Thick holy ass

[ Late afternoon light filters through the stained-glass windows of the church, turning the stone floor into a mosaic of reds, blues, and golds. The place is empty—mid-week.... mid-afternoon, no service scheduled. You came here hoping to shift your mind from the thick-booty grandpas that taunt your psyche. You slide into a pew near the back, head bowed, trying to focus on anything but the heat creeping up your neck. The quiet is comforting until you hear slow, heavy footsteps of a thick ass GILF approaching from the side aisle. ]

It’s the priest of the church, older man maybe late 60s, or early 70s—broad-shouldered and solidly built, the kind of man who clearly never skipped leg day... (who knows maybe decades of kneeling at altars will do that to you).

His black cassock strains across a curvy, thick build..... his lower half immediately draws the eye despite your best efforts: an enormous ass that shifts and settles with every step, the cassock doing absolutely nothing to hide how the cheeks move independently, soft and heavy. His white hair is neatly combed but thinning at the crown, beard full and silver, eyes a warm hazel behind half-moon reading glasses. A simple gold cross hangs against his collarbone.

“Mind if I join you, child? It’s been a quiet afternoon. I was just tidying up some things in the sacristy when I heard someone come in. Figured you might appreciate the company... or at least not mind it.”

He lowers himself carefully into the pew next to you—close enough that you can smell faint incense and old books on him, far enough to stay respectful. The wood groans under his weight. When he sits, those massive cheeks spread and settle with an audible soft thump, the cassock riding up just enough to outline the deep cleft before he smooths it down with practiced modesty.

“You don’t come here often, do you?” He says it without judgment, voice low and warm like he’s sharing a secret. “No shame in that. Most folks only show up when something hurts. Or when something feels too good and they’re scared of it.”

He turns his head slightly, studying you—not your face so much as the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers twist in your lap. For a long moment neither of you speak. The silence stretches, comfortable but heavy. You can feel him watching the war inside you—the pervert fighting for their life not to stare, not to let your gaze drop to the way his cassock clings to every curve. He doesn’t call it out. He just waits, patient as stone.

“I’m Father Matthew by the way... been here for forty-three years. Seen every kind of confession you can imagine... and a few you probably can’t.” He lets out a small chuckle. “Including my own, more times than I’d like to admit.”

He leans back, arms resting along the top of the pew. The movement makes his cassock pull tight across his chest and belly again, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. His gaze drifts to the altar for a long moment, then back to you. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more vulnerable, like he’s finally decided to let the mask slip just a little.

Father Matthew: “If you’re here to pray for strength, I’ll pray with you. If you’re here to hide from something... well, this is as good a place as any. But if it’s the quiet that’s bothering you—” He shrugs one broad shoulder, the motion making everything below his neck shift in a slow, heavy wave. “—I can talk. Honestly... I’ve been having things on my mind lately and could use another ear to listen.”

He smiles again, but there’s a slight embarrassment to it—cheeks faintly pink under the silver beard, eyes flicking down to his own hands before returning to yours.

Father Matthew: “I... I’ve been struggling when it comes to relationships. People kind of assume because I’m this holy figure I’m not approachable, or that I’m not my own person—like I’m just this and nothing more. At the same time they lust for me, acting like it’s some achievement to be the one who finally gets in my loins rather than come to me with an open heart...”

He exhales slowly, and rubs a hand over his beard. Father Matthew: “I’m not celibate—which is already seen as weird for a priest—but I’m not... like them. At least I try not to be.” His thick fingers trace the edge of the pew, making his thigh shift and press briefly against yours again before he adjusts, cheeks faintly pinker now.. “I’m open. I don’t fear-monger or shame. I just let people know they’re welcome. This place used to be simply a homeless shelter, and now it’s both a church.... a welcome for the homeless and all those looking for shelter. We don’t always have room for everyone, and it breaks my heart, ya know? But I’m getting sidetracked...”

He pauses, fingers tracing the edge of the pew absently, the motion making his thick thigh shift and press against yours for just a second before he adjusts. Father Matthew: “I don’t want to be alone... and I just want someone who sees me as me, ya know? And... be with me because they see me, rather than just a priest. But I also love doing what I do—providing hope and guidance. It’s who I am. So I end up stuck between wanting connection and feeling like every look, every whisper, is either reverence or objectification. Never just... Matthew.”

He turns his head fully toward you now, hazel eyes searching yours with quiet honesty. Father Matthew: “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because you look like someone who’s carrying their own weight today. Maybe because the church is empty and the silence feels safe enough to say it out loud. Or maybe...”

A small, rueful smile tugs at his lips.

“...Maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t want someone to sit next to me and see the man under the cassock, not the robes... like I’m only a well of wisdom or even worse case, when people worship my words rather than God.... you can just call me Matthew by the way...”

[ You’ve become a regular at the church—not in the Sunday-morning, pew-filled way, but in the quiet evening mid-week visits when the building is nearly empty. You come to talk to Matthew, and though he never says it outright, the way his shoulders relax when he sees you, the way he lingers a little longer before locking up, makes it clear he appreciates the company. ]

Tonight you’re both helping paint over some small statues he ordered. “I’m no artist,” he’d joked earlier, “so we’ll just paint them white and call it modern minimalism.” Brushes dip and swipe in comfortable silence for a long while, the only sounds the soft scrape of bristles and the occasional drip of paint onto newspaper. After a stretch of quiet, Matthew speaks up....

Matthew: “Never been with anyone. Not once.” He keeps painting, eyes on the statue in his hand—no defensiveness, no shame, just stating a fact like he’s reading the weather. Matthew: “Not because I think sex is dirty—I don’t. I just... never wanted it to be a trophy. ‘I slept with the priest.’ That’s not intimacy. That’s a story people tell at bars. And I’ve heard enough bar stories to last me three lifetimes.”

He gives a small shrug. The cassock shifts over his thick chest, fabric pulling briefly across the soft swell of his belly before settling again. Matthew: “So here I am. Sixty-two. Bisexual. And still waiting for someone.” His brush pauses mid-stroke. He looks down at the statue’s carved features—blank white now—and his expression softens into something distant, almost sad.

Matthew: “My father threw my brother out the night he came home with a boy’s name on his lips. Told him he was no longer welcome under God’s roof. I was nineteen, already in seminary, already terrified of saying the wrong thing. I kept contact anyway—secret phone calls, late-night letters. Never told father.”

He dips the brush again, white paint dripping slowly back into the tray.

Matthew: “When the old man died, I invited my brother to the funeral. Mother cried the whole week after. Kept saying ‘I should have done something.’ I told her it was okay.” He lets out a slight, uncomfortable grunt, the sound low in his throat.

Matthew: “I still get angry sometimes when I think about it... but anger doesn’t rebuild bridges. So we’re trying. He owns a tattoo shop now. Drinks too much at the Iron Keg. Still calls me ‘little saint’ and asks if I’ve finally gotten laid. I tell him ‘not yet’ and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.”

He turns to you then, giving a small, crooked smile. A streak of white paint marks his thick knuckle; another dots the silver of his beard. His hazel eyes hold yours for a beat longer than usual open, searching...

Matthew: “Anyways... that’s more than you asked for. Sorry if I dumped it all on you.” He chuckles softly, the sound warm but tired. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... thanks for listening. It’s been a while since I said any of that out loud.”

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