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 more insatiable hunger. I’d imagine myself strategizing. My blood-borne eyes would size up my prey. At first, as play. And then, to eat. I was hungry for something greater than god could provide. And the only way to feed? You had to blend in.
But, camouflage… Really? Girl… Then I’d just look conventional! Camo is a tacky look anyways.
The church’s light continued to beam among the congregation. A few pews away, Mr. Candies’ wedding band shined. I couldn’t help but stare as I stirred.
He was a solid and intimidating behemoth of a man. A Lion. A man of physical aptitude- alas, obvious limited intellect. His arms were sculptured by painstaking physical sacrifice. He fed his pride with those arms that stretched across the backs of his offspring. His calloused fingertips, curled the hair of His wife- Mrs. Candies.
She was undeniably beautiful. His Lioness, to which he groveled and cowered. She caked makeup on her face to complement its animated shape. Botox… all women down here get it. It’s true. They were never able to abandon the sweetheart phase.
Were they happy together? I wondered how often Mr. Candies threatened to strangle his wife to death with his primitive hands. Or how often they fucked raw on the kitchen countertop while the kids were at soccer practice.
Then- the guilt emerged as it so often did. I fudged in the pews as I reflected of my time away from home. I tried to brush it off. But nobody knew about the strange men I’d met since I left home. Fucking me. Seeding me. In dark corners of strange bars. The parishioners were blatantly unaware of each and every one of my nocturnal omissions and escapades.
But shockingly enough- nobody knew of my desire to lay at the mercy of Mr. Candies. How I desperately craved to be bound by the shackles of his primitive paws. Aroused by the scent of his musk and manhood. My face buried deep in his grey, aging chest. I wanted to rub his shoulders because I knew he worked so hard at the plant- making his money and getting his cancer. I wanted him spit in my mouth and breed me to his satisfaction. Then, toss me to the side and ignore me. Ignore me until he was ready to meet me again. In seclusion. Once more. Feeding my insatiable hunger.
I looked at the crucifix above the altar. Who was I to fool? I was fully aware of what I was. It was my biological predisposition. However, recall that my brothers in Christ always preferred a different term.
I was a fucking faggot.
And those boys were just big, dumb, fucking oafs. They were just products of their simple fathers and mothers. I watched them all- one in the same- stupidly absorb the words of the homily. Simple sponges soaking up poison spewed from storybooks. Liars and Sinners. I hated them.
I became impatient as the priest reverberated mystic prayer. Through mysterious murmurings, he blessed the ashes. Off went a trio of bodacious ninety year olds, wailing praise to the back wall of the church. Then, pew by pew, the congregation proceeded forward to receive their ashes. It was a sign of repentance to the Lord for their unjust actions. I knew they were bound to repeat them as soon as mass was over.
I rolled my eyes as I rose to my feet and stepped in line. Forgiveness? The ashes weren’t going to forgive anyone’s sins. But I shuffled forward to the priest anyways, who marked my head with the sacred cross of ashes.
After mass, I fled. Finally- I could breathe. But as I took a deep breath, I tasted a bit of the air. It tasted the same as always. Dull. Traditional. Laced with bitter remorse. At that moment I wanted to jump into my truck and drive away from home. Through the vastness of Texas and into the barren deserts of the southwest, straight to the western coast. I needed a taste of something different. I wanted rough sand to buffet my lips while my tongue glossed over salty grains. My mouth watered for a place where I didn’t have to care about my appearance or my language. My thoughts. My actions. My pleasures. I didn’t want to feel guilty anymore, but I didn’t know if elsewhere could treat me better. I imagined that it would, but I wouldn’t find that out anytime soon. I was planted in this wasteland for a few more years.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t grow. That didn’t mean I couldn’t thrive.
When I arrived home, I wrung out a hot rag in the sink of my bathroom and stared at the cross on my forehead. Palming the rag, I wiped it across my head, pressing firmly but smoothly. Revealed was a clear mind. A burning desire.
I would get out of this town. I would breathe the ashy air no more.
Nice writing..!
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