member. I get them for free,” Palmer said.
Just as I was getting ready to answer him, I heard what sounded like a primal animal scream and I turned toward the futon on the floor. I saw a light-skinned man who looked almost too pretty to be a man.
What happened to the no-queens rule?
I thought. A roughly handsome, dark-skinned guy was hitting him from the back with a fierce pounding as he held him down with one hand pressed against his shoulder.
It was like watching a live porn movie. I found my own sex getting harder, and suddenly, I felt Palmer’s hand surround it. He started stroking me so slowly, and then his pace quickened. I was going to explode. He took his lips and started sucking on my chest. I removed his hand from my sex and replaced it with my own until I stroked myself to climax. From the sounds of moaning that rained down on the room, I was not the only one who suddenly needed a towel.
There are times (like tonight when I got home from the sex club) when I think if I wasn’t attracted to men I’d be a much better Christian. Almost perfect. It’s not because I’m willing to admit that being gay or the act of sleeping with someone of the same sex could be a sin. I just don’t think it’s any greater sin than being a liar, committing adultery, having lust in your heart, or being a person claiming to be a Christian yet holding a hateful heart.
I remembered the first time I heard a minister preach that God didn’t love me and my kind, and it was earth shattering. I wondered what I’d done to deserve this fate. My passion for life and love suddenly felt choked.
But I still believed in God.
God is fair, and I hope that I will be measured by the love I have in my heart and not by the lust I have in my head. Was my experience tonight any worse than a straight man who goes to the local strip club and succumbs to a lap dance? If he asks for forgiveness and expects it, then why can’t I expect the same?
CHAPTER SEVEN
S ometimes God be trippin’! I walked into church and was met by a cyclone of joyful noise. The choir had the congregation rocking to “When We All Get to Heaven,” one of my mother’s favorite songs. As I took a seat in one of the back pews, I remembered the times I played it for her on the family piano and sometimes at church. I picked up a hymnal, joined in the song, and looked toward the pulpit.
A few minutes later, I noticed Pastor Kenneth walking from his office with a man who looked familiar. They were coming from the back, down the side aisle, when I realized who the man was. It was that guy Charles from the sex party. Even though there were hundreds of parishioners standing, his glance met mine and a faint smile came to his lips. He cast his eyes at me for a few seconds, then quickly looked away.
As the two of them moved toward the pulpit, I was unsure of where I could safely rest my eyes. I suddenly experienced a pang of shame and felt emotionally numb. I felt like Abundant Joy was the last place I wanted to be. I put the hymnal back in its rack. As the rest of the congregation was singing and swaying, I stood still for a moment, like I was about to give a public confession, but a few seconds later I found myself walking out of the sanctuary toward the vestibule.
I hated it when God made me feel guilty.
D came to visit my house after school several times, but he never asked me to play the piano. We would talk about sports and singing. I felt extremely comfortable around him. I liked the fact that he was so sure of himself. And I hoped that one day I could be that confident. My parents liked him too, and suggested that I invite him to spend the night. I did, and he quickly agreed.
The first time D spent the night at my house, I slept through the night without a dream. I awoke on a sunny crisp September morning and looked directly into his wide-open eyes. He smiled at me, and I felt my stomach flutter like it did the first time I saw him.
We slept on the
Just as I was getting ready to answer him, I heard what sounded like a primal animal scream and I turned toward the futon on the floor. I saw a light-skinned man who looked almost too pretty to be a man.
What happened to the no-queens rule?
I thought. A roughly handsome, dark-skinned guy was hitting him from the back with a fierce pounding as he held him down with one hand pressed against his shoulder.
It was like watching a live porn movie. I found my own sex getting harder, and suddenly, I felt Palmer’s hand surround it. He started stroking me so slowly, and then his pace quickened. I was going to explode. He took his lips and started sucking on my chest. I removed his hand from my sex and replaced it with my own until I stroked myself to climax. From the sounds of moaning that rained down on the room, I was not the only one who suddenly needed a towel.
There are times (like tonight when I got home from the sex club) when I think if I wasn’t attracted to men I’d be a much better Christian. Almost perfect. It’s not because I’m willing to admit that being gay or the act of sleeping with someone of the same sex could be a sin. I just don’t think it’s any greater sin than being a liar, committing adultery, having lust in your heart, or being a person claiming to be a Christian yet holding a hateful heart.
I remembered the first time I heard a minister preach that God didn’t love me and my kind, and it was earth shattering. I wondered what I’d done to deserve this fate. My passion for life and love suddenly felt choked.
But I still believed in God.
God is fair, and I hope that I will be measured by the love I have in my heart and not by the lust I have in my head. Was my experience tonight any worse than a straight man who goes to the local strip club and succumbs to a lap dance? If he asks for forgiveness and expects it, then why can’t I expect the same?
CHAPTER SEVEN
S ometimes God be trippin’! I walked into church and was met by a cyclone of joyful noise. The choir had the congregation rocking to “When We All Get to Heaven,” one of my mother’s favorite songs. As I took a seat in one of the back pews, I remembered the times I played it for her on the family piano and sometimes at church. I picked up a hymnal, joined in the song, and looked toward the pulpit.
A few minutes later, I noticed Pastor Kenneth walking from his office with a man who looked familiar. They were coming from the back, down the side aisle, when I realized who the man was. It was that guy Charles from the sex party. Even though there were hundreds of parishioners standing, his glance met mine and a faint smile came to his lips. He cast his eyes at me for a few seconds, then quickly looked away.
As the two of them moved toward the pulpit, I was unsure of where I could safely rest my eyes. I suddenly experienced a pang of shame and felt emotionally numb. I felt like Abundant Joy was the last place I wanted to be. I put the hymnal back in its rack. As the rest of the congregation was singing and swaying, I stood still for a moment, like I was about to give a public confession, but a few seconds later I found myself walking out of the sanctuary toward the vestibule.
I hated it when God made me feel guilty.
D came to visit my house after school several times, but he never asked me to play the piano. We would talk about sports and singing. I felt extremely comfortable around him. I liked the fact that he was so sure of himself. And I hoped that one day I could be that confident. My parents liked him too, and suggested that I invite him to spend the night. I did, and he quickly agreed.
The first time D spent the night at my house, I slept through the night without a dream. I awoke on a sunny crisp September morning and looked directly into his wide-open eyes. He smiled at me, and I felt my stomach flutter like it did the first time I saw him.
We slept on the
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