A week had passed since I’d seen Chloe at the basketball game, and I still couldn’t get her out of my mind. I was thinking about her all day long like a teenager with a crush on the prettiest girl in school, and it was embarrassing. I was glad no one else could read my thoughts because they were utterly inappropriate.

Before I’d entered seminary I’d been quite the player. I’d been a basketball player in college and that made it easy to get girls. I’d had skills on the court, but I wasn’t good enough to go pro.

Back then women had been fun for me—a game, like gambling and partying. My life had been a mix of hedonism and hardcore athletic training. But that all ended when some of my buddies and I got into a horrific car accident. One of my friends wound up dead on the side of the road, one wound up paralyzed from the waist down, the guy who was driving went to jail for a year. How did I cope with it? I became a priest.

Nothing like watching your friends’ lives destroyed to make you realize that “there but by the grace of God, go I.” For a long time I wondered why I’d been spared. Survivor’s guilt they call it. Why hadn’t I been the one who would never walk again—whose dick would never work again? Why hadn’t I died or gotten locked up? I deserved it as much as my friends did.

I wandered around lost for a while. I gave up the parties and the girls, but I didn’t have any direction and I didn’t have any biological family left.

When I was little, my mom worked on a ranch in Southern California taking care of horses. That was where I grew up. We had a small cabin at the back of the property, and I lived there until I was twelve. One day I was running around with livestock, taking the bus to public school, and the next my mother told me I was being sent to a boarding school on the other side of the country. Apparently, I had a benefactor who wanted to pay for my education and my mom thought it was best I take advantage of it.

“I don’t want you doing manual labor all your life like me,” she’d said, and I’d been a good boy and gone along with the plan to make her happy.

At first I was homesick, but it didn’t take long for me to make myself at home at St. Christopher’s. The Head of School was an Episcopalian priest, and when my mom got sick and passed away from breast cancer when I was a freshman in high school, he and his wife basically took me into their care as if I were their own son.

Reverend Morley became the father I never had, so years later, when faced with my crisis of purpose after the accident, I retreated to Virginia and sought solace in the place that had become my home—the church.

You might say I experienced an awakening or a calling. Back at St. Christopher’s, my life suddenly had a purpose. I felt that God had put me on this earth to help people.

I let go of my past mistakes and determined to move forward with the goal of making the world a better place. I directed my energy towards helping others and studying the word of God. I enrolled at a seminary in Tennessee, and I came to St. John’s church in New Orleans soon after I graduated.

I’d pursued a career in my faith with a singular focus, and it had been years since I’d been excited by a woman. I simply didn’t have the time for it. I was too busy with holy pursuits. Before the accident I’d had more than my share of encounters with women—both casual and a couple of longer-term relationships—but afterward I’d shut that part of me down. How could I continue cavorting with members of the opposite sex while two of my best friends would never have that opportunity again?

Over time I grew to see what happened as God’s plan. Those events were not mine to question. My only choice was to move forward and become the person I believed God wanted me to be. But now that he’d thrown a gorgeous girl in my path, I wasn’t sure what to do. As an Episcopal priest, I was allowed to marry and have a family, unlike my Catholic counterparts.

The only thing that was stopping me from pursuing her was that the woman in question worked in a “house of ill-repute.” While it didn’t offend me personally, I didn’t think it would look too great to my parishioners for me to be dating a cocktail waitress from Bourbon Street. Though that was better than a stripper or a hooker, I smiled to myself.

But now that I was on Crawford Banks’ hit list, falling for a girl who worked on Bourbon Street was probably the worst idea possible.

After hours of silently justifying it to myself, I planned a trip to Lulu’s—only to get Chloe’s phone number. I wouldn’t stay long—just long enough to ask her for her number, maybe order one drink. I couldn’t think of another way. I’d already tried to find her phone number with no luck and exhausted every possible search on Facebook, which made me feel like a real stalker. The easiest way was just to go to where she worked and essentially hit on her.

I’d ask her out for coffee. A little more awkward now that I was a priest, but I was confident I still had some game left even with the collar.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d approached a woman. It had been years. There wasn’t a lot of temptation in seminary or in church life.

Once I’d decided to venture down to the Quarter I thought I’d treat myself to a nice dinner in the neighborhood first at a high-end restaurant called Luxe, owned by the Thibodaux family.

Around eight o’clock I put a sport coat on over my clerical shirt and drove to Luxe for dinner, where I enjoyed a delicious salad and rack of lamb with root vegetables and a béarnaise sauce. I was accustomed to dining alone, but this time I was so full of anticipation over my impending trek into the heart of the Quarter that I’m afraid I hurried the exquisite meal.

Luxe was only a few blocks from Lulu’s and though weather was brisk it was still pleasant so I opted to walk over. On the way it occurred to me that Chloe might not even be working that night so I got out my cell phone and called.

“Lulu’s,” a gruff voice answered.

“Hello. I was calling to find out if Chloe—I mean Vixen, is working tonight.” I prayed she was. I hated to have to wait another night.

“Yeah, Vixen’s here.” The voice sounded bored.

“All right, thanks.” Whew. Good thing I thought to check. As I got closer to the club, I felt a rush of something in my gut, and it wasn’t the lamb I’d hurried through.

No. It was the old-but-familiar flit of butterflies in my stomach. Damn, it had been ages since I’d experienced that.

Taking it as a good sign, I paid the cover charge and ignored the way the doorman stared at my collar like I was from Mars. I could have not worn it, but it had been ingrained in me by my mentors that having a variety of clothing options only confuses a priest and those around him. Once you are a priest you are always a priest, and there’s never a time that you are “off duty” in my vocation. If I were honest with myself, even though I was technically allowed to refrain from wearing my clerical attire sometimes—I had the bad feeling that frequenting establishments where women danced naked was such a questionable decision that whatever choice I made with regards to wearing my collar would have been overshadowed by the issue of my being here in the first place.

The thought that I might be hiding behind the collar entered my head, but I banished the notion immediately.

Nobody else in the place seemed to notice me. The other patrons were busy watching the girls on stage or engaged in conversation with others. I sat down a bit farther back from the stage than where George sat the last time I was here and scanned the room for a waitress, one who I hoped would be “Vixen.” Unfortunately, I only saw a couple of girls and neither was her. A glance to my left told me she wasn’t behind the bar either.

A buxom blonde wearing short shorts and a top similar to the one Chloe had been wearing last time approached me wearing a tired smile. “What can I get for you, Padre?”

I smiled back. “I’ll take a beer.”

“We’ve got Abita on tap.”

“That sounds good.”

She was about to walk away when I touched her arm. She flinched, but stopped.

Too late, I realized touching the women in here in any fashion was probably a no-no. Leaning back, I apologized. “Sorry.”

She shrugged.

I continued, “Hey, I was told a girl named Vixen was working tonight.”

The blonde nodded and pointed to one of the girls on stage then moved on to another customer.

It took me a minute to recognize her, but the blonde was right. It was Chloe. Her thighs gripped the pole and she thrust her chest back so that she hung upside down. Flipping her hair, which must have been a wig, back, she grabbed the pole with one arm and kicked the opposite leg straight out and slid down it before hurling her body around and finally coming upright. I was so impressed by the athleticism and grace of her gymnastics that it took my brain a few minutes to register the fact that she was ninety-nine percent naked.

The tiniest of G-strings covered her most intimate parts. Clearly the purpose of the glittery bandage-sized triangle that stretched up to an elastic band around her waist was more to hold tips than to cover anything important.

A flash of heat overtook me, and suddenly I wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea for me to be there.

I tugged at my collar, my fingers impeded by the stiff structure of it.

It was unbendable, unrelenting.

Unforgiving.

Fortunately, the blonde arrived with my beer. I paid her and downed half of it, hoping to cool the burning inside me. But when I set it down, I felt a droplet of sweat roll down my back. No such luck.

Coming to a club to get a phone number from a clothed waitress was something altogether different than watching a girl I already lusted for dance around suggestively, bare breasts bouncing as she gyrated. Her pert pink nipples made my mouth water, and I could feel beads of sweat forming along my brow. I tried to avert my eyes, but it was impossible.

She was beautiful, and everything about her screamed sex. Her breasts were full yet perky, and they looked real the way they moved with her rather than remaining stationary the way fake ones did. How I longed to touch them, knead them, pinch them. And even though she was clearly athletic, she had curvy hips, and a plump little ass that made you want to eat breakfast off it. Her skin was flawless—soft and smooth—I was dying to touch it.

A deep dark part of me reveled in this moment. I could watch her, dancing like that, and pretend she was doing it just for me. For a time, I made an effort to forget I was a man of God.

For the duration of a few songs, I was simply a man. A man who wanted that woman dancing not thirty feet away from me.

“Here ya go.” The blonde waitress jarred me from my fantasy.

“But I didn’t order . . .” I began as she handed me another beer.

She nodded. “You looked thirsty. Anyway, we’ve got a twodrink minimum.”

“I see. Thank you. Keep the change.” I handed her the twenty, took a sip of my beer, and cringed, realizing it would soon be time for me to leave. I’d had my two drinks, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to get her number now. Did I still want it? I didn’t know, but my mission tonight had blown up into something I hadn’t expected. Something much more intense.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at the twenty then softly asked, “Hey, did you want me to tell Vixen you’re here? Her set’s almost over.”

“Uh, no. Thanks. I just-uh . . .” I stammered, not sure how to get out of this uncomfortable situation gracefully.

“It’s no trouble. I’m sure she won’t mind if someone like you stopped by to say hi.” Blondie’s eyes pointed at my collar, and I could tell she thought that meant I was harmless.

“Uh, sure. You can tell her, if you like.”

Blondie put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, Padre. I’ll let her know.”

Great. Now I felt like a complete perv. The waitress thought I was some sort of stripper groupie.

I hadn’t known she’d be naked. Damn. My cheeks felt like they were on fire, and I felt as foolish as a seventh grader getting caught watching porn. I looked around, half expecting to see everyone else in the room staring at me in judgment.

Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. I slammed the rest of my beer, and sat there, my eyes glued to the enchanting woman flinging herself all over the stage, her body sending out an unabashed “fuck me” invitation. “Throw it all away to have me, and it will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you” was the message her body sent as plainly as if she’d posted it on a neon sign.

The more aroused I got, the more uncomfortable I became. By the time there was a break in the music, I was silently praying for forgiveness for indulging in such debauchery, and considering bolting.

But as concerned as I was about sinning or it being inappropriate for me to be there, ultimately, I was more determined to get Chloe’s phone number. That’s what I’d come here for, and I didn’t want to leave without it. I could decide later whether or not to use it. For now, I had to fulfill my quest. So, I remained, feet glued to the floor, waiting to see if she would appear. That was assuming the blonde actually told her a priest was waiting out front to talk to her.

Hopefully that would get her attention.

As soon as I saw her stepping out of the back, with only slightly more clothes on, I knew she’d gotten my message. She approached me wearing a sequined bra and a sturdier G-string adorned with matching hot pink sequins. Definitely flashy, and as she came closer I saw there were a few rhinestones at the corners of her eyes too. Her makeup was heavier than the other times I’d seen her, and it felt like meeting a true performer backstage on Broadway. She had that sort of regal air about her that elevated her high above the rather seedy establishment we inhabited.

“Hi,” she said then looked at the chair next to me.

For an instant I felt ridiculous. My pulse roared in my ears. What the hell had I been doing, coming down here to see her? We were from two completely different worlds. How the hell did I think that wouldn’t matter?

Outwardly, I kept it together. “Hi. Have a seat.” Sounding like a robot, I held out my hand inviting her to sit next to me, and thank God she did.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she said, her chocolate brown eyes big and curious.

I laughed nervously. “I’ll bet it is. Well, I thought I’d come down to see you, but I didn’t realize you’d be working . . .”

“Wait, so if you didn’t think I’d be working, why did you come?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I thought that you were a cocktail waitress. I was just surprised to see you up there.” I indicated the stage with my index finger.

Her eyes flashed. “Yeah, I’m not sure I understand what you’re doing here. What the hell business is it of yours what I do here?”

Crap. Now I’d offended her. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying now to explain myself without pissing her off further.

But before I could say anything else, the meathead bouncer came over. “Is this guy giving you trouble?”

To my surprise, Chloe giggled. “Can’t you see he’s a priest? What kind of trouble could he be giving me, Jasper?”

“I don’t know, but if he’s not spending money, I say we bounce ’im. He’s giving the place a bad name.”

Interesting. I hadn’t seen this sort of reverse discrimination coming. “Really? You’re going to kick a priest out of your strip joint? That’s rich.”

I imagined what a unique news story that would make—Coming up on News 5—Why a priest got kicked out of a strip club on Bourbon Street, and what he plans to do about it . . . next at 11.

“No, no, Jasper. He’s fine. He’s just about to buy a lap dance.” She grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me up, hooking her arm with mine.

“I was?” I asked. Jasper stood there with his hand out, and I opened my wallet.

“Yes, a private one. In the back,” Chloe stage whispered.

“Yes, I was.” I handed Jasper a twenty, and he kept glaring at me. I handed him two more and he closed his grubby palm around the cash.

Chloe led me quickly to the back of the bar, behind some curtains and pointed at a velvet-ish loveseat. I sat down. She pressed a few buttons on a karaoke-looking machine, music started, and she sat down next to me. “I’m sorry about that, Father. We’re not used to guests like you in here.”

“So I gather, and that doesn’t surprise me.”

She laughed. “So, what are you really here for?”

I couldn’t help but tease her. “Well, now I’m here for a lap dance. I just paid a lot of money . . .”

“You’re right, you did. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t sure . . .” She bit her lip apologetically, and it was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. If all the awkwardness of this experience was going to culminate in this—it was worth it.

I liked watching her squirm. Not in a sadistic way, I simply found her enchanting. And back in the private section, alone with her, I felt more comfortable than I had all night.

She expected me to say, “Oh no. You don’t need to dance for me.”

Maybe I should have. It would have been the Godly thing to do, but fuck that. I was here now, it was just me and her, and I was going to enjoy it.

I raised an eyebrow. “Show me what you’ve got.”