First-person, intimate, guilty, and self-aware stories of secret testimonies and unholy repentance.
Most women think they have to choose.
I still go to church most Sundays. I still sing when the band starts playing. No matter how loud the music gets, I know exactly what sounds better.
There’s a verse in the Bible that church girls aren’t supposed to think about too deeply.
I know how this sounds. There are moments—usually right after a man finishes inside me—where I feel something that I can only describe as holy. A darker, heavier kind that only comes when I’m being used.
I used to take communion seriously.
The stepdaughter looked nervous but excited, wearing a modest dress like she was still trying to pretend this was something else.
She showed up at my door two days later.
A Sunday School girl wants to know how deep the pit can go, and her stepmom has been teaching her well—but this is only the beginning.
I used to feel guilty about this.
