I didn’t set out to become the girl who gets passed around.
At first, I was just trying to be open. Friendly. Available. I told myself I was being hospitable—the kind of Christian who makes people feel welcomed and seen. I smiled at the right times. I stayed after service to talk. I said yes when people invited me to things.
But somewhere along the way, “available” stopped meaning emotionally open and started meaning something else entirely.
I became the girl you could text after service if you were horny. I became the girl other people in the church knew they could share. And eventually, I became the girl who didn’t say no when someone from another church asked if I was “free” that night.
I let the church pass me around like an offering plate.
And I didn’t just allow it.
I got good at it.
How It Started
It began small.
A guy from my small group asked if I wanted to “hang out” after service one night. We ended up in his car. Two weeks later, one of his friends from another church messaged me. He said he’d “heard good things.” I should have been offended. Instead, I felt a strange, quiet thrill.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Word moved faster than I expected. Not in a cruel way—more like quiet, knowing recommendations between men (and sometimes women) who went to different churches but ran in the same circles. I started recognizing names. I started getting messages like:
- “My friend said you were really sweet.”
- “Heard you’re easy to talk to.”
- “You free after service this week?”
I stopped pretending I didn’t understand what they meant.
Becoming the Offering Plate
There’s a specific kind of power in being passed around.
It’s not the loud, obvious kind. It’s quieter. More insidious. People started treating me like a shared resource. Not in a disrespectful way—at least not openly. More like I had become community property. Something that could be offered, shared, and enjoyed without needing to be claimed.
I let one man fuck me in his truck after Wednesday night service, then let his friend from another congregation take me out two nights later. I let a married couple from a different church use me together one weekend. I stopped keeping track of who knew who.
The more I said yes, the more offers came. And the more offers came, the more I realized how many “godly” people were quietly looking for the same thing I was—someone who would let them be filthy without ruining their reputation.
I became convenient.
I became safe.
I became available.
Why I Kept Doing It
At some point, I stopped trying to lie to myself about why I was doing it.
It wasn’t just about sex (though the sex was good). It was about the feeling of being used across different spaces. Different sanctuaries. Different small groups. Different sets of eyes that had seen me smile and sing on Sunday morning, only to watch me get on my knees later that same week.
There was something deeply erotic about the hypocrisy of it.
I would sit in one church on Sunday morning, knowing that at least two people in the room had fucked me. Then I would go to another church’s event midweek and let someone new use me. I stopped feeling like I belonged to any one congregation. Instead, I started feeling like I belonged to the church as a whole—in the most depraved way possible.
I wasn’t a member of any single body.
I was being passed between them.
I Stopped Apologizing for It
There was a period where I still felt some guilt. I would pray about it. I would tell myself I was going to stop. I would even delete numbers sometimes.
But I always came back.
Eventually, I stopped apologizing—even to myself. I accepted that I had become the kind of girl who lets the church pass her around. I accepted that I liked the feeling of being shared. I accepted that I had no interest in belonging to just one person or just one congregation.
I became the offering plate.
Not because anyone forced me.
But because I made myself available—and then I kept saying yes.
Final Truth:
I don’t go to church looking for community anymore.
I go looking for who might want me next.
I still smile. I still sing. I still show up when it’s expected. But underneath it, I know exactly what I’ve become.
I’m not looking for a church home.
I’m looking for the next pair of hands that wants to pass me around.