He'd promised his mother.
She lay dying that day, her body wasted, worn away by her countless worries and imagined transgressions. She had gripped his hand tightly, her face a rictus of anguish, her voice strong in resolve.
"Promise me! Now!" she hissed, and her son felt that he had had no choice. As her life faded, Curtis promised. He would join the priesthood, he vowed, and spend the rest of his life praying for the soul of his dear mother. Those prayers, and the sacrifice of her only son, would ensure that she might rest comfortably in the arms of the saints in a way that had escaped her in life.
Curtis felt safe making that promise, secure in his resistance to the lure of feminine wiles. In the twenty-eight years he had lived, he had never even felt a twinge of interest toward women. Or men, for that matter. No sexual attraction ever seemed to infect him. Over time, Curtis had begun to feel immune, vaccinated somehow against sexual urges.
After the funeral, Curtis sold the house and most of his possessions, intending the money to go to the Church. It was only by chance that he passed the travel agency and spotted the poster. A cruise of the Mediterranean, including a side trip to Rome. Curtis couldn't resist a visit to the Vatican, not with the priesthood awaiting him.
Yet as he stood in St. Peter's Square, admiring the Basilica, his gaze was arrested by a woman's legs, golden and glistening, as they passed him. Curtis could not look away, mesmerized by their motion. His stomach fluttered, his breath caught in his chest, and he began following blindly, working up the courage to speak to her. His mother would never forgive him, but God likely would.
The prompt is the the third definition of the word "infect".
Speaking of legs… we’re offering you a photo and a song this week. (I refuse to post the song, because I might lose my Headbanger mosh pit cred. Yes, that's a thing.) Happy writing!