When I was almost 21, I had a soulful first kiss in a hazy hole-in-the-wall bar surrounded by grungy people, cigarette smoke and pitchers of cheap beer. Lonely for the first time in a long time, I turned to my friend for what comfort he had to offer, which at first just consisted of beer and cigarettes. As the night went on and we got drunker, that comfort expanded and I leaned against him, snuggling into his side and looked up into his scruffy sweet face. He was the kind of person who would be there no matter what our relationship entailed and would care about me even though he didn’t give two shits about anyone else. I snaked my arms around his neck and lost myself in his soft mouth that tasted of beer, cigarettes and devotion.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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