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I suspected that even with his dogma, his rituals, his collar, deep down, Gus felt the same.
My eyes lingered on the white tab at his throat. It was still new. He’d been ordained weeks ago, and since then, his wardrobe hadn’t deviated from black shirts and pants with the Roman collar whenhe was out and about, and the various cassocks he wore over it at work.
He crossed his arms and leaned back on the tufted velvet banquette, eyeing me with an amused look when he saw where my lustful gaze was trained. “Divorce your ideas from Catholicism,” he reprimanded. “The collar’s just a collar. Like a tie. What is it about the clerical wardrobe you like so much?”
It wasn’t just the priestliness. I liked men in ties, too.
He scanned the bill with his phone. I didn’t think I’d ever been on a date where I’d let the man pay. Just now, with Gus, I’d let him do it without thinking. It was an interesting form of intimacy.
We’d talked about a joint checking account, but it was basically theoretical, and we hadn’t made the move yet. The significance of him paying—of me barely noticing I was letting him—made me all warm and gooey inside. Almost drowsy with happiness.
I pressed my lips together, trying to decipher what exactly I found so fascinating about his neck. “Joining the priesthood—any priesthood—is extreme. I’m drawn to extremes. It’s more than the titillation of corrupting a man who’s off limits, although I know it might look like it. And I’ll admit, there’s a bit of fetishy vibe at play. Only a tiny bit, though.” I’d never thought about this before. Now I was doing my thinking out loud, which was never a good thing. “I like men who can sexually restrain themselves. The collar represents that restraint, even if you are technically married... The collar expresses the repression of selfish desire for the greater good. You’re not to be touched. You belong to God.”
“I don’t, though. I belong toyou.”
I looked up sharply. His normally intense eyes were tempered with a vulnerability that I didn’t often get to see.
Was that really how he saw it? For an instant, I allowed myself to bask in those words.
I belong to you.
“I became your husband first, before I became a priest.” He said it matter-of-factly. A mere statement of ownership, of giving me responsibility. A second later, he slid out of his bench, leaving me overheating and unable to swivel off my chair. “That’s why the church allows married men to become ordained. And doesn’t allow priests to marry.”
His words were an explosion aimed at my solar plexus. Excitement radiated down my spine and arms. Every nerve was telling me to reach for him, to press the pads of my fingertips against his exposed forearms and feel the warmth of his skin, the sinew underneath. We’d reached some kind of tipping point tonight.
Then why are you still restraining yourself?I wanted to ask, alerting him to the irony of the fact that he married me so he wouldn’t have to remain celibate for the rest of his life, and yet here we were, six weeks into a sexless marriage.
I cleared my throat. Then I remembered there was a glass of ice water in front of me and I sucked down half of it before taking a final sip of my wine and managing to stand on shaking legs. “Why wear it, then?”
He laughed. “The Orthodox church doesn’t give me much choice in uniform. It’s the collar, or the cassock. But I guess it’s the same as a doctor wearing a white coat, or a cop, their badge.”
“But they can take off the coat and the badge for date nights and days off.”
“I don’t get days off. Somebody always needs a priest.”
“There’s also the fact that a cop uniform can be triggering for some people.”
“So is the collar,” he said with a twinge of sadness.
I hadn’t thought about how he must feel being a walking trigger. To see hate, fear, and sadness in the eyes of strangers and know you’re the manifestation of their abuse.
He was quiet for a moment before elaborating. “Most people are simply surprised to see a priest in public. Some are traumatized by it. It’s heartbreaking. Seeing their reactions. The dimming of their eyes when they see me. The church was supposed to offer safety and healing and forgiveness.” His eyes grew angry and cold. “Instead, the clergy only represents darkness for them. The most insidious and hateful monsters. For that reason, I wouldn’t wear this stupid piece of plastic if it wasn’t required, but… there is a benefit. Many people have questions. About life, death, God. They’re drawn to it.” He smirked at me. “In a non-fetishy way.”
“I always thought it was to set yourselves apart.”
“You really think I have any desire to stand out as being holier than thou? I wear this because people recognize it. So they can seek me out if they want to talk. I’m always on call to talk to anyone, of any faith, or no faith. No one who’s not Orthodox sees arassonor ananderíand would identify me as clergy. Even the Orthodox are used to the collar now. The beards and long hair, though... that’s a different story.”
“I thought that was just your style.”
“I’d prefer short hair and clean shaven.”
“No way.”
He nodded solemnly, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. He knew I liked his hair and beard. Same as I liked his collar.
We wandered down Fourth Avenue, making our way nowhere, slowly. It was nicer being out in the hot night than in the hot house with an air conditioner that needed fixing. The humidity was ungodly, and Gus’s hair was curling up endearingly at the ends where it was tuckedbehind his ears.
“So why the beard and long hair? To look more like Jesus?”
