No way in hell is he an ordained Catholic priest.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking… Biker, cage fighter, Russian mafia hitman, maybe. Man of God, not so much. Because of the tat‑sleeves or six-pack? Pierced nipple, perhaps. Is it the sun-streaked blonde hair and granite-hewn features making you doubt? It’s okay, I get it. Priests don’t typically come packaged in six-foot-two frames of shredded muscle. They don’t have panty-melting smiles or bedroom eyes the color of an ocean squall. They don’t make you think fallen angel.
No ma’am, I’m not anyone’s idea of a cleric, lookswise or otherwise. I think about sex a little too much. I’m not always good about following the rules. I drop F-bombs. I have a temper. And yeah, have shamefully broken a few vows. Would it also surprise you then to learn that despite all of the above I truly love God and the Church? That I received my calling when I was just nine? That I’d planned my life for the priesthood yet almost gave it all up for a woman?
Now just so we’re clear… This isn’t going to be some sappy romantic rendering of forbidden love à la The Thorn Birds. Sorry to disappoint. As for those expecting a smutty one-handed read about a hot holy father sporting junk as huge as his ego, apologies again. My name is Tristan, aka Father Cleary, and whatever else you may think this story is about… I respectfully suggest you think again.
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