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A pastor’s daughter, my upbringing included the strict moral code of “no sex before marriage.” This code was promptly discarded in my teenage years, when I learned, all too painfully, why my parents had tried to protect me from being prematurely thrust into the turmoil of physical intimacy.
We agreed to meet again a few nights later, and took a walk around his neighborhood in Washington Heights. I hardly lived up to my claims of virtue, never admitting to cheating on my college boyfriend, or having an affair with a married man in my early twenties, or frequently refusing to give people change in the subway.
I was convinced that God was keeping a tally of my sexual indiscretions and punishing me for them.
Though I knew it would be hard, I vowed to live more chastely, determined to curb any libidinous activity until I was at least in a solid relationship with a decent Christian man.
He looked exactly like his photos and he hadn’t lied about his height; he was at least three inches taller than me, making him truly 6’1”. Our walk along the Highline took on the flavor of a stroll on the Champs-Élysées.
He taught me some French phrases and I tried to impress him with the few words I already knew. As we walked, he opened up, admitting that he occasionally still worked with his ex-wife, whom he met while studying in Mexico City. It wasn’t long before the dreaded text message came.