Hot Under The Collar
by Jaye Valentine
I look out over the gathering of people, and despite the promise I'd made to myself to never let it happen again, my eyes are drawn immediately to one of them.
He's so beautiful. Blond, blue-eyed, soft-featured, and I've never seen any man that pretty look so goddamn good in a suit. He catches me looking, not for the first time, and as always I feel my face grow warm and my palms begin to sweat.
I quickly shift my gaze to some random spot in the cavernous room, the crystal goblet of dark red wine precariously clutched in my slippery hand. I curse silently, berating myself for these feelings I have that I can't control or push aside.
I can't stop looking at him. Thinking about him. Fantasizing about him in the most obscene ways.
I finally tear my gaze from him, look up toward the ceiling and lift the crystal glass. My voice sounds distant to my ears, disembodied, detached and disingenuous. "When the supper was ended, he took the cup. Again he gave you thanks and praise, gave the cup to his disciples and said, 'Take this, all of you, and drink from it; this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.'"
I drink and ask forgiveness, making yet another vow I know I'll never be able to keep.