When I was a kid, our Nazarene church had only one preacher, whose main job was screaming and banging the pulpit for an hour three times a week (researching and writing sermons is more time-consuming than you may think).
But when I was in ninth grade, we got a Youth Minister, in charge of kid and teen activities like Junior Joys, Nazarene Young People's Society, the Afterglow (a party after the Sunday evening service), and Canvassing (going door to door to witness).
The Preacher might be elderly, but the Youth Minister had to be young, cool, and attractive enough to keep kids interested. Ours was Brother Bob, fresh out of Olivet, in his early 20s, tall, with enormously broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and gigantic hands.
Unfortunately, I never saw him shirtless -- he always wore a suit and tie, the Nazarene equivalent of a clerical collar. But when I went down to the altar to get saved or sanctified, he came down and wrapped his huge hard arm around me, and I could feel his hard barrel chest against my back.
You could hardly miss the gigantic Mortadella+ swinging around in his pants every time he moved. Particularly in NYPS, when we were kneeling to pray, and he walked from person to person to see if we needed help: his crotch was exactly at eye level. And at least once, when he hugged me after altar call, I felt it press against me like a salami stuffed in his pants.
One Sunday night at the beginning of tenth grade, I walked out into the parking lot during altar call to escape from the frenetic shouting, and saw Terry and Dave, twelfth grade best buddies, talking in the shadowy area by the church bus.
Dave was a member of church royalty, with perfectly cut black hair, perfect teeth, and an athletic physique.
Terry was slim, with dirty-blond hair almost too shaggy to meet Nazarene standards, an aspiring Gospel singer from an unsaved family. He backslid every few weeks and had to go down to the altar again.
I didn't usually associate with twelfth graders -- the three year age gap seemed unbreachable. But I had to say "hello," or they might think I was spying on them.
"Ten inches, easy!" Dave was saying. "Brother Bob's is bigger than Brother Dino's by a long shot. No way it's happening!"
"I'm telling you, she's got nothing to worry about," Terry countered.
They were discussing a man's dick! "Have you guys really seen Brother Bob down there?" I asked.
"I have!" Dave said. "Just before NYPS tonight -- he was at the urinal next to me in the bathroom. Man, that guy's a giant! Bigger than Brother Dino! Sister Cindy could never take all that -- it would break her in half."
Like all preachers, Brother Bob was married -- to Sister Cindy, very short, slim, petite. His hand could almost fit around her waist. They were like Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
"Oh, and you think going down on it will work better?" Terry asked. "The mouth is smaller than the [vagina], wise guy!"
Go down on it?
"I'm hung like a horse," Dave said. "Girls are always saying 'oh, it's too big, it hurts'! But they go down on it with no problem at all."
"Let's let the kid decide." Terry turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Say you were a lady, and your guy had extra-extra-extra large equipment."
I imagined Brother Bob, naked, his muscles damp with sweat, his enormous uncut Mortadella aroused and waiting.
The Preacher might be elderly, but the Youth Minister had to be young, cool, and attractive enough to keep kids interested. Ours was Brother Bob, fresh out of Olivet, in his early 20s, tall, with enormously broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and gigantic hands.
Unfortunately, I never saw him shirtless -- he always wore a suit and tie, the Nazarene equivalent of a clerical collar. But when I went down to the altar to get saved or sanctified, he came down and wrapped his huge hard arm around me, and I could feel his hard barrel chest against my back.
You could hardly miss the gigantic Mortadella+ swinging around in his pants every time he moved. Particularly in NYPS, when we were kneeling to pray, and he walked from person to person to see if we needed help: his crotch was exactly at eye level. And at least once, when he hugged me after altar call, I felt it press against me like a salami stuffed in his pants.
Dave was a member of church royalty, with perfectly cut black hair, perfect teeth, and an athletic physique.
Terry was slim, with dirty-blond hair almost too shaggy to meet Nazarene standards, an aspiring Gospel singer from an unsaved family. He backslid every few weeks and had to go down to the altar again.
I didn't usually associate with twelfth graders -- the three year age gap seemed unbreachable. But I had to say "hello," or they might think I was spying on them.
"Ten inches, easy!" Dave was saying. "Brother Bob's is bigger than Brother Dino's by a long shot. No way it's happening!"
"I'm telling you, she's got nothing to worry about," Terry countered.
They were discussing a man's dick! "Have you guys really seen Brother Bob down there?" I asked.
"I have!" Dave said. "Just before NYPS tonight -- he was at the urinal next to me in the bathroom. Man, that guy's a giant! Bigger than Brother Dino! Sister Cindy could never take all that -- it would break her in half."
Like all preachers, Brother Bob was married -- to Sister Cindy, very short, slim, petite. His hand could almost fit around her waist. They were like Fred and Wilma Flintstone."Oh, and you think going down on it will work better?" Terry asked. "The mouth is smaller than the [vagina], wise guy!"
Go down on it?
"I'm hung like a horse," Dave said. "Girls are always saying 'oh, it's too big, it hurts'! But they go down on it with no problem at all."
"Let's let the kid decide." Terry turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Say you were a lady, and your guy had extra-extra-extra large equipment."
I imagined Brother Bob, naked, his muscles damp with sweat, his enormous uncut Mortadella aroused and waiting.
More after the break
