by Tara Tingle
My eyes widened with panic when I became aware of what was there, one which shouldn't have been there in the first place.
An erection.
My erection.
And Ernie was rubbing it as he wriggled his leg while he slumbered.
I quickly moved to the farthest side of the bed, away from him, away from the fear of being caught like that, away from the confusion that suddenly possessed every fiber of my being. I prayed so hard that he didn't notice, that he was in fact in deep sleep, that it didn't wake him up.
I spent even more hours thinking about why it was happening.
I was certain that it wasn't because of the hormonal madness that came with puberty.
I knew exactly why my penis was hard.
It was because of Ernie and the thought that I was so close to him in the privacy of his own room.
I wrestled with my sexuality for years after that. I went through the gamut of emotions that almost every gay man had to endure as if such was a right of passage – the fear of condemnation, the shame of cowardice, the torment of confusion, the dread of uncertainty, the heartbreaking moments of opportunities lost because I didn't know who I really was.
I've had relationships – many of them, in fact – during that period... both with men and women. Being with a woman made me feel in control of who I was, but being with a man made me feel complete. Looking back, hooking up with both sexes only enabled my denial and delayed the inevitable.
I've come to terms with who I am when I was twenty-three, on my last year of college and right before I entered the seminary. A late bloomer. It was at that time when I accepted my real self.
But that acceptance didn't lead me to coming out of the proverbial closet, no.
I couldn't.
I was about to become a priest, and the Church didn't really approve of homosexuality.
The Scriptures are rife with passages that denounce same-sex affairs as sins of the vilest nature. The Church, intensely traditional as it is, has always been consistent with its stand against homosexuality, a stand that has remained unyielding throughout the centuries.
If they found out I was gay, they would never allow me to take my vow.
At that time, my passion to be a Man of God was too great that I was willing to lie about my sexuality rather than deny myself the opportunity to fulfill my heart's deepest desire. God will forgive me, I always told myself back then. I'll be His servant for the rest of my life, after all.
I eventually took my oath and became a priest. The years that followed were nothing short of rewarding. I was living the life I was called to live.
Priesthood, however, like most professions, entails constant learning. Education doesn't stop once we're allowed to put on our vestments. We read the Holy Word, we discuss its importance, we strive to keep it relevant in the changing world, and we try to unearth deeper meanings from every line written therein.
As the years went by, discontent found its way into my soul. I've been suppressing the real me for so long, repressing the needs that came with it. Previously, I was able to dismiss such misery by reminding myself why I became a priest. But I've learned so much since I put on these holy robes.
I've learned that, through the ages, the Scriptures have been mistranslated as they were passed from one culture to another, from one generation to the next. I've learned that, originally, the Scriptures didn't condemn homosexuality, rather, they denounced male prostitution. I've learned that the books in the Old and the New Testaments usually contradicted each other because they were written by different authors, often millenniums apart. And I've learned that the only thing constant in all of these writings was the fact that God loves us – all of us – sinners and non-sinners alike.
And love... love should be without conditions. Why then should homosexuality be wrong?
“You think daddy's wrong?” I asked Xavier, in response to the pout he displayed when I told him that I was going to give him a bath. “You think that you're not stinky and that you don't need a shower?”
He smelled his armpit before grumbling and shaking his head.
My face approached the same area and smelled it. It wasn't bad, but I had to pretend that it was to force him to go to the bathroom with me.
“Ugh! Is there a dead rat there?” I exaggeratedly delivered my faux revulsion.
Again, he shook his head, more fervently this time around.
“Well, if there isn't a dead rat there, the stench will surely kill one soon,” I told him, stifling my laughter as I found my riposte quite humorous. “So come on, off to the bathroom we'll go.”
He growled his refusal.
I gave him a stern look.
“No!” he squawked. I didn't even know that his assumed age was even capable of saying that word.
“No?” I repeated what he said. “Then you leave daddy with no choice then.”
I stood up and immediately hooked my hands under his thighs and over his back. I moved so quickly that he didn't even have the opportunity to resist. I lifted him up with relative ease. Xavier wasn't heavy at all, and I was significantly bigger than he was. He weighed around a hundred fifty or a hundred sixty pounds, by my estimation... light enough to carry him from the bed to the bathroom near the kitchen area.
I heard no complaints from him on our way to the door. He just stared at me with his eyes wide open. He was probably too shocked to even process what was happening.
Soon enough, we arrived at the bathroom. The place was small. There wasn't even a bathtub. I turned the faucet to check the temperature of the water, but the shower was broken. Not even a single drop of water came out of the head.
I searched the area and saw a bidet under the toilet bowl nearby. I grabbed it to see if it was functional. Fortunately, it was.
“Alright!” I exclaimed. “We're good to go.”
I pointed the bidet towards Xavier. He cringed as he expected cold water to be sprayed all over his body.
But before I could press the lever, however, I realized how difficult the situation truly was. Xavier was still in his diaper, and I was still in my robes. By the time I would finish giving him a bath, I'd be more drenched than he would be.
And so I unfastened my collar and removed my cassock. There was no mass scheduled for the day so I was not required to wear a surplice. I was only wearing a white shirt and a pair of black pants underneath, but I knew that they, too, wouldn't be spared by the bath I was about to give. And so I took them off as well until I was wearing nothing else but my bleached boxer briefs. I've been wearing this type of undergarments since I was ordained. I would've continued to wear boxer shorts if I had the choice, as they were more comfortable, but the Church frowns upon its priests wearing such kind of underpants. It's not a rule written anywhere, but ever since we started to attend the seminary, we were always asked to wear traditional briefs and long, narrow-shaped shorts, both of which had to be white. I did as I was told until I became a priest, and even the few months after that. But when I was assigned to Santo Tomas where the entire year was like a perpetual summer, I decided to make a minor adjustment. I always believed that boxer briefs were a fair compromise between the Church's preference and the realities of the Southern Californian climate.
I found myself smiling a bit as I reminisced about the arduous debate that raged in my head during those days when I was trying to justify the usage of this particular piece of clothing. Looking back, it was quite funny to think that I spent so much time and energy with my internal arguments about something as simple as a pair of underwear.
I was too engrossed with my musing, I didn't notice that Xavier was already sitting on the toilet bowl, his eyes fixed on my briefs, his face paler than it usually was. There was something strange about his stare. It was like he was hypnotized by what he was looking at. I even caught him swallowing some air, yet, that gesture didn't snap him out of the trance that he seemed to be in.
That prompted me to look down, as well.
I saw my
briefs, fitted as they were supposed to be. But I also saw the bulge that wanted to explode out of the confines of its fabric. I had an erection. Or rather... I still had an erection, one that never went away since the moment I saw Xavier's hardened penis when I was changing his diaper.
That's what he was looking at.
My first instinct was too chastise him about the impurity of his thoughts.
But then again, I was too consumed by my own imagination that my mouth failed to speak what my sworn duty should've compelled me to say. I, myself, was thinking about a lot of things...
Did Xavier's baby state allow him to entertain some carnal desires?
Did he find my near-nakedness arousing?
Was he picturing us doing acts which were most unchaste?
Does he like what he was seeing?
“Dada?” he interrupted my thoughts.
“Y-Yes?” I stuttered.
“Tik? Tik?” he said as he poked my manhood with his index finger.
Tik?
Perhaps he meant stick and he was expressing what he thought was covered by my underwear.
But was that even believable?
Xavier earlier explained that even if he's in his baby state, he was still aware of everything that was happening around him. He should know what was beneath my underwear.
So, was he just being true to his role? Was he merely being playful? Was he embarrassed that I caught him looking at it that he had to pretend that he was ignorant about what it really was?
Or was he so lost with this indulgence, so much so that it has began to reshape his reality?
I decided to set aside these questions to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Let's get on with it,” I said as I gave the lever a few gentle squeezes. Water spat out with every clutch. Xavier's eyes broadened with horror, extremely threatened by what was about to happen.
He shook his head violently.
“Sorry, baby... that won't work,” I told him with an amused grin.
I pressed on the lever and didn't let go.
Water sprouted from the nose of the bidet, dousing him immediately. He quivered and cowered and screamed as the deluge continued.
After some time, he seemed to have acclimatized to the temperature and the feel of the water on his body. It looked like he was even beginning to enjoy the bath. He tried to slap away the water before it could even reach him, giggling with delight as he did so. A minute or so later, he was already bowing his head so that the water would wet his hair.
I searched the bathroom for something that I could clean him with. Liquid soap would have been my preference, but the only thing I found was a soap bar which was already small and thin and almost unusable. I didn't have a choice. I took it and prepared to rub the same on his body.
It was only then when I realized that Xavier was still wearing his diaper... a diaper which was supposed to be fresh and good for a few more hours. Now, it was full and incapable of serving its purpose.
“Oh silly me,” I groaned. “Daddy forgot to remove your nappy. I'm sorry. I'm really new to this.”
He just gave me a quizzical gaze.
“Come,” I said as I placed my hand over his rear and drew him closer to me. He didn't expect that. He almost lost his balance as I pulled him nearer.
I quickly unclasped the velcro and took off his diaper.
My eyes should've followed the nappy as I threw it towards the corner of the bathroom, but they didn't. They remained glued to the area of his body which I just undressed.
He was still hard.
Harder, it seemed, than he was before.
Seeing him like that made me feel things which I knew I shouldn't allow myself to feel... things that I swore never to allow when I committed myself to my holy path... things that I knew would only lead me to a pit of sinful existence.
But these were also the same things I've been repressing since I entered priesthood... things that made me question my decision... things that made me doubt the vows that I made.
And repression...
Throughout the years I've struggled with my sexuality, throughout the years I've tried to follow the teachings of the Church, I've learned so much about repression...
Repression only escalates the matters that it's trying to conceal... repression fans the flame of passion until the sensations that are supposed to be suppressed reach a boiling point... repression doesn't really extinguish an issue, it only intensifies it until it couldn't remain buried anymore... repression only sets the stage for an eventual explosion that's more cataclysmic than what it intended to avoid.
And I asked myself, right there and then...
Should I continue to repress myself?
Or should I allow myself this moment of indulgence, one that may help me answer the questions that I've been asking myself for the past few years?
“Dada?” Xavier called my attention with the name he has assigned to me. He was pointing at what I was holding. “Sup?”
Sup?
He was trying to say soap, most probably.
It's funny how quickly I've started to understand what he was saying despite how incomprehensible they sounded. It was telling of a connection that was forming between us... one that wasn't bound by what we speak and what he hear.
“You want daddy to bathe you with soap now, huh?” I asked with a fond grin. “You aren't afraid of this anymore?”
He shook his head as he laughed.
“Wow! You're a big boy all of a sudden, eh?” I enthused.
He nodded his head vigorously.
“Very well, then,” I said as I grabbed his arm and turned him around. I began to rub his body with what little soap I was holding, starting from his neck down to his chest before proceeding to his ribs. Once there, he cringed and sniggered. I struck a ticklish part of him, it seemed.
I continued to his tummy before going back up to his arms. I made sure that no spot was left untouched. Once his upper body was foamy with soap, I knew I had to proceed downwards.
And so I went straight to his thighs, focusing on one before going to the other.
But in the process of crossing over, my knuckles inadvertently grazed his testicles. I felt his body stiffen as it happened.
He wasn't expecting to be touched there.
I wasn't expecting to touch him there.
What happened surprised both of us.
But despite being stupefied, I sensed something else from him... a nervous kind of excitement... a disconcerting kind of thrill... a fear and a yearning for more...
I knew that these were what he was feeling...
Because they were what I was feeling as well.
“X-Xavi..” I struggled to speak. “I... uhm... daddy... daddy has to clean you everywhere... you understand?”
He slowly nodded his head. For the first time since he started acting like an infant, I felt that he was responding like his adult self.
I pulled him even closer to me... until his spine leaned on my chest... until his buttocks rested against my crotch.
I tried my best not to move, not to produce the slightest motion that would make my hips wiggle, not to allow my penis to grate against his rear.
But the circumstances made the temptation so much difficult to resist. He was there, so close to me. I was in a position of arousing proximity. Our bare forms were rubbing against each other.
And every inch of my being was craving for him.
“Bi-wer?” he mumbled, softly, timidly, anxiously.
“Yes. Everywhere,” I confirmed.
He tipped his head to signify his assent.
And so, with my hand still gleaming with soap water, I began to stroke his hard and throbbing erection.
The lather made it slippery.
And that made it more pleasurable for him.
At first, he tried to hide it with cackles and coos. But soon enough, he was moaning.
And soon enough, he was wailing.
Wailing with pleasure.
> Wailing with bliss.
His hand reached backwards to grab my hair. He exposed his neck for my lips to savor. His other hand held my busy one to guide its motions.
“S-Shit... J-Joe...” he stammered as he struggled to remain lucid amidst the ecstasy he was experiencing.
He spoke like an adult.
He called me by my name.
He has dropped his act.
And somehow...
Somehow... that disappointed me a bit.
“Don't call me Joe,” I whispered as I continued to stroke his penis, squeezing it from time to time.
“W-What?” he asked, weakly.
“Don't call me Joe,” I repeated. “Call me daddy.”
“D-Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Daddy...”
“Yes.”
“Daddy!”
It's not that I wanted him to remain a baby to satisfy some perverse inclination I was secretly harboring, no.
But being his caregiver... being responsible for him... being his daddy... it gave me a sense of authority that was overwhelmingly sensual... a power over him that aroused me greatly.
I was allowing myself this brief moment of satiation...
This fleeting moment of sin...
I was risking a lot...
I didn't want it to end so abruptly.
I wanted to be his daddy. I wanted it so much that I'd beg for it if I had to.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” he screamed repeatedly as I rubbed his penis even faster.
He was reaching the point of climax.
He was about to come.
“Baby, I'm here,” I told him, gently, reassuringly, lovingly.
“Daddy! Oh daddy!” he kept shrieking.
“I'm here, baby,” I reminded him again. “It's okay. Let it out. Let it all out.”
“Daddy!” One final yell before his entire body shivered with absolute delirium.
My fingers caught some of the fluid that he unleashed – warm at best but seemingly scalding against my skin.
He shuddered and turned and wailed for quite some time as my hand never left his penis.
Slowly, his body dropped... falling into a heap of contentment.
I followed him to the floor, holding him tight and embracing him from behind.
I kissed the top of his head.