery, but it symbolized freedom that was previously out of reach since adolescence. Anything regarding sex was to be kept under wraps, only for my future spouse. In my church youth group, the girls were warned not to wear anything that could tempt the boys because “men can’t control themselves.” It was like puberty would transform us into “Jezebels.” Purity oaths, promise rings, t-shirts over bathing suits, and later encouragement to marry young so as to not “burn with passion.” Before becoming a legal adult, I learned that my body was dangerous, a conduit for sin.

And this continued as a young, married mother in my mid-twenties and later at seminary in my early thirties—anything I did could tempt a man: the way I told a joke, my offering another slice of pie, or if I painted my nails red. By the time I was a pastor’s wife, I developed full-blown anxiety about how my appearance could be perceived. I watched my hemlines and lip shades. To not draw attention to my chest, I toggled my posture down. I ran and hid in my room if a male congregant came by unannounced to our home because I was in yoga pants.

I wanted to be proper and make others feel comfortable, but I was falling apart inside. I was keeping my attraction to women secret and dared not share my kinky sexual interests. I liked Instagram posts of friends’ boudoir photos while wishing I could celebrate my body the same way. Who in our church could I go to? These were not appropriate topics for small group on Wednesday nights.

Keep quiet, pervert.

And then during the pandemic, we left the church for more reasons than we could count, but they were the usual suspects: homophobia, complementarianism, disregard of women’s reproductive rights, sexual abuse scandals, etc. The last thing I wanted to hear was godly sexual ethics from a pulpit.

***

Wafer, cracker, loaf, leavened and unleavened–even gluten-free.

In various houses of worship and just houses, I’ve had it all.

Partaking in the breaking and consumption of the Divine.

Each time, I’m less and less. I dissolve.

Communion with the body, the people.

Experts in the breaking, specifically inwardly.

This is not refinement; it’s erosion.

On this side of heaven, I want to feel whole.

In the cycle of breaking and desperately needing sustenance, I learned to hate my fractionated self.

But it fit church culture so well. My modest pastor’s wife self. My queer fantasy, kinky self.

I deserved to be in pieces.

Smile, be joyful about it.

***

After we left organized religion, I struggled with the detachment from community. I started off with a quiet life of prostration, moments of introspection, reverence, and caution, accompanied by occasional scrolling on Reddit boards like r/SluttyConfessions, r/ENM, and r/MoreThanFriends. When I realized I wasn’t going to be struck down by lightning, I allowed effervescence to build. I was curious to explore. Before, I would hide this sultry force that came out in slivers when I noticed eyes were on me in a busy restaurant or I had time to lotion up a leg as a haphazard mom, but I was finally moving towards an impassioned succession, taking up residence in my provocative center. After much talk with my husband, I went on dates. My kinky fantasies became reality. I traveled on solo weekends to write and take sexy selfies. I bought toys to experiment and enhance my pleasure. I became a fan of erotic art. I read books that emphasized that my sexual spirit was a gift, not a hindrance.

Then one day, I signed up for a local burlesque class.

My on-going journey to seize my sensuality made this an obvious choice. Still, it came with too much overthinking, including reminders of my clumsiness and precarious thoughts about what to wear to such an occasion. Before my first session, I decided to go with maroon leggings and a celadon lace crop top from Target.

“I can do this. I need to do this. Feel comfortable in your skin,” I told myself on repeat, backing out of my driveway, driving to the studio, and arriving in the parking lot.

Goddess, you were made for this.

Wishing the terror would pull up stakes from my heart and leak out of my limbs, I smiled at our teacher, a blonde bombshell type with vivacious natural curves, who welcomed me and other participants. While we stretched, she informed us that the song we were dancing to was Massive Attack’s “Angel,” a captivating piece that demanded attention, the perfect serenade for hedonic belonging. I knew this song. I was not ready.

We went over the routine in segments and then a few times through its entirety. I was covered in sweat but enlivened by the alluring repetition. As I strutted across the yoga studio, I dared myself to keep my eyes up and towards the mirror, reintroducing myself multiple times. Over and over, layer upon layer of balm, healing from the raw contempt of previous daring displays of confident sexuality.

I felt empowered and later in the privacy of my bedroom, I watched the video of my first burlesque session from my phone.

I was confused.

I watched someone who looked like me: swiveling hips, rhythmic crawling, pinwheel kicks while on her back, and caressing her soft skin. The woman who looked like me seemed in control, but her mind was wandering and wondering, at forty years old, if it was okay to touch her own body in this delicious way.

When it was over, I let the video play again. This time, rewatching the former pastor’s wife, I felt rage bubbling. For too many years, I believed that body did not belong to me.

A living sacrifice.

Who the fuck is this?! What is SHE?!

With my fierce desire to own my intimate nature, hands lingering up and down my swaying body in the name of welcoming unrestricted seduction at my first burlesque class, I learned that the mind does not easily catch up with outward progress.

It wasn’t fair. I should have been salved and recalibrated. My confidence and perkiness should have been appropriately ratcheted up to a considerable degree.

I almost didn’t return to burlesque, but I wanted to see that woman again… and grab her, press my fingers into her warm flesh, and throw her in my trunk.

She’s safe. She’s mine. I gave so much.

LET ME HAVE HER.

On a particularly hard day when reminders of evangelical servitude and obligation tempted me to delineate and hide foundational aspects of my sexual identity, I wore the Zumiez top for class and kept my eyes glued to the bewitching siren in the studio mirror.

Keep your damn eyes up. She’s you.

Even today, I’m desperate for her. I yearn for her. I want to fall for her. No, into her. I don’t want a slice or sliver. I want to break through and gulp the whole of stifled fate.