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. . . K. Dawn Goodwin’s holy crusade to be the Lord’s sexiest spokesperson began at the tender—but far from innocent—age of seven. And while she always thought Jesus was kinda hot, even He could not quiet the avalanche of prepubescent lust and the burning wish for a man to find her, like Bathsheba, comely enough to spy on. Crucified by soulless pretty girls and cruel jocks whose mission it was to make her life hell on earth, adolescent Dawn, painfully obsessed with her own ugliness, found slivers of sweet relief in dry-humping the scrawniest guy on the wrestling team and scribbling bodice rippers starring her favorite teacher. But, Praise Jesus, at least her virginity was intact. Until college, where, thanks to a seriously sculpted Jew, Dawn’s chastity crumbled like the Tower of Babylon. Her sex marathons kept her shouting, “Hallelujah!” but with her body image in apocalyptic disarray, her future husband unable to faith-heal her as promised, and the Bible threatening an extra-crispy afterlife, Dawn would have to face down her demons. Which was okay, because they were kinda hot too. . . .
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