When we were seventeen, after her dad, the preacher, finished his Sunday night church services that required our mandatory attendance, we'd walk to my car in the pasture-turned parking lot holding hands and stop at the passenger-side car door to kiss deeply, get in and then slowly drive away, knowing that shortly on the blanket in my trunk was our church where under that moon we would, “Praise Jesus”, save ourselves.
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Author's Note
This was longer but I reworked it into a single sentence story. I hope it works OK.
Other stories by David James
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Ah, 'tis sweet. I can hear Sinatra singing it..."When we were seventeeeeeeeen..." *
Nothing better than Jesus loving, and being Jewish I can confirm that this is true. :)*
Nicely tuned.
Sweet Jesus...
Works fabulously.*
Nice*
Better and better, David.*
Amen *
Nothing like furtive post church sex in one sentence. *