We agreed to meet the following Thursday at my apartment. Luckily, this was the same day the cleaning lady came. After work, I raced home to adjust the lights and draw the blinds to three-quarters in order to create a romantic mood. Then I checked myself out in the mirror. Concerned that I wasn’t as tan as I had been in August, I dimmed the lights even lower. After a debate over whether to light a candle, I decided instead to open the terrace door to allow the fresh air to flood my small living room. When the doorman buzzed, I jumped nervously. Within a minute, there was a knock at my door. I inhaled, waited five seconds, exhaled, and then opened the door, smiling at Chad. His summer buzz cut had grown nearly an inch, and he had a scruffy five-o’clock shadow. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a flannel shirt under a well-tailored wool coat with multiple pockets and zippers. Only his eyes were the same: blue, decisive, and penetrating.
“Well, hello,” I said, breathing heavily as though I had just run across the room.
Chad walked in past me. We exchanged an awkward moment as I leaned in for a hug and he put out his hand to shake mine. Then, recognizing our misstep, we attempted the opposite gesture but failed miserably. I shifted gears and offered him a tour. Chad nodded politely as I led him into the bedroom, the bathroom, and then back into the living room. He reserved his only remark for when he noticed the door to the terrace. “Wow,” he said. “You don’t come across one of these every day.”
“I’m very lucky. This terrace is the reason I bought the apartment.”
As we stepped outside, the cold air nipped at our cheeks. Chad immediately craned his body over the railing to admire the view of Twenty-third Street. In the distance, the traffic lights twinkled green, red, and yellow. Overhead, the sky was a mass of thick charcoal clouds. The moonlight peeked in through the cracks. Looking over his shoulder at me, Chad smiled. “It’s beautiful up here.”
From where I was standing, I completely agreed.
WE ATE AT A NEARBY MEXICAN RESTAURANT, a quick walk from my apartment. Before I sat down, I reminded myself not to drink excessively.
One or two cocktails, and only if he orders one first.
From the beginning, it was clear that I was not going into this date with the same carefree attitude I had the first time. The stakes seemed higher, because now I didn’t have the excuse that he lived out of town to deter me from becoming invested. Once our waiter arrived, Chad immediately ordered a margarita, and I nodded eagerly for the same.
“So what brought you back to New York?” I asked, as the server handed us our menus.
“The pharmaceutical company didn’t get FDA approval for the drug I was working on. So they offered me a severance package, and I took it. Luckily, I was able to get another job with a medical education agency here in New York. Honestly, I was happy to move back. I didn’t really like living in Boston.”
Just then the waiter returned with a basket of tortillas, salsa, and our drinks.
“Oh, and here I thought you moved back for me,” I said.
Chad’s smile faded.
“I’m kidding,” I added quickly. I noticed the waiter roll his eyes as he set down our drinks. I grabbed a chip and scooped up some salsa, but before I could get it into my mouth, the salsa fell onto my pants. The waiter grabbed a napkin off an empty table and discreetly laid it on my lap. I winced, then thanked him quietly.
“Well, cheers,” I said, offering up my glass in a toast. As our glasses clinked, I noticed my hand quivering. That same hand placed my drink down, grabbed the napkin off my lap, and held it tightly under the table as my other hand began to twist it into a taut knot.
Chad decided quickly what he was going to eat. He seemed very comfortable with the menu. I reminded myself that he probably grew up eating Mexican food. So I asked whether that was true. His eyes lit up. “For Christmas Eve, my mother makes a traditional Mexican dinner with homemade tacos, chips, salsa, and my favorite: cheese enchiladas.” Then he made that same yummy sound I remembered from Klee, and it made me giggle. “Why are you laughing?”
“The way you described the holidays with your family was very cute. Christmas Eve at my mother’s is completely different. She makes seven fishes. No meat of any kind is served. It’s very traditional, very Italian.”
“It sounds delicious. Are you very close to your family?”
I thought about his question for a moment and replied, “Yes, I am. We’re very close. In fact, my mother still makes each of us a birthday cake every year.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It can be.”
Dinner went by quickly. Afterward, we walked back to my apartment. I refrained from inviting Chad up. I was nervous, and sex would have been disastrous in my current state of mind. Instead, I kissed Chad good night and walked up to my apartment alone.
Later that evening, I found myself, as usual, on the corner of my bed, wearing only my underwear, and writing to Dean. “Chad looked even hotter than I remembered. I was a wreck tonight. Hopefully, I didn’t make a complete ass of myself. He paid for dinner, but I think that’s because he felt sorry for me.”
The next day, Dean wrote back and told me not to play games with Chad. He suggested I call him to thank him for dinner. Then I should ask him out.
“Okay, Dad,” I replied. “I’ll call him in a day or two. I’ll suggest another date this weekend.”
Dean wasted no time replying. He was adamant that I shouldn’t wait to call Chad. His feeling was that too many guys play games. All too often, even people who say they don’t play games play them anyway because no one wants to look like a loser. Always be you, he encouraged, as clingy as you are, as damaged as you feel, and as hungry as you desire.
Unfortunately, I didn’t take Dean’s advice. Instead, I called Chad three days later to thank him for dinner. I invited him for drinks, but he politely declined, saying he already had other plans. Anxiously, I began throwing out several other possible dates, hoping to get Chad to commit to one. Finally, he agreed to a movie the week after the next. Once I hung up, I realized I should have listened to Dean. I blamed myself for playing games. And even though Chad agreed to another date, I was concerned that he had already started to lose interest.
That night as I tossed and turned in bed thinking about Chad, little did I know, my life was about to change irrevocably.
CHAPTER 5
Confessions of a Priest Stalker
“THERE HE IS,” SAID PAUL, rising from one of the waiting room chairs. “The man of the hour himself.” He gave me a warm, loving, powerful hug. I looked over and saw his partner, Luke, was with him. He was holding a copy of my book. They had been together for ten years and had been my patients for nearly four. I always looked forward to their visits.
“We are both so proud of you,” said Luke, placing his arms around us and kissing me on the cheek. I protested sheepishly, trying my best to sound as if the attention was embarrassing.
“Come inside—we have so much to catch up on.” I led Paul and Luke into one of the exam rooms. As soon as I closed the door, Paul sat on the exam table and Luke took the seat in the corner. “Did you guys come in for a visit, or do you just want an autograph?”
“Both,” said Paul with an impish smile. He was just slightly older than me but had the facial features of a cherub. Paul had taken it upon himself to act as my matchmaker in exchange for medical advice. He was frustrated that I was still single, and being a self-proclaimed relationship expert, he wanted me happily married by the end of the year. In many ways I felt as though he was the older brother I never had. “How does it feel?” he continued, referring to the publication of my book. “You must be so excited!”
“Truthfully,” I replied, “it’s everything I anticipated and more.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” said Luke. “You really deserve it.” Luke had a warm, reassuring voice. Whenever he spoke, I thought he should be on the radio selling insurance, or urging you to make sound investments.
“Well, we have some exciting news,�
� said Paul.
“You’re pregnant,” I interjected.
“No, but close,” he laughed. “We were at choir practice last Sunday, and your name came up.”
“How did my name come up?”
“Well, Luke and I were talking about you and your book.”
“Wait a minute. You were talking about a gay men’s health book at a Catholic church choir rehearsal?”
“Of course,” said Luke. “You know Paul has a thing for priests.”
He wasn’t joking. Paul had confided in me years earlier that in high school, he used to flirt with priests during mass. Paul described how he made seductive gestures at the “cute young ones” from the front pew. Several times, his flirtations led to actual sex. “I was shameless,” he admitted. “But if they stared back or did a double take, then I knew I had them. Then I’d check the schedule to see when they would be hearing confession.”
“You were a priest stalker?” I asked.
“I was. I admit it.”
The first time he told this story, I reacted casually, listening to Paul not as a victim of sexual abuse but as his doctor. I tried to temper my outrage because I genuinely liked Paul, but it was unimaginable for me to see him as this Sharon Stone character in Basic Instinct, sitting in the first pew, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Of course, he didn’t know anything about my past, and there was a part of me that believed he was masking his history of sexual abuse with humor, as most victims do.
The second time he brought it up, I was treating him for an abrasion he’d sustained after falling off his bicycle on the way to choir practice. He was telling me about a new priest assigned to his parish. “He’s so cute,” he said as I dabbed Betadine onto his wound. “If only I was younger . . .”
Anger bubbled up inside me like hydrogen peroxide on a cut. This time I couldn’t contain myself. “Paul,” I said, “I don’t mind you telling me that you find a priest attractive, but we’ve been friends long enough now that I have to say that it really bothered me when you told me that you had sex with priests as a boy.”
“Oh Frank,” he said. “Trust me. I was the aggressor. They were the victims.”
“Listen to me,” I said, wrapping the gauze around his knee and securing it with tape. “I don’t care how precocious you may have been, it still doesn’t make it right. Those priests were adults. They should have known better.”
“I’m not condoning sex with minors,” he said, getting up off the exam table. “I’m just saying that I wasn’t a victim.”
“I still think it’s disgusting. I was molested by my Scoutmaster when I was eleven years old. I know you think your situation was different, but I’m sorry, there is no circumstance that makes it okay for an adult to have sex with a minor.”
Paul’s smile faded as he hugged me. In my ear, he whispered, “I’m sorry that happened to you. Now I understand. Please forgive me if I sounded insensitive.”
From then on, we refrained from talking about priests, until now.
“Okay, explain to me, how did my name come up at choir practice?” I asked.
“Luke sings in the choir, and I play the organ at this parish in Long Island,” continued Paul. “For some reason your name came up because we told the priest that our doctor wrote a book on gay men’s health.”
“I’m still trying to envision how that came about.”
“I know it sounds bizarre, but this priest is very cool,” said Luke. “He knows we’re gay and everything. Anyway, we were at choir practice last weekend, and Father Roberts said that he remembered a boy with your name when he was assigned to a school on Staten Island thirty years ago.”
“His name is Father Roberts?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Of course I remember Father Roberts,” I said. “He was my altar boy instructor at my grammar school, St. Sylvester’s.”
Luke turned to Paul. “Yes, it must be him.”
“There was also a woman who played the accordion . . . I can’t remember her name,” I said, knocking on the counter to stimulate my memory.
“Lucy!” they sang in unison.
“That’s her. She also taught music when I was in sixth grade.”
“How could anyone forget Lucy with the big tits,” added Paul, swinging his arms in front of his chest.
“That’s her,” I laughed. “My sister Josephine thought Father Roberts and Lucy were having an affair.”
“People still say that,” muttered Luke under his breath.
“Some things never change.”
Father Roberts was a tall, slender man with long salt-and-pepper hair and a thick beard. He was probably in his early thirties when he joined St. Sylvester’s parish in the late 1970s. He was considered quite handsome, which was proven by the disproportionately large number of women who attended his sermons, crammed into the first few pews—that is, except for my sister Josephine, who called him the “Jesus Priest.”
“Why would you say that?” I asked her once.
“Because he tries to look like Jesus up there on the altar,” my sister replied, striking a pose with both arms outstretched to mimic the crucifixion, except her eyes were rolled up in her head and her tongue was hanging out to one side. “That Father Roberts really knows how to pack ’em in, if you know what I mean.”
I disagreed. Unlike the other priests who were old and strict, Father Roberts had an effortless way about him. But it was his youth and conviction, not his good looks, that enabled him to be a maverick at such a stringent Catholic school, and he certainly made no apologies for being one. I liked that about him and looked up to him not only as a mentor, but also as a friend.
On one particular occasion, I stumbled into him behind the rectory. He was leaning up against a wrought-iron gate that led to the garden where Father O’Neil grew his famous red roses. I had just finished serving the early morning mass and was racing home to watch The Partridge Family. “Slow down, Frank,” said Father Roberts as I nearly collided with him. He quickly raised his right hand above his head, but even in my haste, I noticed the crimson glow of a burning cigarette there. It was shocking to see a priest smoke, particularly Father Roberts.
In school, we were told that smoking was a sin, but we were also taught to revere our elders, especially priests and nuns, because they were accountable to a higher authority. I felt so conflicted standing there before Father Roberts that my face must have flushed the color of the roses he was standing in front of. Father Roberts, on the other hand, didn’t flinch. The sunlight caught the smoldering fumes from his cigarette and outlined his languid torso dressed casually in monochromatic black. He appeared saintly among the roses. And even when he sensed my chagrin, he didn’t correct his posture or snuff out his cigarette. Instead, he simply shrugged and said, “Frank, priests have vices, too, you know.”
I scurried off and took the back road to my house just over the hill. Suddenly, watching The Partridge Family reruns wasn’t so pressing. As I marched through the woods, Father Roberts’s words echoed in my head. By the time I arrived home, I had reconciled that Father Roberts, like all the other parishioners, was not without sin, and it was comforting to know that he was human just like everyone else.
AFTER PAUL AND LUKE LEFT THAT AFTERNOON, I couldn’t stop thinking about Father Roberts. I began to count how many boys he must have taught over the years. The fact that he had any recollection of me left me stunned and, oddly, flattered. It filled me with a sense of accomplishment and meant I left some impression on him.
That night I dreamed of Bill.
It was a knee-jerk reaction to think of both men when either’s name came up. They were once considered youthful role models to the boys who made up the parish of St. Sylvester’s School. Father Roberts and Bill Fox were two components of a very important team. As a priest, Father Roberts taught us the significance of family, religion, and community service, while Bill, a police officer and Scoutmaster, instructed us on discipline, self-defense, and honor.
In those da
ys, I wore a uniform to school—blue slacks, white shirt, and a tie monogrammed with three S’s running diagonally down the center, which always had to be perfectly aligned with my belt buckle. Since I was chubby, my uniform had to be custom-made, and my belt bore holes that my father made with a knife.
In the dream, my parents and I were wandering around the Staten Island Mall trying to find Billy the Kid brand jeans. The Boy Scouts were holding court in the center of the mall. Across the square, I saw a large man standing with his arms folded across his chest. It was Bill. He turned and looked directly at me.
I woke up with a start.
The next morning I was sipping coffee on my terrace thinking of Olga. She was the one who encouraged me to paint as a way to deal with my history of sexual abuse. Years later, I rediscovered the strength I gained through my sessions with her by focusing on my career and avoiding men who were versions of Bill. But now, I was tingling with the realistic possibility that I could face this trauma, not as a boy who stored paintings in a basement, but as a grown man who didn’t want to hold on to the past. Suddenly, I felt compelled to find Bill Fox and understand why it happened.
But before I could do that, I had to pee.
CHAPTER 6
The Cop and the Kid
THE NEXT MORNING I SKIPPED THE GYM. After I finally got out of bed, it took me nearly fifteen minutes to pee. I spent that time standing over the toilet, chanting Olga’s name and twisting my nipples.
The spasming that caused my urethra to collapse upon itself was something I’d suffered with most of my adult life. My urinary retention was often brought on by situations of extreme anxiety. This usually involved a fear of using a public urinal, especially when other men were standing next to me. I considered this a handicap. Not being able to urinate in a public restroom made me less of a man, displayed my weakness.
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