If you're going to martyr yourself, Abbe, do it for God, not the chambermaid.
That was... difficult.
I'd never before felt like a priest. I've felt guilt before. (I am still Catholic.) I've felt the interplay between choice and consequence. I've paid for mistakes and indiscretions after I've made them. And I've experienced desire, without any doubt. But I'd never before felt so completely overwhelmed, so entirely destroyed by want, and still had to be the one to put it down. Such a thing had never even occurred to me. And I'd never before felt so disgusted with myself for wanting. I'd never felt uncomfortable about wanting anything before at all, that I can recall. I'm even more convinced now that the answers I gave were the right ones, that what I have done was best. It is important that I learn to avoid complication. And there were people I do not at all wish to disappoint, although they were lovely and supportive through their disapproval. There are other things. But we spoke: there are things I understand now that I had not. Things are more and less my fault and hers than I had thought. Things make more sense now. I respect various choices more than I had. I am a little bit disappointed, too. We slept in the same bed. Perhaps we'll be better friends to one another than we have been.
But none of that leaves anywhere for all of this wanting to go, although I have been reminded that the things that I desire most lie elsewhere. Songs can change things. My head is a cabaret or a tavern. I want to be charming and drunk. I want the three of us to pool our money for a room upstairs, and I want to be flogged like a beast, beaten like I deserve it. Or I want to be behind you (or to have you behind me. I'm not at all particular.) in the alley behind the pub. I want your mouth at mine. I want all of it.
And they turn and they dance,
and they laugh and they lust
till the rancid sound of the accordion bursts,
and then out of the night
with their pride in their pants
and the sluts that they tow
underneath the street lamps.
I'd never before felt like a priest. I've felt guilt before. (I am still Catholic.) I've felt the interplay between choice and consequence. I've paid for mistakes and indiscretions after I've made them. And I've experienced desire, without any doubt. But I'd never before felt so completely overwhelmed, so entirely destroyed by want, and still had to be the one to put it down. Such a thing had never even occurred to me. And I'd never before felt so disgusted with myself for wanting. I'd never felt uncomfortable about wanting anything before at all, that I can recall. I'm even more convinced now that the answers I gave were the right ones, that what I have done was best. It is important that I learn to avoid complication. And there were people I do not at all wish to disappoint, although they were lovely and supportive through their disapproval. There are other things. But we spoke: there are things I understand now that I had not. Things are more and less my fault and hers than I had thought. Things make more sense now. I respect various choices more than I had. I am a little bit disappointed, too. We slept in the same bed. Perhaps we'll be better friends to one another than we have been.
But none of that leaves anywhere for all of this wanting to go, although I have been reminded that the things that I desire most lie elsewhere. Songs can change things. My head is a cabaret or a tavern. I want to be charming and drunk. I want the three of us to pool our money for a room upstairs, and I want to be flogged like a beast, beaten like I deserve it. Or I want to be behind you (or to have you behind me. I'm not at all particular.) in the alley behind the pub. I want your mouth at mine. I want all of it.
And they turn and they dance,
and they laugh and they lust
till the rancid sound of the accordion bursts,
and then out of the night
with their pride in their pants
and the sluts that they tow
underneath the street lamps.