The most epic first kiss and one of the last ones I have had to date happened on my 21st birthday in a crowded casino with a boy I barely knew but had been dancing with all night. Our group of friends had started sharing flavored lip gloss and kissing and being silly at the table while we waited on more drinks. This brown skinned boy gave joking kisses to my friends and pointedly avoided kissing me while a little snake of jealousy wound its way through my gut. Before I could let it turn itself into a huff, he stalked to the end of the table behind the chair where I was seated, lifted a piece of hair off the nape of my neck, and when I turned my head towards him to try to figure out what he was doing, he reached around the other side of me, gripped my chin firmly and turned my face up to his. That first kiss left me breathless and shocked, it surprised me as much as it made me weak in the knees and inspired applause from our group. The kiss itself was very memorable but sadly the boy was not.
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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