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09/30/2007
Forbidden Love in Argentina
My Forbidden Love: Newsletter Two
There was no question about it.
I knew I loved him. I loved him, with or without the white clerical collar around his neck. I loved his eyes. I loved the way they looked at me even when they were not supposed to. And in the beginning, I loved running into him anywhere and everywhere. Later, when my love became something more solid and magical, I grew to hate running into him when he was surrounded by a roomful of people. How could we have time for each other that way? I wanted to steal him away from them, but I was scared. I dared, but I did not dare do it. And how could I dream that a future for us actually existed when people called him Padre? Was he a Father to me? Was he replacing my own father, my first authority figure and was that why I loved him? No. I have thought about it often since then. I have gone over it in my mind, and if I am convinced about anything, it is this: the man I loved was a man. He was a man with faults, a man with some good qualities. To me he was not a priest. My heart did not see him that way. It refused to tell me lies. My heart did not feel him as a priest, a hot subject for some juicy gossip before, during, or after Mass. I understood he way I felt when we were in the same room together. And I discovered that we did not have to touch to love each other. Had they known about it, the gossipmongers would have wrong: sex was important, but it was not what it was all about.
We felt our love differently. We were in an unusual situation, and nobody needed to know anything about it. We were hidden lovers and we played our roles accordingly.
There were no rules except for the ones we made.
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