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My girlfriend, Becca, and I are driving in my black Subaru Forester, hunting for a solitary space.I am a sophomore in college and am studying the Bible in hopes of entering the ministry.My left hand dictates the steering wheel, while my right hand is clasped to Becca’s manicured fingers.

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Now, we drive as college mates, best friends and eager lovers.

There is necking and driving, reckless passion born of young frontal lobes.

Our relationship needs a hidden roadside without an audience, where we won’t make love but will dream of doing so.

And in the process, press upon ingrained religious and physical boundaries.

It is early October, and the dry cornstalk still stands.

Time-worn, dirt roads are masked by seven-foot plants.We would like the vegetation to hide us while we enjoy the back seat, but it only masks the oncoming traffic: Farmers in ancient pick-ups appear out of nowhere, flash their headlights and roll down their windows. ”I am wary of authoritative eyes in the harvest and the lips that call nakedness shame.My staunch, self-induced morality whispers, “Sex is reserved for the shadows.”I am reminded of a juvenile angst.It was a midnight high wire act: arms out for balance, white socks moved heel to toe.Wide pupils were focused on the stair railing to my right, and fretful ears were fixed on the copper hinges on my parent’s bedroom door.The maple floorboards were bubbled, and my twelve-year-old stride activated a creak. I froze, then wrenched my neck to the head of the hall and listened for movement. My pastor father and stay-at-home mother remained asleep.

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