Although I'm not usually a fan of pop-reading (especially from Oprah's book club), I've been re-reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love because sometimes one just needs a break from all his pensive, dour introspection. Something with a happy ending. Or at least something that distracts one from his own messed up life by inviting him into the messed up life of someone else. Eat, Pray, Love offers both.
Well, until page 29, where Ms. Gilbert writes, "[t]he Great Sufi poet and philosopher Rumi once advised his students to write down the three things they most wanted in life."
So casually I drew up my own list in my mind:
1. A healthy relationship with Jesus
2. A healthy relationship with another man
3. Bay windows from which to view my garden
She continues, "[i]f any item on the list clashes with any other item, Rumi warned, you are destined for unhappiness."
As there is clearly not room enough in my life for all three things on this list, I suppose I could: console myself with the popular wisdom that two out of three ain't bad; or accept Rumi's wisdom and resign myself to a lifetime of unhappiness.
F* my life.
Monday, March 30, 2009
A Life too Crowded, Not Rumi
Friday, March 27, 2009
Turning Turtle
My friend Nadia invited me out to watch turtle racing to celebrate her 28th. Having never heard of this spectator sport, I assumed it was something quaint, like a pastime Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise might have enjoyed on a Thursday night in Far and Away. Not so, according to an email explanation from another friend, Ellie, who's been to the races before:
So about the turtle racing thing...it is disgusting. I have never seen women with lower self-esteem. The whole idea behind the turtle race is really to get chicks to bend over and put the turtles down—you cannot bend your knees. They blow the whistle for a unknown penalty and make each girl do it again, telling them to spread their legs more and taking a picture this time.This delightful plot summary was followed by some analysis of the human participants:
A good portion of the turtle droppers wore skirts. When you spread your legs and bend over in a skirt your v-jay-jay is totally out there. especially if you are wearing a thong...or no underwear at all, like one girl thought was okay.
It is clear that the skirt girls knew what was going on and many were playing into it. These people are totally psychologically f'ed up. They want attention so bad and are not hot enough for porn so they are willing to go to a disgusting dirty bar and bare their cooch… the thing is, due to the vast amount of vag's that are exposed it is very unlikely that someone will remember yours and come up to you after and compliment it.I laughed in agreement, of course, at how pathetic the girls were in their attempts to procure attention at the expense of their dignity, then mused for a moment on the effort people will exert in their search for significance.
I was going to really think about the psychology behind this and if it had something to do with childhood abuse or insecurity associated with something else, but I don’t have the time so for now I am just going to say the girls are f'ed up whores who can't get attention via their brains, so they use their lady parts.
But didn't give it too much thought beyond that until this evening at church, where we sang "Jesus Paid it All." When we got to the verse below,
Lord, now indeed I find
Thy power and Thine alone,
Can change the leper’s spots
And melt the heart of stone.
which led me to consider the "leper's spots" I'd accumulated during my recent adventuring. This made me think how "stone-hearted" I've been about the incident, which in turn caused me to question what compelled me to do something I find morally objectionable. This sort of psychological introspection can be dangerous if pursued without the assistance of a professional, but I proceeded anyway...
...and after a long and meandering train of thought, realized that I am just as messed up as the turtle racing girls. I guess the plank in my own
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nasty, Dirty Sex
Warning (because the title may lead some to the erroneous conclusion that this post is about kittens dancing with ponies and rainbow-colored unicorns): this entry is graphic. You have been warned.
I've decided that hookups with strangers have their ups and downs. Ups: I get to have sex. Downs: as many people know, sex can also be a "down," especially when one expected it to be up Up UP.
So recently, through the sex-providers known as the Internet, (though not through Gay Face), I found a local college guy also on the prowl. He's not out, so we couldn't meet at his dorm room; I am quasi-out, but not in a way that permits free love (roommate issues). The solution: no one is at my office past 9pm. We met at 10:30, just to be safe.
Be apprised that I did have reservations about this: I'm sure I would at least get chastised if i were caught. In addition to the Biblical injunction against pre-marital and homosexual sex, there was also an ethical consideration: is it inconsiderate to have sex in a cubicled environment, a semi-public square? How would I feel if I knew my co-workers were fornicating right there against the water cooler, or over here on the rug that is considered a common space?
But, as is so often the case, I chose to ignore those better angels on one shoulder in favor of the demons goading me on with the promise of orgasmic bliss on the other.
I was surprised that he asked "normal questions," the kinds of inquires one makes when meeting a person one isn't planning on screwing five minutes later. What do you do? Oh, how do you enjoy that? Where'd you go to school? What was your major?
After some light making out, I unbuttoned his shirt. Since my typical venue for hookups is bath houses, I'm used to freshly showered guys. Not so with this collegian. Not that he was completely funky, but he had a trace of body odor that was surprising, but pleasing. It bespoke a manliness that I found alluring.
(Despite the stereotypes of gays as effeminate and being attracted to effeminate men, most of the gays I know prefer pretty masculine guys. I mean, if we were attracted to the super fem-types, we might as well go for women, and then we'd just be straight.)
So I gave nipples a little loving (which I assumed he enjoyed, based on the depth and audibility that his breathing assumed.) I let my hands travel south to loosen his belt, pull down his boxers...
Something smells heinous. The odor did not suggest masculinity, or any quality that might entice me sexually or otherwise. It wasn't manly; it wasn't even human. I tried to think of ways to describe the smell, but couldn't come up with anything comparable. The smell wasn't super strong, just highly unpleasant.
Thus was my predicament: Can I tell him that he's malodorous? Is it alright to ask him to go to the bathroom and wash up a little? We just met, so he's technically a stranger, and I would never tell a stranger that he smelled. Should I make a hint? I can't even threaten to break up with him over this, because we're not dating. Arg--the dilemmas of a one-night-stand. O_o\
He looked at me and smiled. "Do you wanna suck it?"
Thinking fast, I grabbed some cologne that I kept in my desk drawer, spritzed my hands, and rubbed them together.
"Whatcha got there?"
"Oh, nothing..."
I rubbed my hands all over his underparts. I think he assumed this was an act of arousal; I knew it was an act of remediation.
Okay, you can do this. You can do this. It isn't gross: bodily "fragrances" are natural.
I filled my lungs with as much air as possible and went down. Holding my breath for as long as I could, I felt like a marine biologist, interacting carefully with his gentle environment. I resurfaced, gasped for air, and back down I went. Repeat. (If you've never tried this, it's a rather strenuous activity to conduct with limited access to oxygen.)
We finish; I wash my hands and go home. At home, I clean my hands again, have a snack, then shower. I wash my hands a third time, then...what's that smell? Oh no: my skin has somehow absorbed the particular bouquet of his genitals. And even after three thorough rinses AND A SHOWER--ie fifteen minutes of continuous exposure to hot water, with the mitigating fragrances from my shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and facial cleanser--I can still smell him on my hands.
The horror of the possibility of living the rest of my life with dick-hands was just starting to set in when I realized that I had also given this guy head: from this point on, I may forever be known as "penis breath."
Monday, March 23, 2009
No, it doesn't stretch any bigger than that, so quit asking.
My trainer Jonathan is providing me with much more than eye candy and lessons on fitness.
After my chest felt ready to disintegrate and I could barely raise my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow, we went into Jonathan's office to measure my body fat and discuss my feelings toward the sessions so far.
Having noticed that Jonathan isn't a good listener, I tried to sound as forceful as I could. "Jonathan, the sessions are good but..." Oh no: I am hedging. Be forceful! "but I really don't want my arms to be any bigger. A lot of my shirts are pretty fitted, and the sleeves are just right. If my biceps grow larger, my clothes won't fit me."
Jonathan leaned forward in his chair and squinted. His mouth opened slightly, as if it were trying to formulate a question, but couldn't figure out exactly what to ask. "You mean your shirts don't stretch like this one?" he eventually asked as he pinched a section of his uniform and tugged at it to demonstrate the miracles of Lycra.
No, my clothes are made of natural fabrics: cotton, wool, linen, cashmere. They're not designed to expand, and if you force them to, they will not recover their original shape or size.
"No, they don't."
Jonathan was not to be deterred. "You don't need nice clothes for girls to like you. Yeah, they always talk about 'I want my man to dress nice,' but if you look good in a tank top--like I do--that's all they care about. Just buy yourself some more tank tops."
Maybe I'm not being forceful or descriptive enough.
"Jonathan: I have a closet at home full of very expensive clothes. I am not going to intentionally out-grow them so that I can walk around in tank tops. I spent too much on those clothes to stop wearing them."
He considered this point for a moment, then brought out his conversation-stopper, the smile. "You don't believe me? Look, when I go to the mall, I take my little sister with me, and I have her count how many girls check me out in my tank top as we walk around. I like going into Victoria's Secret with her, because that's where I get the most attention. See, you don't need expensive clothes to attract the ladies. Big guns are a good thing."
OMG, am I hearing him correctly? Is this a true story? If not, why would someone make up something about himself that's so narcissistic? If it is true, why would someone reveal it to another human being? Yes, he is gorgeous, but I don't know that even good looks can excuse that sort of behavior.
"Hm, okay, I'll think about that. But I really am happy with the size of my arms, so can you please not do exercises that will bulk them up?"
He chuckled and shook his head at my inability to understand the importance of "big guns."
Thanks, Jonathan, for the extra-contractual laughs, and for exposing me to a level of egocentricity previously unimagined by the human mind.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
He Couldn't Even Cast the First Stone
Today in the park, a very enthusiastic pair of college students (one male, one female) eyed me, and once they seized me with their tractor beam-like eye contact, made a bee line toward me. They both had the smile. I know that smile. For several years as an undergraduate, I wore that smile and put it on every time I went proselytizing on campus. *
This particular pair were from a respected college ministry with which I am familiar, not one dabbling in brainwashing or cultist marriage rites. When they found out that I am their brother in Christ, they were happy, and asked how they could pray for me.
Tell them about my most recent homosexual encounters and ask them to pray for God's grace in my life? This seemed like a lot to confide in people who were strangers, so opted for the more generic "I'm going through some personal difficulties."
Without much more explanation than that, the guy evangelist launched into this story:One day Jesus appeared to a man, and told him to push three boulders that were outside his home. The next day, the man went out to push the first stone over the nearby cliff.
Sure that God had sent these students to enlighten me, I tried to discern His message. Will the boulder of homosexuality strengthen my faith, growing it from a tiny mustard seed into a large tree? Will this trial prepare me for greater work for His kingdom?
He dug his heels in the ground, pressed his hands against the stone, and exerted all of his strength. After about twenty minutes, the man was exhausted. He looked at the boulder, and didn't think that it had moved at all.
"Surely if God has asked me to move this boulder, He will give me the power to do it," the man said to himself. He measured the distance from his front door to the rock, and began pushing again. At the end of the day, he measured again to check his progress. Nothing.
The man went out the next day, and pushed for ten hours. He continued like this every day for two months [why the man did not need to go to work, I am not sure.] After that time, he measured again, but found that the first rock had not budged even a millimeter. [The man, fancying himself a citizen of the world, had wisely converted to the metric system years ago.]
"Lord Jesus!" he called. "Why did you ask me to move these rocks if you would not give me the power to accomplish the task?" he asked with great frustration. "After two months, the first one hasn't shifted even a millimeter.
Jesus appeared again. "I never asked you to move the rocks," Jesus replied. "I only told you to push them. And see how much stronger you are because of it."
The man then looked at his body. His shirtsleeves, once slack, were now filled with hefty biceps. His chicken legs had likewise become powerful and muscular.
Or was He simply admonishing me that I will push this boulder for the rest of my life, but never once make progress in advancing it?
Or perhaps He was simply telling me that I had His instructions all wrong: Push, not move; push not move! He might be saying, shaking His head that my misunderstanding has caused me to pursue the wrong goal entirely.
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*Even in a large crowd with other evangelees from which to choose, I am singled out almost invariably as the recipient of all kinds of religious teaching: protestants, Jehovah's Witnesses, the Bahá'í faith, Jews for Jesus. One time, I was even brought into a special proselytizing room for the Moonies, and made to watch a video about Sun Myung Moon, after which I was invited to participate in a mass wedding--no joke. Not that I mind; it's flattering that mine is always the soul designated by so many for salvation.)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Two is the Loneliest Number
-Romans 12:15
They've been married for four years, the last two of which were devoted to conceiving a child. When asked why he wanted to become a father, he would say only, "It's the next step in my life." It sounded robotic, made fatherhood seem like something on his things-to-do list. But that's how he always sounds, especially about things that make him anxious.
When asked about becoming a mother, she would angle her gaze toward him and smile in earnest joy. "We're ready to love a baby of our own, aren't we, honey." Phrased like a question, but expressed as a statement of fact.
In the beginning, friends asked them periodically for progress reports. "Are you?" they all wanted to know. One day at her office, a coworker noticed her stomach looked a little rounder than usual under a tight-fitting blouse.
"Congratulations!" the coworker announced.
"What? I'm not pregnant," she said.
Oops.
So everyone learned to stop guessing and second guessing, learned not to monitor the slight heft that had accumulated around her midsection, learned to pay attention to the disappointment gathering on her brow instead. And the couple learned too: learned to wait for God's timing, learned to talk in generalities and use the far-future tense, learned to think of children as a possibility and not as a certainty--a blessing and not a birthright.
"It's getting late; I think we should head home," she would say diplomatically once a month when hanging out with friends. Then out the door the couple rushed, their hurry rather inexplicable. These declarations never came at a particularly late hour, so their friends soon decoded that message. I am ovulating, and we're going to try again.
Some friends blamed this approach for their problems conceiving. "Sex should be about love, not about charts and schedules," they said amongst themselves, and sometimes to the couple. "Trying so hard is putting too much stress on things, and that's not how a baby should be conceived." Others thought the charts, and the calendars, and the temperature-taking were helpful in increasing their chances.
When the couple thought she might be, at first they didn't let anyone know, because one doesn't want to jinx things. Something bad might happen, they thought about waiting until after the first trimester. But everyone had been praying for them for so long, had shared in their anxieties and frustrations; the baby seemed to be as much their friends' as the couple's. Babies: they were twins.
"Isn't God faithful!" friends said. "A double blessing." "Long awaited children, like Isaac to Abraham and Sarah." Hugs, smiles, and congratulations all around.
So of course no one knew what to think yesterday when the father-to-be sent out an email saying the following: "We are no longer expecting children this year." Friends closest to the couple wrenched details from them, and disseminated what they learned: the second ultrasound revealed that the twins had no heartbeat. In the last two weeks, they hadn't grown at all--a very, very bad sign. Those who found out secondhand are unsure whether to mention this to the couple at all. Is it better to sympathize with them, or let things lie and not bring up this emotional grenade?
Is God still faithful? Was this really a double blessing? their gay friend wonders to himself. Which is worse, to taste the wine of marriage mixed with the gall of infertility and miscarriage; or simply to pine after a mate and children, but never knowing either? And for just this once, their gay friend thinks that maybe being gay and Christian isn't the worst thing that can happen to someone.
-Romans 12:15
Monday, March 16, 2009
Working Out Issues: Not as Easy as I Thought
This morning I had my free trail with Jonathan, who, to my dismay, is a little more covered up when he's training potential clients than when he's working out by himself. Same black shorts, same metrosexual Pumas, but a Lycra-infused T-shirt in lieu of the tank top.
As we walked from the front desk toward the free weights, he asked what muscle groups I wanted to train that day. Wanting to get my six pack in shape for summer, I told him abs.
"Thirty minutes, just doing abs?" he asked. If his slightly incredulous you're-freaking-insane-because-you-surely-will-not-last-thirty-minutes-on-my-ab-routine tone hadn't convinced me to change my mind, his pearly whites would have.
"Uhhhh, abs, back, and....shoulders?"
Note to self: stop being such a sucker for hot guys with killer smiles. You are in for a lifetime of hurt and exploitation if you don't learn to say "no" to these pretty boys.
I'm not the Governator in this T-2 days, but I'm in pretty good shape. I almost always take the stairs instead of the elevator. I hit the gym five times a week. My BMI is 22.4, which the National Institutes of Health identifies as clearly being in the center of the "normal weight" category. Not even near the underweight- or overweight- borders of the normal weight category--right in the center of normal. My doctor says I have the blood pressure of a healthy teenager. Which I should, because I hit the gym five times a week, and my BMI is in the center of the normal weight group, and I almost always choose the stairs over the elevator.
But Jonathan's workout disabused me of whatever fitness-based arrogance I might have had. Ten minutes into the regimen, I was gasping for breath like I was being waterboarded. I desperately wanted to get a sip from the fountain, but couldn't summon the strength to crawl over to it. My "abs, back, and...shoulders?" all felt like they had melted under my skin and turned to acid that was slowly digesting my body. My biceps, triceps, hamstrings, and quads were non-functional, and we weren't even training those muscles.
Back in Jonathan's office, my body collapsed in a heap onto a mauve chair on rollers.
Releasing nervous energy by tapped a pen on his desk, he asked, "So, what'd you think? Do you want to sign up for more sessions?" Then out came the teeth, white, symmetrical, and straight. Straight, as unfortunately, he probably is.
This was the time to 'seal the deal', but instead of getting some nice anal sex from a gorgeous trainer, I'd just end up getting ass-raped by the crazy fees.
Afterward, I realized what must have been apparent to the reader since the last entry: I wasn't interested (so much) in getting more fit; I wanted to spend alone time with Jonathan. Then wasn't this a kind of prostitution? Well, not in the traditional or legal sense, but I had signed a contract exchanging my money for his attention, because I had a sexual attraction to him. And didn't that demean him, objectify him, reduce him from a certified personal trainer to a mass of muscle and beautiful teeth?
And beyond being totally vulgar from a humanistic standpoint, what did this say about my character from a Christian worldview?
In the book of Ezekiel, God tells his people, "I bathed you with water, washed off your blood from you and anointed you with oil. I also clothed you with embroidered cloth and put sandals of porpoise skin on your feet; and I wrapped you with fine linen and covered you with silk."
But his people are unfaithful: "Men give gifts to all harlots, but you give your gifts to all your lovers to bribe them to come to you from every direction for your harlotries. Thus you are different from those women in your harlotries, in that no one plays the harlot as you do, because you give money and no money is given you; thus you are different."
And sure enough, there I was giving my money to feast my eyes on Jonathan, bribing him, as it were. Agenbite of Inwit...
But all this occurred to me too late. I'll be seeing Jonathan once a week for the next three months.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Working Out Issues: Meet the Meat
After noticing him a couple weeks ago, I finally got up the nerve today to talk to the cute new guy at gay church, aka the gym. Actually, meeting guys at gay church is fraught with some of the same problems as meeting them at regular church (though I've never found this latter venue particularly cruisy).
Primarily there is the problem of malfunctioning gaydar. False negatives: this is rare, but some gay guys hide their homosexuality really well; some don't have to "conceal" it at all, because they simply don't exhibit any of the typical tells. [Sometimes I code switch unintentionally at the gym from a slight gay drawl (nasal tone, higher pitch) to the most masculine voice I can muster. This is accompanied by a shift in my diction as well: instead of "no, go right ahead. I'm not using those weights," I might say, "naw. Naw, dawg, it's coo." (I think this stems from a subconscious desire to fit in with the all the macho gym rats.)] So some guys don't always show their true colors (pink and lavender). False negatives are basically missed opportunities.
False positives: this is more common (for me, anyway), but a little more dangerous. Because I desire for every attractive guy with a beautiful body to be gay, I often see signs where there are none. E.g. "Is he checking me out? I really think he's staring at me." (He probably is staring, but only because I was staring first.) Or maybe a guy seems to be following me around the gym, but this is only because he's working on the same muscle group that I am, and therefore requires the same machines. Or maybe a guy's leg is a little closer to mine than most heterosexual guys would be comfortable with. Etc. Pursuing a false positives has the potential to be very embarrassing, so it's best to leave a guy alone, unless you're pretty sure about him.
Anyway, this new guy was in a tight white tank top and black basketball shorts--and very stylish black Pumas, which gave me a sliver of hope. Because of a ridiculously--and enviably--low body fat percentage, every fiber of his shoulder muscles were visible; they emerged from his tank top like a pair of the most delicious grapefruits I have ever seen. Smooth, creamy skin; long eyelashes; straight, dark hair. Totally hot.
I approached, and asked in my most masculine voice about the effectiveness of the oblique exercise he was doing. (Inquiring about particular exercises or garnering workout advice is a fairly standard tactic of mine.)
"Try it and see," he invited me. Things were looking good.
I did a few reps, and could definitely "feel the burn" in my obliques.
Jonathan introduced himself, and said he was a new trainer at my gym. He asked whether I were interested in a free 30 minute trial session. Then he whipped out the big guns (no, sadly, not that big gun): he smiled. Half an hour of exercise with a personal trainer, plus one-on-one attention from one of the most gorgeous men I'd ever seen? Yeah, this would be a decision over which I would have to labor.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Gay Face
Rick, Aurora, and I had coffee this evening. She is obsessed with Facebook, the online social networking site. [Do I really need the hyperlink or the explanation? Anyone with enough internet savvy to read a blog must know what Facebook is, but I figured just for completeness' sake, I might as well add it. Plus, this shields me from claims of partiality: "Why did you hyperlink your own entires, but not Facebook?"]
Anyway, Aurora's addiction borders on unhealthy; it does not help that her Blackberry updates her constantly on Facebook ongoings. So there we were, reclining in semi-overstuffed furniture the color of dark roasted beans, the air redolent of a slightly stale brew. Rick sipped a grande passion tea, Aurora a non-fat latte. (Tea and coffee stain the teeth; a bottle of Ethos™ for me, please.)
Aurora's opposable thumbs pecked at her phone zealously, like someone resolved to make full use of the evolutionary advantage nature has bestowed. "Have you ever tried to meet anyone on Facebook?" she shouted to me over the shriek of the espresso machine.
"Well...no. I'm not looking to date anyone right now," I began. "Plus, I'm not fully out, so I wouldn't acknowledge my sexuality on Facebook. But there is a similar site out there for gays and lesbians."
This was tantalizing enough for even Aurora to look up from her friends' status updates. "Really? What's it called?"
"Not everyone who uses it is out, so I don't feel right about telling you about it. It would be like outing someone."
Aurora set her Blackberry down on the table, repositioned herself cross-legged, and rested her elbows on her knees. This enabled her to lean forward, to get closer to the story. "Really? So it's like a secret society?"
Rick rolled his eyes. "Come on, man, just tell us what it's called. What's the big deal? If we were gay, you would totally tell us." He began rolling up the sleeves of his blue-striped dress shirt.
"Yeah, but if you were gay, then you'd have a stake in keeping it secret, because you might not want others to know about it. You're just a straight person with nothing to lose." (Just a straight person. I don't think I'd ever used that phrase before. It was pejorative in a way that's acceptable only when used against a majority group. A straight person could never get away with saying, "You're just a gay person.")
Rick slunk back in his chair, as if my reply had taken on a physical dimension, caught him off-guard and nudged him backward. "Whatever. I'm going to find out what this thing is called."
Aurora's eyebrows moved close together while her mouth opened into a small ring of disgust. "Rick, you're horrible. It's their secret society, don't intrude. Let him keep it a secret if he wants to." She turned to me. "I totally understand. I mean, I am totally curious and everything, but I also know why you can't--and shouldn't--tell us."
"I know what it is," Rick announced. "It's gay Facebook. So it has to be called Gay Face."
If only it were named something as cool as Gay Face.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Coming Clean (Present Progressive)*
After the incident overseas, I had a domestic encounter: strike number two. So it was with real dread that I approached Bryan about my most recent transgression.
Actually, confessing this third strike to Bryan wasn't the true source of my anxiety. At the same time that I was planning and arranging my meet-and-greet-and-beat-the-meat, Bryan coincidentally stepped up his accountability regimen.
"How are things going with your struggle? How can I pray for you? Have you hooked up with anyone lately? Are you planning on hooking up?"
Lying to Bryan via email was much easier than lying to his face, but the net effect on my conscience and on our relationship was the same. These weren't just regular lies, which are corrosive enough in a friend or ministry relationship; I had an explicit understanding that I would always be forthcoming with Bryan, especially because he had defended me to our congregation as an upright, trustworthy brother. So much for that.
Knowing the confession would be difficult, I had composed a basic script in my head several days before, and stuck to it fairly closely.
Rather than looking Bryan directly in the face, I traced shapes on my place mat with my index finger. "Bryan, I have to ask your forgiveness. I had been truthful to you about things before, but I lied to you recently..." This was followed by a general account of my indiscretion, then an explanation of what I had learned from the whole ordeal.
"Since this happened, I realized I was trying to resist temptation on my own strength, instead of submitting to the Lord and allowing Him to help me. Ironically I feel much closer to Him since the hook up, because it's teaching me to be more dependent, and trust less in myself. So even though I know what I did was a sin, I see how God is using it, and I understand why He allowed it to happen."
Bryan listened respectfully, then began with the his usual questions, and started talking about consequences. I interrupted him.
"You didn't respond to what I said in the beginning."
"Oh. I didn't? What did you say?"
Why did he always make me repeat the hardest things? And this one, more difficult than just about anything else. "I lied to you. I don't deserve it, but...do you forgive me?"
His smile said "how ridiculous" before his lips said, "of course. Of course I do." Hearing Bryan's response was like falling into a bed with a downy comforter after an exhausting day. Relief. Yet it was a relief not unmixed with an echo of guilt: forgiving comes as naturally to Bryan as abusing trust did to me.
But there would be world and time enough later for remorse, for dealing with the consequences. Sometimes it's enough just to be forgiven.
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*Unfortunately, I don't feel like I'm making much "progress" at present in ending the struggle between faith and sexuality. Then again, I don't feel like my past is very perfect, either. If only life could be categorized and parsed as neatly as verb tenses.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Coming Clean (Past)
I spent some time abroad about a year ago, and during that time I hooked up with a few guys. (Actually, the first time something happened, I felt "dirty" afterward, and rushed back to my room to shower. I began to understand the Old Testament concept of being defiled before God.)
Because of my arrangement with Pastor Bryan (see preceding entry), I knew I would tell him what had happened as soon as I returned State-side. Because I'm a protestant, this decision had nothing to do with confessing to a priest for absolution--that is a very Roman Catholic notion. Beyond the desire to uphold our agreement, I wanted his counsel on what to do; I wanted his prayer support to help me through the aftermath of my adventures; I wanted to know whether he would still trust me.
I arranged a time to talk with Bryan over lunch, a practice that was not uncommon especially since I was working with him in ministry, and had just returned from my trip. Normally loquacious, I felt my mouth seize up when I attempted to explain what had happened. It was impossible to make eye contact; my gaze shifted from my napkin to his flatware, to the other patrons, then finally on my own hands, folded as if in prayer, asking God for a little help in an awkward conversation.
"You know," Bryan said to dispel the silence that had settled over our table, "if you're not comfortable sharing something with me right now, you don't need to tell me."
"No, no. I am ready. I'm just thinking how to tell you."
"Okay. Well, take your time." But that patient response only encouraged a second round of vision bouncing: from ice cubes in a tall glass, to black and white photographs on the restaurant walls, to the hostess behind the cash register.
He interrupted my optical dancing again. "I'm not just your pastor; I'm your friend, too. You can tell me something in the context of being friends. Then later, if you feel ready, you can also tell me as your pastor." This distinction didn't assuage my anxiety, nor did it make me more comfortable telling him. Yet somehow it got me talking.
"During my time overseas, I..." Here it comes. "...I had sex with some guys." The truth was out. Triumph at last!
"I'm sorry, could you say that again? I couldn't hear you, the waitress was clearing the table next to us."
OMG, I thought, you've got to be kidding. He totally heard me, and is now punishing me for what I did. This was, of course, a totally baseless claim, one utterly opposed to Bryan's nature. So it had to be God who was divinely orchestrating the cacophony of dishes, cups, and forks as punishment for my sin. I would be like Sisyphus, but instead of rolling a boulder uphill, I would repeat the line "I had sex with some guys" into perpetuity.
"When I was overseas, I had sex with some guys." Saying it the second time was easier, and less impeded by guilt, just like the second time having sex(!)
Bryan was remained calm. Either he still hadn't heard me, or wasn't surprised. "What exactly did you do?"
"Well, not anal sex, just oral. But it's still sex..." How candid does he want me to be? Is this the right time to explore the sexual gradations between fellatio and sodomy?
A succession of other questions followed: how many guys were there? (Three.) How did you meet them? (At gay clubs.) Were the events premeditated before you left for your trip, or was it something you decided to do once you arrived? (The former.) Was this the first time this has happened? (Yes.)
"I'm glad you felt safe enough to tell this to me as a friend," Bryan said. Then he added with a smile, "if you feel ready to tell 'Pastor Bryan', I'm sure he'd be very understanding, too. Not happy about this, but understanding." OMG: have this same talk again? And what's with the self-references in third person? I consented to letting Bryan know in his official capacity, but he wasn't sure exactly what steps to take regarding my involvement in the youth ministry, so he asked for time to think and discuss with another one of the pastors.
I told my small group (who did pray and provide some accountability); I took time off from teaching in the kids; I went tried several Christian counselors for a few months, but stopped after my schedule got too busy. For a while, all these measures kept the beast of my homosexual attraction at bay.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Coming Clean (Past Perfect)
My church family found out I was gay before my biological family. Well, maybe I should rephrase that: I came out to my church several years ago; I still haven't told any of my relatives, though some of them may have their own suspicions about my sexuality, independent of direct communication from me.
A few years back, in hopes of breaking down façades of holiness and encouraging greater transparency, I offered to share a testimony with my congregation. [In Christian parlance, "sharing a testimony" can refer to: a) formally telling the story of how God saved someone (usually as part of a church service); b) formally sharing any work that God is doing/has done in one's life; c) (uncommon) informally telling a friend either of the above.] When I gave the testimony about my struggle with homosexuality, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Certainly my church family didn't (and doesn't) endorse a gay lifestyle, but they affirmed that my confession didn't make them view me any differently. One friend came up to me with lachrymose eyes and apologized for her persistent efforts to set me up on dates. Even the most thug member of our congregation approached me with a handshake: “Yo dawg, it’s coo, it’s coo. I always thought you were a little…you know, different. [Use of air quotes.] Now it all makes sense. But I ain’t bothered by it—we still tight, aight?”
There were misunderstandings about what I shared, mostly from older church members who heard second- or third-hand accounts of my testimony. No one approached me directly with his (and it seems all the objectors were brothers) concerns, but things percolated to me through the church grapevine. This was the same avenues of information through which the objectors had heard of my testimony, but this time news was traveling in the opposite direction.
"I heard he endorsed homosexuality as an acceptable 'alternative lifestyle' from the pulpit."
"Didn't he say that being gay is permitted in the Bible?"
Initially I was disappointed that my brothers hadn't confronted me out of reverence for God's Word. If I were espousing heresy, shouldn't they stand up for the truth? Then I was hurt that they hadn't approached me out of concern. If I were wrong in my theology, didn't they care enough to correct me in love?
The most difficult battle came later, though, when I began volunteering in our youth ministry. One church member recommended that in a letter sent home to all the parents of the high schoolers, the pastors promulgate my struggle with homosexuality. I suppose this was intended to "warn" parents of potential danger or complications that might arise from my same-sex attraction.
Bryan, the youth pastor came to my defense. To this concerned colleague, he replied, "How would you like it if we sent a letter home to each family at our church, and told them about the sins you struggled with? We have never adopted a policy like this, and I don't see why this is an occasion to begin one. This volunteer has been very forthcoming with our church about his struggle, and he wouldn't have been so honest if he had any intent on harming our youth." This argument summarily ended debate, and I was admitted as a volunteer without further protest.
So I felt greatly indebted to Bryan, and offered this agreement: he could trust me to tell him everything relevant to my "situation," and I would trust him to use that information to make the best decisions for the youth ministry--namely whether I should stay or go. And at that time, it was an easy agreement, because I had not engaged in any activities that warranted disclosure on my part.
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Rent Quonundrum, Conclusion
As it turns out, Paul ultimately decided to participate in the Rent excursion, but a couple of his friends from Bible study dropped out for aforementioned reasons. This meant he had an extra ticket, which naturally fell to me since: a) I love musicals (I know, how cliché: a gay guy who enjoys musical theater); and b) I had helped convince him going to see it as a Christian wasn't necessarily wrong. As an added bonus, these friends felt responsible to pay for their seats since they had already committed, so I enjoyed Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal gratis. (So if you happen to be reading this, "thank you" to Paul's legalistic friends.)
Some commentators have asserted that Rent, which opened on Broadway in 1996, has now in 2009 lost the edginess that added to its allure. Probably its own success helped make once-taboo topics like homosexuality more mainstream for Broadway (think Spring Awakening). I have to admit that yes, Larson's magnum opus felt a little quaint--like an early 1990s period piece--in my most recent viewing, but this time it stirred something within me that I hadn't previously felt from the drama.
Readers familiar with Rent may suspect that "I'll Cover You," the love song between the show's two gay characters, was what elicited my maudlin response.
Actually, it was "Will I," a song about uncertainty, about searching for significance. It's sung at first by Angel, then Life Support, a group dealing with HIV/AIDS, and finally the entire cast joins in rounds, thereby broadening the scope and suggesting that these are questions all humanity asks. Spare lyrics, but powerful:
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow
from this nightmare?
The other powerful moment for me during the play was at the end of "Without You." Three beds occupy the stage, each occupied by a couple, one gay, one lesbian, one straight. The rhetorical question being asked is simple, but powerful: what's the difference between them? Why should one kind of love be privileged or accepted over another?
Then I wondered, Is the scene asking this question, or am I?
Sunday, March 1, 2009
A Brief History of Mine
It's 2009, and gay marriage is lawful in two states [Connecticut and Massachusetts], and was legal in California for almost five months. Rosie O'Donnell had her own talk show, and now co-hosts The View; Ellen's show has entered into its sixth season, and Queer Eye even made a short stint on NBC--in prime time(!) Clearly mainstream society has taken noteworthy steps toward viewing the LGTB community as "normal", or at least toward tolerance and acceptance. So what's my hangup?
I was born into an agnostic, but socially conservative family sometime between the Village People's debut of "Y.M.C.A." and Cher's release of "If I Could Turn Back Time." My parents never explicitly expressed disapproval of homosexuality, but my father's occasional remakes about "queers" and "faggots" made his opinion on the matter clear enough. By the time I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was definitely aware of my same-sex attraction, but absolutely refused to label myself as "gay." I knew from the playground that that moniker carried the same pejorative weight as "four-eyes," "retard," and "trash-digger." During my tween years, I came out to myself, but didn't share my new identity with anyone else.
Early in high school, I made friends with some Christians who got me a Bible and assigned me various sections of the New Testament to read. (I'm can't remember what compelled me to follow their requests, but I surmise it was related to being a people pleaser: the more I read, the happier they seemed.) Eventually I joined a Bible study with some of these Christian friends, realized that I wanted to know and be loved by the same God who knew and loved them.
So at this point I was aware that: a) I was a guy sexually attracted to other guys; b) I was about to become a disciple of the Christian faith; c) the God whom I would follow was not terribly keen on homosexuality. But my friends (not knowing about my same-sex attraction) had assured me repeatedly that above all, God was loving and forgiving. And dating and marriage (and sex) seemed as far in the future as the Battle of Bull Run from A.P. US History was in the past. To say that I was insensible to the complications of co-mingling the kingdoms of God and the kingdom of gay is an understatement on the order of magnitude of calling Clay Aiken "a little bit fem."
Future problems in my sex or spiritual lives--these things were not even blips on my gaydar. Indicative of the naive optimism that still mangles my planning, I figured this "difficulty" would work itself out. So when I prayed for "Jesus to come into my heart," I also confessed that I liked boys and had once received a (slighly disappointing) blow job from one, and considered the issue resolved.
Theology: I belong to a Reformed Evangelical church that holds to the inerrancy of the Bible. In other words, this is not church for amateurs. (I believe the expression in the South is "We do church right.") Mine is not the sort of faith that drags me to church on Easter and Christmas only--who would want to meet with the people he most loves to participate in one of the deepest experiences he knows (corporate worship) only biannually? No, I'm there Sundays, for mid-week Bible study, Friday nights to help with the youth group, all week during the summer for Vacation Bible School, going out for short term missions trips...This is hard core Christianity.
So God's injunction against homosexuality isn't ignored, taken lightly, or interpretted as "archaic" and culturally irrelevant in the 21st century. Scripture says it's a sin, and I take this literally. But while I didn't choose my homosexual thoughts or attractions, I can choose whether or not to indulge in a gay lifestyle. I can deny myself, take up my cross daily, and follow in obedience to Christ, or I can choose to ignore Him and do my own thing. Most days I walk along the former route; some days crawl; sometimes I have to be carried. I'd be lying, though, if I didn't acknowledge the myriad times I allowed that latter course to seduce me (more to come on that later).
Also to follow in future entries: details on my theological understanding of what it means to have same-sex attraction and follow Christ. But this is becoming less of a "brief history" by the word, so I'll conclude here.