Like a Prayer

For about four months in sixth grade, I was in the school band. I played the clarinet. Badly. I was encouraged/forced to join the band because I didn’t participate in sports, and my parents felt it was important I be part of some sort of extracurricular. I eventually stopped going to band practice, and spent that period sitting in Mrs. LeVert’s classroom, writing stories. That was the real bitch of it all: I actually had an outside interest, it was just one that involved me sitting by myself and transcribing the voices in my head.
After the failed band experiment, I was led to the school chorus, which was made up entirely of students who had displayed no ability with musical instruments or athletics.

Our first concert was held at the same church where my sister would marry a gay man just a few short years later.

During a medley of Disney’s movie hits, I fainted. Marie Osmond passing out on Dancing with the Stars may have led you to believe that everyone gracefully wilts to the floor when they lose consciousness. Not so. My thirteen-year old pudgy body fell face-forward in to a display of potted mums. It was broadcast on local cable access, so I was able to relive it several times.
Having exhausted all after-school activities with humiliating results, I turned my attention to the Methodist Church. I did Sunday School, Wednesday night fellowship, mission trips, youth retreats to exotic locales like Camp Lake Stephens and Biloxi, and pretty much anything else they were up to when the doors were open. First Methodist was MY church. I’d explored every inch of it and knew where everything was, so if I ever needed a snack I’d help myself to the grape juice and tasty wafers they kept in the downstairs kitchen for communion.

Yes, I used to snack on the Body of Christ.
Church was the only place I really felt comfortable being myself. I believed in what I was told and found solace in the acceptance of God and The Church. As a teen I considered the possibility of one day becoming a pastor, if I could get over that passing-out-in-front-of-crowds thing. I loved the idea of spending my days helping people love and support each other. Aside from those stolen communion wafers, I’d thought I was on pretty good terms with God.
So color me surprised when I found out I’d grown up to be a sinner, or at least a tragic error. Don’t get me wrong- I was never actively dismissed from my hometown church, and still maintain close ties with a few people there. But I could never be fully embraced, because their doctrine made it quite clear that who I feel compelled to be is just plain wrong. My boyfriend Preppy had the same experience with his Southern Baptist congregation (where he was, I kid you not, the head of their puppet ministry), and we both made the same decision:

Love the sinner, hate the sin was not good enough. We walked away.
So for the last ten years, it’s just been God and me. It’s a more casual relationship, and much like the other people in my life I can go long periods without communicating. But since I proposed to Preppy, I’ve had church on the brain again.
“I want a real minister for our wedding,” I said the other night. “Not somebody ordained on the internet, I mean a real live person of the cloth who visits sick people in hospitals and stuff.”
“We can do that,” said Preppy. “I can Google gay-inclusive churches.”
Preppy just got a new laptop computer. Now he likes to Google everything.
“You know, if you find one that looks interesting, we could go to a service. Put on our Sunday best and check it out.”
“Aw, darlin. You wanna go back to church?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Old feelings begin to stir- that hope of belonging to a community again. It feels a little like a homecoming.
God, I hope I don’t pass out.

Leader of the Pack

The first problem is just the mere fact that I’m driving, which always leads to trouble. My brain isn’t wired to process information while traveling at high speeds. I was meant to experience the world on foot. But here I am, driving Preppy’s car, completely lost in Buckhead on a Sunday morning.

My parents have one of those GPS thingys that tells you where your next turn is and how close you are to a Piccadilly, which they refer to as “The Woman”. Driving with them is really entertaining since “The Woman” entered their relationship, as my mother views her as an ally, and my father believes the disembodied vaguely British voice is in cahoots with his wife to undermine his authority.
“Cleve, take the next exit,” Mama will say. “The Woman said there’s road construction on I-55.”
“Will you just let me drive? I know what I’m doing. (long pause) Well, damn.”
“We told you, Cleve. Why won’t you listen to The Woman?”
“Hush up, both of you.”
I could sure use The Woman right now. Barring that, I go with my next best option and call my pal Slutty Mandy.
“For God’s sake,” she says. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Topher, there’s a little something single people enjoy called Saturday nights. Think back and you’ll remember.”
“I’m lost in Buckhead, and I’m gonna be late for a birthday party. Can you MapQuest an address for me?”
“If you must know, I’m not even at my house. Just follow Peachtree ‘til it turns into something else, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I can’t be late. It’s an eleven year-old girl I used to babysit, and a bunch of girls from Morningside Elementary got bumped from the guest list so I could be there. And if I don’t find it soon, all the Jesus People are gonna clog up the road and I’m screwed.”
Slutty Mandy heaves a great sigh.
“Preppy really shouldn’t let you drive alone. Tell me the next intersection you see.”
With Slutty Mandy’s reluctant assistance, I make my way to Atlanta Rocks, an indoor rock-climbing facility nestled in the back of an office park. I enter to the strains of a dozen squealing preteen girls rappelling from the ceiling, which is really quite startling if you haven’t braced yourself for it.
“Mister Topher!” says the guest of honor. “You’re gonna climb, aren’t you?”
I’m fitted for my harness, and take my place in line, looking quite conspicuous amongst my fellow party guests. The pecking order within the bunch is quickly obvious- all the girls are following edicts issued by a red-headed girl named Brantley. She keeps casting me furtive looks as she whispers to the other girls. I think she’s wearing lip gloss. I instantly dislike her.
One of her minions runs over to me.
“IS YOUR NAME GOPHER?”
“No. It’s Topher. Mister Topher.”
“Brantley said your name is GOPHER.”
“Sweetie. Don’t listen to Brantley. In fact, just make that a rule for living.”
She goes back to report this encounter to her queen. I knew a Brantley when I was eleven- the girl who always had the latest clothes and was French kissing boys in Junior High before she hit her teens. Theirs is a much more indirect form of bullying- a quiet, calculated delight in other people’s misery combined with an unerring sense of stylish superiority. What the Brantleys of the schoolyard fail to realize is that the sissies they make fun of are carefully studying their behavior, in order to emulate it in gay bars a decade later.
I couldn’t stand those little girls when I was a kid, and I don’t much care for the bar bitches they inspired. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m always dubious of the leader of the pack, seeing as I’m the son of a man who doubts the wisdom of his GPS navigator. But there’s a lot to be said for breaking rank and following your own path.
“You’re only supposed to climb on the red ones!” Brantley shouts at the birthday girl as she scales the wall.
“Shut up, Brantley, I like the yellow ones!” she hollers back, and continues climbing.

I beam with pride.

Smart girl. I’ve taught her well.

Playing Cupid

My Aunt Trish recently shed three hundred pounds in a single day. She got rid of her absolutely worthless husband. And by “got rid of”, I mean she divorced the son of a bitch, not that she killed him. Although if she had killed him, I would have happily driven to Mississippi with a shovel and a tarp to take care of that body.
You know those people you really, really hate, but you have to be polite because they’re married to someone you love? Well, her husband wasn’t one of those people. He was an ass, and I was never shy about making certain he knew that. He’s one of those straight guys who are so completely terrified of gay people that it has festered into a powerful hatred. I knew this, and I delighted in and took advantage of his fear whenever possible.

Ours was a relationship of mutual distaste.
And now, like a bad dream, or a bout with Chlamydia, he’s gone. Poof! Ding Dong! Every time I think about this, I do a little dance inside. It will take a while to completely erase him from my memory, but I’m more than happy to work at it.
Aunt Trish called this week because, suddenly sixty and single but still sassy, she’s decided to delve into the world of internet dating. After discovering most men won’t talk to a woman without a photo to offer, she enlisted my aid.
“I wish I could put a picture of Sigourney Weaver. She’s very attractive,” she said.
“True, but it’d be awkward explaining that when you actually meet.”
“Well, do you have any good pictures from Christmas? Something where I look young? The men my age all date women in their forties. I guess I’m supposed to date men in their eighties. They won’t be any fun.”
“It’s a Viagra world now. Everyone can still be fun.”
“Well, I don’t the bastard to die on me before I’m finished.”
Isn’t it neat when you’re grown up and you find out which of your relatives talk dirty?
Trish has turned to the internet because she has no interest in the widowers and divorced men her Mississippi matron friends have been suggesting. I’m always doubtful of people playing Cupid. Matchmaking is inefficient because we’re all unwilling to admit whatever it is we’re REALLY looking for in a mate. My sister Shannon was attracted to her husband because he seemed like a jerk on the outside, but turned out to be a big softie. She wanted a man who was unafraid to tell her “No,” and she’d respect enough to listen. But how do you tell that to a friend? “Jennifer, go find me an asshole who bosses me around.” I liked Preppy instantly because he knew what he wanted (in that case, me), and was direct in getting it- we kissed before even exchanging names. But if you told me you had a friend for me, and that was how he introduced himself, my inner Julia Sugarbaker would be appalled by his lack of social decorum.
Maybe you want a spineless type who will fulfill your demands without question, or a fella who’s a little less attractive than you so you’ll always feel pretty. These are not the traits you’re going to list when a friend asks, “What kind of guy are you looking for?” And that’s why matchmaking usually doesn’t work.
But in Aunt Trish’s case, we have a glorious opportunity. There’s no risk involved in being forthright on an internet chat, and none of your friends have to know what you’re into. I tell her she should go ahead and be very clear on what she’s looking for when she writes her profile.
“Very clear in what way?”
“Well,” I say. “I’d definitely put it out there that you expect them to survive sleeping with you. If there’s doubt there, you’d wanna know.”
“Oh! That might intrigue them, let them know I’m a hellcat.”
That’s something she’s unlikely to share with the Mississippi matrons. I like her style: Just throw some dirty talk out there and see if any healthy boys bite. Sometimes the tried and true methods really are best.