My second first kiss was at the age of 18 in my best friend’s home theater with my awkward too-sweet boyfriend of the time. All wrapped up in a tangle of arms and legs, his axe body spray enveloped me as he clumsily tried to find my lips in the dark with little butterfly kisses. His pillowy white boy lips drooled his nervousness over mine and I felt like a jaded yet triumphant older woman for stealing his first kiss even though I was the younger one.
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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