I still go to church most Sundays.
I still stand when everyone else stands. I still sing when the band starts playing. I still know most of the songs by heart. But lately, I’ve noticed something I can’t un-notice.
No matter how loud the music gets, no matter how many people are singing around me, and no matter how sincere the worship leader sounds… it never moves me the way I expect it to.
But I know exactly what does.
The sound of a man’s balls slapping against my pussy—wet, rhythmic, and filthy—hits something in me that worship music no longer reaches. And I’ve stopped pretending otherwise.
Here’s why.
1. It’s More Honest Than Most Worship Songs
A lot of worship music feels polished. Produced. Careful. Even when the lyrics are about surrender or brokenness, the delivery often feels rehearsed. There’s a performance to it. A performance of spirituality.
But when I’m getting fucked, there’s no performance.
The sound of skin hitting skin is crude. It’s repetitive. It’s messy. There’s nothing holy or artistic about it. It’s just the raw, physical evidence of two bodies using each other. And for some reason, that honesty does something to me that carefully crafted worship songs don’t.
I don’t have to interpret it. I don’t have to spiritualize it. I just feel it.
2. It Demands My Full Attention
When I’m in church singing, my mind often wanders. I think about what I’m going to do later. I think about who I’ve been texting. I think about how long the service is going to last. Even when I’m trying to focus, I’m rarely fully present.
But when a man is fucking me hard enough that his balls are slapping against me with every thrust, my mind goes quiet. There’s no mental space left for anything else. The sound, the rhythm, and the feeling take up all the room.
In those moments, I’m not performing worship.
I’m experiencing something that completely occupies me.
And I’ve started to realize that I crave that kind of occupation more than I crave the emotional high that worship music used to give me.
3. It Feels More Like Actual Surrender
Worship music often talks about surrender. Laying down your life. Giving God control. Yielding.
But when I’m bent over and getting fucked, surrender isn’t a metaphor. It’s physical. I’m not singing about giving up control—I’m actually giving it up. My body is being used. My voice is reduced to moans and gasps instead of carefully sung lyrics. I’m not leading anything. I’m just receiving.
That kind of surrender feels more real to me than standing in a sanctuary with my hands raised while my mind is somewhere else entirely.
4. The Sound Stays With Me Longer
I can walk out of church and forget most of what was sung within a few hours. The songs blur together. The emotional high fades.
But I can still hear the sound of balls slapping against my pussy days later.
It lingers in my body. It shows up in my thoughts at random times. It becomes part of my internal soundtrack in a way that worship music never has. Even when I’m sitting in service the following Sunday, I’ll sometimes catch myself remembering the sound and rhythm of being fucked—and it pulls my attention more effectively than whatever is happening on stage.
5. It Feels More Like Worship Than Worship Does
This is the part I struggle with the most.
There are moments when I’m getting fucked—when the rhythm is steady, and the sound is wet and consistent—that I feel something close to what I used to feel during worship. A kind of surrender. A kind of presence. A feeling of being completely taken over by something outside of myself.
I know it’s not holy.
But it feels more like worship than most of what happens in church these days.
And I’ve stopped trying to convince myself otherwise.
Final Truth:
I still sing the songs.
I still show up. I still go through the motions. But I no longer expect worship music to do for me what it used to.
Because I’ve found something else that hits deeper. Something filthier. Something that doesn’t require me to perform or pretend.
The sound of balls slapping against my pussy has become more spiritually significant to me than most of the songs I sing on Sunday mornings.
And I’ve accepted that this says something about where I actually am—even if I’m not ready to say it out loud in church.