Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  For a long time Gus coped with his socially awkward dilemma quite adequately. He kept his mouth shut about his affinity for little boys. And he kept his right hand active, masturbating furiously each night to mental images he retained from reading magazines or going to the movies. He did not date. And for that he took a lot of shit from his buddies. Even to the point of joking about his sexuality. But he did well in school and played sports, always averting his eyes in the shower room for fear of springing a testosterone induced boner.

  Fundamentally he knew that something was amiss. The entire rest of the world could not be wrong. That left only one answer…it was him. And the summer after his senior year in high school as his friends and his life as he knew it began to drift away, Gustavus Milliken did some hard thinking about his dilemma and his future.

  Sure it was odd that he had never dated a girl; that had raised a few suspicions. But to go the rest of his life as a single guy? Now that would be weird. There was the army of course, he could become a lifer in the military and the lack of female companionship may go a little less unnoticed. But living exclusively with men (albeit in uniform) would test his willpower. And being found out while living exclusively with men… well best we not go there.

  Eventually Gus decided on the priesthood. After all, maybe that was why God designed him the way he was. He would never have to get married, never have to explain why he had no interest in women. He would only have to work on Sundays (or so he thought at the time). And maybe he could even find some serenity from all of the shit that the ogres had put him through.

  And with no more consideration than being an effective means to hide his dirty little secret, Gustavus Milliken sent a letter of application to Saint Thomas seminary in Duluth and was immediately accepted.

  3

  Moments like this always brought Father Milliken a moment of trepidation. As the door snicked closed behind him the cherub face of – of – Corky, that’s it, Corky, looked up to him in awe.

  The thought of the act he was about to perform (hoped to perform) wrestled with the sacred tenets of the cloth he had vowed to uphold. And it was the cloth; the drab charcoal vestment that he wore day in and day out, the garment that offered a sense of security to impressionable altar boys (six of them by his current count), that now hid his engorged member. But with each new boy the cloth became secondary to the driving force in his brain. A force that was created in secluded woods and parks decades ago. A force that refused to be denied despite his noble effort to cloak it in the career of the clergy.

  He had not premeditated the encounter with the first boy. Not at all. It had—Well it had just happened. Timmy Svenson was one of St. Mark’s altar boys. A mousy lad if ever there was one. Small for his age, elfish hair and features, but most strikingly, and truly a sad thing for Timmy, a crop of mottled pigment birthmarks covered most of his right cheek. These weren’t the subtle marks that could be characterized as ‘cute’ or ‘distinguished’ by the nosy women who had once peered into his baby carriage. This kid was downright ugly. A first-time glance at the newborn Timmy would draw a hiss of breath from the curious hen with a ‘well, you can hope that he grows out of it’ followed by a hasty departure.

  Timmy did not ‘grow out of it.’ He had to learn the hard way how to grow into it. The awkward comments from cousins who came to visit. The points and stares from townsfolk who saw him at the park or in the aisles of the Red Owl grocery store. The taunts from the school kids: “Hey mud face. Take a bath!” “Timmy, too bad the fireman didn’t rescue you sooner!” And worst of all: “Nigga! Nigga! Your momma’s a Jigga!” Timmy’s mom was not a nigga or a jigga for that matter. But she was a bitter woman. Mrs. Svenson had little love for her unemployed bat-shit crazy husband and even less love for her blemished son who had been conceived by accident. Yes, premarital sex was a sin but an abortion would put her at two strikes. So she married the father, had the ugly kid and now was repenting in leisure.

  Father Milliken first took interest in Timmy and his intentions were completely honorable. He knew of the points and stares, had even overheard some of the barbaric taunts directed toward the poor boy. But it was in the confessional that Gustavus Milliken gathered his most compelling reasons to reach out to the youngster.

  To the average parishioner the confessional with its private doors and mesh windows is strictly confidential. Fat chance. In reality the confessional is a wonderful tool for priests to gather information about their flock and then make some things happen behind the scenes to better their lot. The same bad breath, beer breath, hair spray, body odor, after shave, perfume bath that priests experience during the distribution of communion is a dead giveaway in the confessional. For Mr. Svenson it was Schell’s beer. Mrs. Svenson was au de toilet. So yes, Father Milliken knew first hand of the turmoil in the Svenson household, and he really thought that by befriending the child he could do him some good.

  And what better way than altar boy training.

  Gus dismissed most of his cleric duties as little more than tedious obligations. But altar boy training was different. He found some type of unique satisfaction (or was it something else?) in grooming these young men for…for what?...well, for the priesthood of course.

  Being an altar boy took sacrifice. Many a young boy accepted the duty of attending altar boy training at their parents strong urging, knowing all too well that it meant several months of foregoing noon recess.

  And while St. Mark’s was too small to have a parochial school of their own, the local public school board was more than happy to cooperate, allowing pre-teens to cross the street from public school to private church to fulfill their sacred obligation. It made for good public relations. In a town that was nearly 70 percent catholic taxpaying citizens, the city elders knew that keeping the mackerel-snackers happy was a wise philosophy.

  Thanks to parental coercion and school board backing, Gus rarely had to recruit his new bell ringers. And with Timmy, it had been an especially easy sell. Timmy embraced the offer as an opportunity to escape the daily playground taunts and tortures. This was not a sacrifice, it was a blessing.

  He was a quick study, and early on Father Milliken labeled him as a prime contender for one of the spots on the important 11:00 a.m. Sunday service. He further determined that Timmy should be granted the duty of carrying the cross at the opening and the closing of each service. Exploitation never crossed his mind. At least not consciously. The sight of this disfigured youth bearing the cross would give the parishioners a little something to think about and set the tone nicely for his sermon and who knew…maybe even the collection plate would get a little padding via pity.

  And because it was the 11:00 a.m. service, the last service of the day, there were extra duties for the crew of 4 altar boys. Without fail, the 3 other members of the quartet were anxious to be rid of their robes and off to enjoy what was left of the weekend. Timmy didn’t mind staying behind. In fact he preferred it. The longer he waited the less chance there was that some cretin was laying in wait for him during his walk home.

  One such Sunday, the ushers, the other altar boys, the organist and even the nuns had departed the sacristy. Timmy and Father Milliken were hanging up the vestments when the Father gently offered: “Timmy, if you have a little time there are a few things that need to be done in the rectory. Is that okay?” Timmy quietly acceded that it was okay and the two of them crossed between buildings. When they arrived in his quarters Father Milliken dispensed with the charade and poignantly addressed the youngster. “Timmy, sometimes I feel like you’re not happy. Are you not happy Timmy?” This met with a shrug. “You know I do hear what the other boys say. What they say about your birthmark. And I know that it must be hurtful.” Timmy’s hands had come together in his lap. He worked them over like an arthritic after three games of canasta. “I also wonder if things are not so easy at home.” He was careful not to use any of the terms he had heard in the confessional. “So if you would like to talk about it, I want you to know that you can
talk to me. I won’t make fun, and I won’t tell your folks.” With a look of consternation mixed with something that almost resembled relief Timmy said flatly: “They don’t love me. My folks that is. They think I’m ugly.” He paused while looking at his hands and then in a subconscious gesture that he had learned at a very young age, he turned his head to the right, effectively blocking the view of the monstrous blemish that haunted his face.

  “But that’s not true. All parents love their children.” The words would have been more sincere had he not known otherwise thanks to the confessional. “I’m sure your parents care for you very much. They may just have a hard time expressing it. Now if it’s the other kids and what they say…” Timmy was looking down again, shaking his head slowly but deliberately. “No. They don’t matter. They’re just stupid. The kids that is. My folks though…” The waver in the voice held, hitched, and totally collapsed. The tears fell. They fell hard.

  Gus consoled the boy that Sunday and again the next and the next. It became a routine that after the weekly service the two, man and boy, father and son, would gather at the pastor’s room in the rectory. It was an odd departure for Father Milliken. Of all of his priestly duties, ongoing sessions of consolation were by far his least favorite. When he tired of listening to a parishioner’s lamentation of worldly concerns he would cut them short with a “Let the holy spirit guide you.’ ‘Put your faith in Jesus.’ Or ‘let God be your guide.’ ‘Now let us finish with a brief prayer.’ The holy trinity could always be counted upon to send a penitent packing.

  But with Timmy, Father Gus found no such level of impatience. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The boy intrigued him some way; made him feel something. He couldn’t quite identify it. That changed one noteworthy Sunday when the boy impulsively rushed over to the man in black and embraced him with passion. The sudden embrace startled the priest psychologically – just a little. His physical reaction, a massive boner – startled him a lot. Timmy’s arms were locked around the tall mans waist, his face buried just above the beltline. It was not the type of hug one shares when looking to be consoled. The boy did not cry; his hands did not shake, his body did not quiver. If there was any quivering that took place that day it was within the confines of Gus’ scrotum.

  “There – there.” Gus offered lamely as he patted the boys head. But Timmy would have none of it. “I’m not sad.” He turned up his blemished face without so much as a speck of reservation. “I’m happy because I love you and I know that you love me.” He re-buried his head into the pastors generous mid section.

  The words and the gestures taunted Gus for the next week. What he had felt was so familiar, yet also so forbidden. He longed for Sunday to come quickly, to be with the boy, perhaps even to embrace again. Then dark thoughts would enter his mind. He drove these off by willing the Sabbath not to come. He imagined feigning illness and having one of the pastors from neighboring Holy Shepherd filling in for him.

  But he knew it was inevitable. Sunday would arrive. Whether this Sunday, the next one or the next. And so on the seventh day Timmy stayed late. And without even asking; followed him to the rectory.

  The door was barely closed and Timmy was draped around the priest with arms that couldn’t reach all the way around the back. Partly due to his youthful size, part due to Gus’ many wedding banquets and potlucks sponsored by the women’s guild. But the embrace was firm and meaningful. Gus’ reaction was just as meaningful. This time he hugged the boy back, slowly rocking his body, brushing his crotch against the boy’s chest. Gus knew that Timmy was fulfilling the unmet need of his infancy and childhood…to be held, to be caressed, to be told that he was loved. And Gus? Well Gus was fulfilling nothing…all he was doing was acting out the atrocities that had been inflicted upon him as a young boy. How could that be fulfilling? Damn it all! It was all so confusing but still so provocative.

  They held the embrace for a good two minutes, neither wanting to be the first to release. Gus was off in his own world of events 30 years ago. From afar he heard a voice say ‘I love you.’ But that was all wrong. Those words had never come from the primates that ravaged his body. It was the boy. Timmy. “I love you too Timmy.” His large hands began a methodical stroking of Timmy’s back and when they lowered to his buttocks, the boy did not protest.

  Three weeks later Father Gus had sex with his first altar boy.

  4

  And now there was this child, this Corky, who had yet to lose his baby fat. A child that radiated innocence. There would be no need for weeks of trust-building and molding as had been necessary with the older altar boys. This child was a gift. This child would not tell. This child was ready.

  “So you want to be a priest.” No answer was offered and likewise none had been anticipated. After all it was more of a statement than a question. Statements created authority. Authority identified who was master and who was subordinate. And master and subordinate, two complete opposites, once united could result in ecstasy.

  With his face uplifted, eyes glassy in wonder and lips fully open to accommodate the mouth-breathing brought on by the experience, the boy stood stock still in the middle of the room. Father Milliken smiled broadly, partly for the benefit of the child, mostly for the anticipation of the tryst. “Let me show you some things.” He moved a few steps toward the telescope that was aimed out the corner window. The boy had turned to follow the progress of the priest, but his feet did not follow. Noting this, the priest dropped his voice an octave, pointed to a spot on the floor and declared: “Come here.” The boy complied.

  “This is my telescope. Many times in church we talk about the heavens and God above, but this lets us see the heavens and the stars.” The telescope had always been a good ploy with the altar boys. They were savvy enough to know that they wouldn’t get an eyeful of the Virgin Mary taking a sponge bath, but they humored Father Gus’ just the same with a celestial chortle before taking in images of Venus, Mars and the face of the moon. “We look through this eyepiece.” He lowered his head to the viewfinder. “And then we can see the heavens.” He squinted one eye and knotted up his face in serious concentration. Then came a change. A big look of surprise unveiled on the padre’s face as if he had just witnessed something magical. Breathy ooohhs, aaahhs, yes-yes’s, and oh myyyy’s escaped his mouth. Any reservation Corky had had previously about the telescope vanished. He was on the outside wanting to be in. Far too timid to ask for a turn at the lens, he waited and observed in patience and anticipation. Yes, he wanted to see. He wanted to see too.

  The priest did not need to look at the youngster beside and below him to know that his semi-charade was doing just what it was designed to do. The mute and timid child would now be aching for his turn at the peep show. But there was another matter that needed to be attended to. The matter of ‘condition.’ He would need to instill upon the child that he too could look upon the heavens only if he agreed to certain conditions. Glowing, he turned away from the scope and gazed above and beyond Corky. As if there were no young boy in the room he spoke aloud to himself the wonders he had just experienced: “The brilliant lights of the pearly gates, the stars aglow around the baby Jesus, the angels floating on clouds.” He paused for the effect to sink in and then spasmed slightly as if in sudden realization that there was a guest in his room.

  Corky was captivated. He moved from one foot to the other as if he had the sudden need to pee. And when the father looked down upon him and re-acknowledged his presence a brief squirt of urine actually did escape his urethra. It went unnoticed. There were more pressing matters. The magical telescope and the view of the heavens.

  Father Gus was encouraged by what he saw, this was by far the easiest conquest he had ever known. So easy that even the uncomfortable feeling of trepidation was absent from his mind. Looking down at the child he chose his words carefully and delivered them as solemn and gravely serious as if he were presiding over a funeral. “The heavens are there to be seen. But they can only be seen by a special few.” The expressio
n of consternation on the boys face was precisely what he had aimed for. “Seeing the heavens is a secret that I don’t share unless I know that that person can keep the secret too. Can you keep a secret Corky?” Corky shared that yes he could keep a secret. Father Gus still appeared unconvinced and pressed the boy further. “Do you know what a secret is?” He raised his eyebrow dubiously. Corky did indeed know what a secret was. “You don’t tell.” He said with all of the confidence he could muster. Father Gus still seemed unconvinced. He raised his hand to stroke his chin, looking first at the telescope, then back at the boy and again to the telescope.