My first crush was gay for Jesus. I really wanted him to be just gay for me.
It’s a common refrain for Southern-bred liberals, a forlorn tune that echoes in the deepest hollers of the human heart: “My lover left me for Jesus after he discovered we’re going to Hell.”
“God, do you know how many almost relationships get fucked up by Jesus?” my friend Amanda once told me over a glass of ice tea, crushing her sugarcubes against the glass into an indiscernible white cokelike dust.
“You can’t win against Jesus, Joey,” she added. He always has more to offer. Trust me, going up against Jesus, you’re fucked every time.”
And yes, at the end of the day, I was the one left holding Satan’s bouquet.
The social exorcism of small-town doldrums had my sexually repressed Christian under its thumb. And for two people who could barely utter the words “gay” or “homosexual,” this presented, a shall we say, “unique challenge.”
I would have dreams of showering with the sexually repressed Christian.
His pubes are splendid. They're all bushy tailed and neatly plucked, emitting a Panteen Provene sheen. His adorable eyebrows arching upward as I soap my balls.
The downside is that the shower is emitting toxic chemicals and we're soon bespotted in chemical burns. Our skin gradually turns into a bloody landscape of gaping holes and pockmarked grayish pus. We looked like rejects from a Cesar Romero pic.
"See what happens when you have the homosex," my Repub aunt would say during the dream capstone, "your pecker nearly burns off for Jesus."
For my sexually repressed Church of Christ crush, this really was a spot-on analogy. I mean, since I was Methodist, to him, our denomination was a few steps behind Satanists, anyway. If we did have
My sexually repressed Christian worked at a Christian-themed after school program for inner city children. He would rattle off a few stanzas of “Jesus Saves” to disenchanted Kinder-a-care children, little eyeballs blinking back an insurmountable void. They figured that the “Jesus Saving” was the only thing negating the rapscallions from turning into a bad Michelle Pfeffier movie.
But at was that day in the elitist school parking lot that my relationship with the sexually repressed Christian screeched to a grinding halt.
“You’re breaking up with me?” I said. It wasn’t really a relationship per se, only if you called steamy text messages and late-night wank sessions “a relationship.” Since I was merely 16, and desperate for any kind of gay sex, I denoted it as such.
“I can’t see you anymore,” the sexually repressed Christian said. “Each time I see you, you’re sending me one step closer to Hell.”
I had never broken up with anyone before, but that just seemed a tad hyperbolic to me.
A railroad spike had punctured my heart repeatedly with its sheer brute force right to the chest.
I thought I could win the sexually repressed Christian with a few good Cap’n Crunches to the face and a proffer of mom’s subscription to Guidepost.” But at the end of the day, some things aren’t meant to be.
The sexually repressed Christian kept his distance. He had 401K plans, stock options and a Stepford Wife to keep him busy. I had pretty much blotted the sexually repressed Christian out of my life until one day when I stumbled upon a familiar looking face in the Gay.com chat room.
There was the sexually repressed Christian, plain as day. He looked good.
Since he fucked up my ideals of a teenage puppy dog romance, I decided to fuck with him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be straight?” I typed furiously.
There was a dead pause. You could feel the terror across the intertubes of the Internet.
“Do I know you?” the sexually repressed Christian asked. “Because y’know, I’m just curious about the whole gay thing.”
Frankly, the whole “Do I know you?” query frustrated the living shit out of me. “I jerked you off for two years,” I typed. “And do I know you?”
And then it dawned on him. He knew.
“I’m sorry,” he wrote. “I never meant to hurt you with the whole you’re going to Hell thing.”
And there it was. The apology that I thought I would have to move heaven and hell to procure.
The sexually repressed Christian decided to meet the next afternoon for snacks. It was to be a coming home party for homosexuality.
I primped my hair and Jeff Gannoned my appearance. I wanted to be the poster child for turning my fellow Christians into queers, so I wore a freshly ironed shirt and pleated khaki pants. I looked like I had promise for once.
That night, the sexually repressed Christian made love to me under the stars. I won’t go into much detail, but after repressing his sexuality for so long, it must’ve felt good to let that shit out for a change.
After we finished, the sexually repressed Christian piped up yet again. “I have to go see The Passion of the Christ with my church group.”
And after casting the chains that bounded our sexuality, our very being into drone
I was free my chains and shackles, comfortable under the blanket of gay Christianity. He was not.
Even in the midst of gay sex, the fundamentalist version of Jesus was still screwing me.
“Okay. Have fun.”
Suffice to say, the sexually repressed Christian didn’t return my phone calls after the Passion of the Christ. But this time, I actually saw it coming for once.