Two Baptists, doing what Baptists do, arguing over whether or not drums should be included in the worship service. Yet, just below the surface, a different kind of tension. Sexy tension. Simmering chemistry. It is a potluck of sensuality and both of them have brought the same dish: DESIRE. And both dishes are steaming hot.
“…but drums are the rhythm of Satan,” he protests.
“I can show you all kinds of rhythms,” she says, sexily, setting her 45-lb NIV on the table.
He begins to sweat.
She leans in closer, sensing his discomfort. Thrilled by the thrill of the chase, which is thrilling.
“Drums make me want to do all sorts of things,” she whispers into his ear.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.
“…sinful things…” she continues.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“…like dancing,” she finishes.
He must escape this raging inferno of forbidden desires; he stands and walks over to the table. He is desperate to change the subject. He stares at her Bible.
She follows him back to the table. Stalking her prey.
“You want to see it?” she coyly asks, and she means the Bible.
His mind says no but his hands say yes. His fingertips creep across the tabletop towards the NIV. Slowly, gently, he slides the monogrammed leather cover off of her Bible. The sleeve cover is full of church bulletins, which flutter to the floor, much like their dropping inhibitions, which is good symbolism.
To his surprise, a deception: this is no NIV Bible. It is a KJV.
“I like it rough,” she whispers, and she totally means translations.
He turns to face her.
She is holding two wine glasses.
“Let’s make tonight special,” she says with a wink.
His breath escapes him. No, he cannot drink. He shakes his head.
“Oh, these aren’t for alcohol,” she explains, filling the glasses with gravy.
His passions overwhelm him and he pulls her close–like, for a front hug and everything–but in his carnal frenzy he spills one of the glasses of gravy on her shirt. He is ashamed; he pushes her away and prepares to repent. What has he done–he has become craven, given over to worldly desires, more animal than man!
“Now I’ll have to take this off,” she says, sensuously, and pulls off her stained shirt to reveal a second, even more conservative shirt underneath.
His world is aflame with the lust of a hundred Methodists!
“I’ve got something for you,” he growls in his deepest voice, and reaches into his pants:
He extends the Chick Tract to her, yet she turns away: Now the hunted has become the hunter. She is taken aback by his brazen turning of the tables. She retreats to her chair and busies herself with preparing Christmas shoe boxes.
He follows and kneels behind her, placing his hands atop hers. It is pretty much exactly like that scene in the movie Ghost with the pottery.
He guides her hands, lovingly spooning potato salad into the shoe box. Next, he tenderly places a paintball gift card inside. No one prepared these gift boxes like Baptists did.
She closes her eyes. Her heart is racing now, afraid of this dangerous new attraction. Afraid of love. Also afraid because he smells real good, the way a Baptist man should smell, like Febreze and grandfathers.
“I’ve…I’ve made mistakes,” she moans. “I’ve loved Presbyterians.”
He will not be dissuaded. This is an altar call, an altar call of love, and he is stepping out of his pew.
“I’d like to ask you into my heart,” he whispers into her trembling ear.