by Mia Kerick
I join him without hesitation, dropping onto my back, and then I pull him down beside me. “Face me.” It sounds like a command. I have no idea what I’m doing here, but yet, I press on.
Again, after a brief hesitation, he does as I ask.
Feeling frantic and possessive and terrified along with other emotions I have no words for, I stretch my arms around him and soon we’re back to kissing. And if I thought we made out passionately before, well, I was wrong, because this time is different—it’s frenzied even. This time I’m initiating, and David, taken aback by my enthusiasm, is feeding my fervor with tiny whimpers and moans. I lean up and drag off my T-shirt with one hand, and then I roughly pull his shirt over his head. When I press my bare chest against his, we both groan. The feeling of all this skin on skin is so intense.
“David….” I push him back so he’s again flat on the bed. I want nothing more than to touch his smooth skin, to assure myself he’s really here with me and that I haven’t lost him. Even though my fingers are trembling, I do. As a matter of fact, I do everything I can think of to tease his chest with my fingertips, and then with my lips, in my effort to excite him so that he can’t deny that he wants me. Based on the pounding of his heart, I think I’m succeeding. “You’re so beautiful…just perfect,” I tell him, and I mean it.
David’s hands are shaking even worse than mine, but within a couple of minutes they find their way to my bare skin, as well. And when David traces the contours of my chest with his fingers, I can almost feel the agitation in his touch. But instead of pulling away, he raises his mouth to mine and we start making out again. My head is flooded with relief, which is strong enough to wash away most of the inner knowledge that this isn’t what I truly want to do.
I haven’t lost David! He still cares! He wants me too!
It doesn’t take long until the touching and the kissing leaves both of breathless.
But I’m feeling greedy, and it still isn’t enough. “Want to touch you…down there.” I can’t believe my own words, even when I hear them with my own ears. But I’m forced to believe what I just said because I make a bold move to get my hand inside his black skinny jeans. And I’m surprised at how easily my hand slides into the front of his pants. I think maybe David sucked in his belly a little to make it easier for me. My hand slips down beneath the soft cotton of his underwear. He jerks backwards when I reach my target, but soon enough, he’s pushing his way back into my hand. At this point, I am beyond rational thought and am acting on impulse.
I grab his junk in my fist and start to do what I’d want done to me if I was in his place. He moans and then I moan. Doing this to him is all I want—it’s every desire I’ve tried hard to push out of my mind at night when I’m in bed. It’s awesome and thrilling and…and everything in my head is a blur and…and I like it this way.
This can’t be wrong and I love his sounds… and I don’t know what I’d do if he left me… and maybe be I can forget everything if I lose myself in this…. Yes, this closeness is all I need because it’s perfect… it is…it really is.
Thoughts and feelings race around each other in my brain.
If I say it over and over, maybe I can get past the persistent badgering of my conscience…the voice that’s telling me this isn’t right…not here…and definitely not now….
I silence that voice by focusing on what I want, and what I want is more—although I’m sure quite what more entails. Soon David is squirming and panting and even grasping for my crotch as I bring him closer to what I’m sure we both want and need and… and I can tell he’s almost there.
Suddenly, his entire body stiffens—but not in the way I’m trying for.
“No! Anthony—no!”
David never calls me Anthony.
“Stop it, dude… just stop!” David turns away from me a little and I start to lose hold of him. “I care about you tons, but we can’t do this!” He weakly swats at my arm a few times and so I yank my hand from his pants. Then he flips onto his side to face the wall, and his long hair covers his face. I feel like a criminal. “We can’t do this,” he repeats, and I notice that already his voice is calmer, but I think he may be panting softly. I’m sure that I’m panting, and the sounds I make aren’t quite as subtle.
Next thing I know he’s sitting upright, groping around the bed for his T-shirt and then tugging it over his head. He pulls it on inside out but I don’t mention his mistake.
“Here’s your shirt, dude. Maybe you should put it on.”
I snatch my shirt from his trembling hands with my more trembling hands, and do as he suggests. I am in a state of shock.
“Listen, we aren’t doing anything wrong because we’re gay, here, but we’re Christians…and it’s not the right time for this kind of…like, intimacy.”
I push myself from the bed, still gawking at David. But no matter how hard I look, I can’t see him clearly. It’s like there’s a thick fog surrounding him.
“Talk to me, Tony. Everything’s gonna be fine, ‘kay?” He’s rambling. “We need to talk to God, tell him how we feel. To pray for patience and guidance and lay this at his feet and—”
Come to me, and lay your problems at my feet, Anthony. I will give you rest.
“Oh my God!” The words shoot from my lips, but in my mind they seem to bleed directly out of my heart. Because the reality of this situation has hit me so hard.
I just tried to seduce David Gandy.
I’m fairly certain I’m going to be sick.
“Calm down, Tony. We aren’t criminals.” David slides over to the edge of the bed to be closer to me. He tries to put his hand on my arm, but I step out of his reach. “It’s totally normal for us to feel this way. And to want this sort of thing.”
I have nothing further to say at this point except, “I’m outta here.” I spin around and walk quickly across the room. As I open his bedroom door, I think of another important thing I need to say. “Don’t think we’re boyfriends ‘cause we’re not—we’re not anything anymore.”
I will ignore this situation. And it will go away.
My bedroom feels damp and sticky and claustrophobic like the basement storage closet it truly is. It’s hard to escape from my thoughts in this confined and secluded space—there’s nowhere to run. And there’s no TV, hanging on the wall over my desk. Why don’t I have a TV in my bedroom, so I can watch 80’s sitcoms till I crash? Everybody else in town has a TV in their bedroom. And it’s what I need because there’s no way in heck I’m going to be able to fall asleep tonight.
My phone rings and I know it’s David again, calling to check on me. I pick my phone up from beside me and turn it off, and then let it drop to the floor.
I glance at the floor beside my bed and I see the word lists I printed to prep for the SATs. I grab the papers, curl up around them, and proceed to run vocabulary words through my brain, forcing out the other thoughts, until I fall asleep.
A Sexually Sinful Spiritual Fraud And, Apparently, The Prodigal Son
I’ve always considered myself a fairly lucky person, in the way of good fortune coming my way at precisely the perfect moment to save my skin. And it seems that Father Joseph went to the Our Way meeting on Monday night after our disaster of a tennis match and reiterated the call for compassion that is required of Catholics in regard to one’s homosexual brothers and sisters. He also informed the group that he was going to be taking over leadership of Our Way for the time being, and that Mrs. Martine would be his very able assistant.
I know these details of what happened in Monday’s Our Way meeting because I sit at my former BFFs lunch table on Wednesday. Yes, the awe-scoff table.
On Wednesday at lunch period, where I fully expect to sit alone in a corner, seeing as I’m not about to acknowledge David Gandy’s sexually enticing existence, I’m whisked away by Elizabeth O’Donnell to my former lunch table, in the way of the prodigal son returning to his home. I find myself sitting with the newly compassionate Our Way group at the now open-minded awe-sc
off table. So, no, I’m not alone—I’m in good company. Maybe the best, most devout company of all—or maybe I’m with fallible human beings, just like me. But surrounded by holy Elizabeth, my champion Rinaldo, and a baffled looking Lazarus, I make my best attempt to choke down a portion of my salami and provolone sandwich. And I struggle to stay awake, since I’d studied vocabulary terms almost all night long.
But Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio is still a fraud and he knows it, even if the recognition of that fact is currently stashed somewhere in the far back corner of his mind. I am a sexually sinful spiritual fraud—yes, the very worst kind of imposter—who got caught up in a moment of heated passion that I not only forgot “The Problem”, but I also threw all caution and chastity to the wind. I went for the real deal—as in, the whole sexual package—with David last night by trying to engage in an intimacy that has no place in my life outside of a Christ-centered marriage. But being the exceptional avoider of distasteful situations that I am, I push it all out of my mind—“it all” being defined as David Gandy and what went down in his bedroom last night. I simply refuse to remember it.
I don’t look over at David’s lunch table even once. That table—those particular diners—doesn’t exist in my world. My mind, exquisitely skilled at pushing back pain and confusion from years of experience, kicks into automatic. For all intents and purposes, last night never happened.
And I don’t much care if David and my new friends seated at that other table, are experiencing hurt feelings on account of my sudden ruthless rejection. Instead of worrying about them, I languish in the imperfect safety of the people who have recently condemned me. I smile. I laugh. I chat about potential summer jobs and upcoming SAT’s and possible college choices. I force-feed myself Mom’s tasty salami sandwich.
In this way, I survive the remainder of the week at school.
And at home, I sit on the corner of the couch in the cold, lonely downstairs living room, and watch retro television shows, to the tune of more episodes of The Andy Griffith Show than should be legal for a single human being to mentally absorb in a single week. But somehow these lighthearted episodes prove to be a less than satisfying distraction.
I only allow myself to pray to God once, and that is when I thank Him that the next week is April vacation, which will relieve me of my need to perpetuate the charade that I’m still in one piece—intact and unbroken—as a result of my own rash and destructive actions.
At God’s Feet
I shoot up in bed in the middle of the night on Saturday.
“I need to go to confession so I can be wiped clean of my sexual sin! But…but I’m not a true Catholic anymore—I can’t be forgiven by a priest. Now I have to live with this burden!” I speak out loud with a shrill voice and without any hesitation at all; no one will hear me way down here in the basement. I don’t even care if they do.
What’s happening to me? I think I might be cracking.
And then I pick up my phone and I text a lie to my mother. I tell her that I’ve been vomiting all night—“please don’t wake me up for worship.” My family has planned a return visit to Journeys Worship Center, because we’re seriously considering joining, and I know for a fact that I can’t go with them. David will be there and I have absolutely no interest in seeing his face.
The stomach virus story comes in handy. Feigning illness, I stay in my room until Tuesday. But by Wednesday morning I’m desperate for food, beyond the tea and toast Mom has been serving me. And so, miraculously, I suddenly become healthy again.
I emerge from my basement cave for the first time in days, and literally have to squint my eyes at the bright sunshine that streams through the kitchen window. The girls are all sitting at their usual places at the table eating Mom’s amazing French toast, and when I stumble in they look at me like they’ve never before seen a South Korean dude badly in need of a shower and a hairbrush, and struggling like a vampire to survive the light of day. Literally drooling at the smell of real food, I slide into my seat, and fork a few slices from the serving platter onto my waiting plate.
“Hiya, Anthony,” Frannie ventures. “Feeling any better?”
I stuff a mouthful of French toast into my mouth with my fingers, but don’t answer.
“Table manners, bro,” Mary chastises me with a wink. I glare at her and shove in another bite.
“Anthony, honey, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Mom ignores my less than polite interaction with my sisters, sips her coffee, and sends me a bright smile. But I know that she knows that I’m far from being myself this morning. “You understand that you can discuss any topic that’s on your mind with me, don’t you, dear?” She offers that reminder casually, as if it is an afterthought.
“Want us to take a hike so Anthony can spill his guts?” Mary asks.
Shaking my head, I shove another forkful of French toast into my mouth in an effort to avoid the need to reply.
“Why don’t you invite your friend David over? He asked about you at the worship service on Sunday, and seemed very concerned when we told him about how sick you were.” Mom just won’t give up.
I cough twice and then shove another huge forkful of breakfast food into my waiting pie hole.
Look, Mom—no possible way to open my mouth to speak now.
“I’m going to take the girls to the mall today. We are going to shop for summer clothes. Want to join us, Anthony? You could use a pair of khaki shorts.”
I chew and swallow, which takes a while considering the enormity of my last bite of food, and then shake my head. Time for another lie. “Um…I am going to make plans with…uh, Elizabeth. We’ve been wanting to check out this Christian bookstore in Winston for ages. So, um…thanks for the invite, but….”
We both know it’s a complete fabrication. But doesn’t the word fabrication make the concept of a lie sound much prettier? In any case, I haven’t fooled my mother—but what can she say?
“Have fun at the mall, girls!” Licking my fingers, I make a hasty retreat.
Later in the afternoon, I admit that I’m starting to find it close to impossible to continue the bury-my-head-deep-in-the-sand routine. I mean, I congratulate myself on having ignored the wretched state of my life for a full week, but for some reason I’m not too sure of, I’ve started to pull my head out of the sandy hole and gasp for breath every now and then. Maybe downing all that French toast fueled up my heart and my conscience—who knows? In other words, since the guilt and shock and horror of what I did last Tuesday night has dulled with the passage of time and the ingestion of carbs, I can no longer ignore the fact that I miss David.
And I miss him a lot.
I miss other things, too, like the early stages of self-acceptance of Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio as a gay Christian, and my carefree friendships with Sarah, Beth, Lenny, and Cam. I miss the comfort of joining into a new, but also real, house of worship—I was honestly inspired by the prayer and the music and the sense of acceptance I experienced at the Journeys Worship Center.
But beyond anything else, I miss Jesus in my life. I haven’t allowed myself to think of Him very often at all since I betrayed Him by reaching into the skinny jeans of an unsuspecting David Gandy. But Jesus won’t stay away. He creeps into the windows and wall cracks and back doors to my heart, constantly reminding me that I’m His.
And by evening, I realize there’s nothing else I can do but take the suggestion that Christ offered me in my dream several weeks back, when it seemed he’d spoken directly to me.
Come to me, and lay your problems at my feet, Anthony. I will give you rest.
I slide off my bed and get onto my knees, and I pray for the first time in way too freaking long.
Father,
Please forgive me for a bunch of things. First of all, I took the gift of sexual intimacy that You gave us and totally abused it by trying to take advantage of David. And that was a huge mistake, because I respect him and I love You, but the thing is, it was far from my only mistake. Here’s an
even bigger one: somewhere along the way, I came to believe that sexual intimacy is a gift You gave to all devoted couples, not just opposite sex couples, but I refused to be honest with myself, with David, and even with You about how I’d changed my mind. I clung to my confusion even when I was no longer confused.
Yes, I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve compounded them by being cruel to my new friends, especially David, who I care for so much. I need to apologize.
But apologizing to You for my distance comes first. Please forgive me for my mistakes—I think I understand where I went wrong.
Jesus, now I’m going to lay down my mistakes, my problems, my worries, and my regret at Your feet and I pray that You’ll give my soul some rest.
Amen.
I have several seriously difficult tasks to get done now, but I’ve finally owned my sexuality and accepted my status as a gay Christian, so I think I’m ready to try. I’m plain old tired of living a life of constant reacting—it’s time I act in the way I know is right.
And with God’s help, I think I can set things straight.
First Things First
First I need to apologize to David. I’ve delayed doing this for over a week, which has been a week too long. I figure I’ll take a ride over to his house.
A surprise attack might be more effective than a planned one.
But when I get there, nobody’s home. I knock on the door a bunch of times, and peer into the windows. For a minute, I wonder if the Gandy’s have gone on vacation, but lots of lights are on inside the house and there are a few packages that have recently been delivered sitting on the front steps. They’ve clearly just stepped out for a while.
I know what my next step has to be. Since the surprise attack is not a possibility, I need to call David and figure out if he’s willing to see me. I dial, and I did so with shaking fingers because I’m honestly freaking out.