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right place for them. That being a Christian single was okay. The subtext being: help lonely Believers out there accept their intercourse-free lifestyle. It took me a while, but I found a way. The words came to me while sitting in a broom closet, rolling my sleeve down after a mid-morning pop. Sometimes it was like that. I’d close my eyes, apply my lay hands to the keyboard, and take a smack nap while the words just fluttered out of my fingers in perfect formation. Like the Lord was moving through me. If there was a Lord. And if people were what he moved through.
    It’s not easy being a Christian singleton.
    In today’s anything-goes, whatever-feels-good world, there’s a question every unmarried person of faith must face: How to live the way Jesus wants us to live? How to stay pure at a time when, everywhere we turn, it seems some new form of salaciousness, devilry, or outright sin has overtaken our so-called popular media. Temptation is rampant. And those of us trying to live a clean, Christian, values-based life can sometimes find ourselves feeling all alone.
    Finally, there’s a place where young, single Christians can find others who love the Lord just as much as they do. Finally, there’s Christian Swingles.
    Praise the Lord. Together.
    Join today.
    I “fellowshipped” on this with Jay and Riegle after fixing again—a special treat for a special occasion!—in a men’s room stall in the Denny’s down the street from the office, then went back in and hammered out the kinks. Jay lay on top of his desk and dangled one stonewashed jean leg off the end of it.
    â€œThere’s only one thing lonelier than a horny twenty-eight-year-old Christian,” he said.
    â€œYeah,” Riegle interrupted. “A horny twenty-eight-year-old gay Christian.”
    Riegle, who was tallish and balding, did not always look at you when he spoke. He kept sunglasses on so he could nod off without drawing attention to himself on public transportation, and sometimes forgot to take them off. But just when you thought he was down for the count he’d blurt out something to let you know he’d been there all along.
    â€œA gay twenty-eight-year-old who’s so deep in the closet he thinks sex is supposed to smell like mothballs.”
    â€œFaith,” I said, feeling proud of myself, “can be a trial.”
    â€œYou mean an opportunity,” Jay corrected me. “Man does God’s work because God’s not doing it.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œGotcha!” Jay cackled, but in a nice way.
    Did I mention Jay’s features were so regular he might have been a composite of TV commercial dads? He looked like the friendliest salesman in the Sears hardware department. “You’d never know I was a homo,” he liked to say, “unless you asked.” He confided that he preferred men of color. “Obama sticks,” he called them. Which I found vaguely offensive, but he insisted it was in the nature of an homage. “Someday you’ll meet Dusty, and you will see exactly what I mean.”
    It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned his special friend of color, Dusty. Who sometimes sounded made up, sometimes sounded real. (Later I found out the truth.)
    Pastor Bobb either didn’t know or didn’t care about his un-Christian sexual bent, but Jay said the pastor both knew and cared, believing exposure to all the hetero Christian spirit in the Swingles Center would work magic on his “tendencies,” make them “withered as the dugs of Satan.” One of the Pastor’s favorite, if most inexplicable, expressions.

FOUR
    Normal People! Doing Normal Things!
    All around us on the walls of the Swingles Content Break Room hung health-bookish posters of wholesome guys and gals smiling at each other with shared faith, eyes unglazed by anything as base as lust. The couples in the posters took picnics, canoed, and sang Christmas