Read Since My Last Confession: A Gay Catholic Memoir for Free Online Page A

at least sixteen people were dispensing ashes from various corners of the sanctuary. A group of Franciscan friars was gossiping in the lobby. If you ignored their habits — brown robes and knotted belts — they were indistinguishable from a gaggle of old gay men at a P-town cocktail party, effeminate and affectionate, though the teasing wasn’t sexual.
    Next to the Franciscans stood a display case holding dolls — nuns, Franciscans, popes — made by one of the friars. A hand-lettered sign above the case read “Not for Sale.” Rumor had it that the dolls’ outfits were religiously correct down to the very undergarments.
A Franciscan Fashion Show
Q. What is good Father McButterpants wearing under his habit?
A. A priest celebrating Mass does not just throw on a dress like some Appalachian hussy who just finished kissing Daddy. Here are a few sartorial essentials for a well-stocked sacristy:
     
Alb: A white full-length slip often seen peeking out provocatively beneath Father McButterpants’s chasuble. Basically, it’s a camisole secured at the waist with a girdle. (Brides aren’t the only ones who don’t want to look fat at the altar,)
Amice: A liturgical bib. If Leviticus hadn’t outlawed eating shellfish, it would serve well at a lobster feed or clambake.
Cassock: A religious hoodie, A close fitting ankle-length garment with or without a mantle (or “buraoose”), depending on your level of fabulous. Also, a dirty anagram. Gram always did love word games.
Chasuble: Capelike outer garment for gay superheroes. Its color changes every liturgical season.
Cincture: A liturgical belt, generally white to signify purity and chastity. Take a deep breath before tightening to emphasize that wasp-sized waist.
Cope: A full cape worn by liturgical super heroes such as Super Transsubstantiator and his sidekick, Homilist Man.
Crosier: The shepherd’s crook bishops carry to yank misbehaving priests from their parishes. Historically, clerics used it as a weapon as well as an aid in hiking the grand marble staircases of their Episcopal palaces.
Mitre: A bishop’s triangular hat, from the Greek word for turban. (Think Joan Crawford.) Stole: A liturgical boa.
Surplice: Another liturgical undergarment, but it may be worn without overgarments á la Cindy Lauper or Superman.
    Banners over the Shrine’s front doors announced, “All are welcome,” and the friars damn well meant it. While I awaited my turn with the ashes, I cynically classified the Ash Wednesday crowd into categories:
     
good Catholics
bad cops
daily communicants
chronic masturbators
the homeless
the drunk
lapsed Catholics returning briefly to remind themselves of
all they hate
priests
old Irish guys drawing disability and state pensions
Vietnamese women who run T-shirt stands outside the church and consider themselves children of God, even if they do sometimes cheat the tourists
skeptical twenty-something paralegals in low-rise jeans and tight belly shirts who never put out on the first date
Shrine security
back-row lurkers
the confessing
the confessed
the certifiably crazy
    And then there was me. The homosexual. The lone homosexual. Aside from the friars, of course, but priests don’t count.
    My childhood fear of the altar took hold. I sat as far back and to the side as possible, so that neither God nor anyone else would notice me. It was not so much that I felt out of place, or acutely conscious of my sins. Rather, I felt like some rare bird, some impossible hybrid, some fucking lunatic.
    For the next few months, I used Saint Anthony Shrine like a religious version of an X-rated theater. I slipped in, did my religious business anonymously, and slipped out again. Maybe I was ashamed of these private acts, but they gave me a short-lived, lukewarm satisfaction, like peeing down your pant leg after struggling for hours to hold back a weak bladder.
    During this time, I made every effort to avoid the matter of the Church’s attitude toward homosexuals. Homo who? Shut