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

up, and give me another communion wafer .
    Deals with God and Boyfriend
    Compared to picking a Protestant pew, picking up a Protestant boyfriend was no sweat. Acquiring boyfriends had never been a problem for me. I’ve had dozens, mostly brief, and frequently overlapping. Mea culpa. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . …
    I met Scott at a Catholic Charities event for disabled children. A child on crutches was making her way toward the front of the room. She stumbled. Scott and I jumped out from opposite sides of the aisle and caught her before she fell. We took one look into one another’s eyes, and romance caught fire. We dropped the child and flew into one another’s arms. Now, along with Rory and Jezebel, we live in chastity and are saving ourselves for marriage.
    If your suspicious, filthy mind is thinking this tale is a figment of my deepest imagination or something I prepared for my mother’s benefit, you can stop thinking that right now.
    You are absolutely correct.
    Truth is, I met Scott on gay night at a dance club called Manray. It was the Feast of the Epiphany in the liturgical calendar, which Scott loves to point out; he views himself as my epiphany! Scott was twenty-six years old, impossibly slender, with dark spiky hair and blue-gray eyes. His T-shirt hugged his pecs like a second skin. After boosting my courage with a couple of vodka tonics, I slipped up next to him. I pretended to survey the dance floor as I inched closer, until I could have taken Scott’s pulse with my elbow. From time to time, I stared at the side of his head until he looked at me. Then I looked away. Forty-five minutes of this courtship technique left me with a back cramp, a full bladder, and a bald patch on my forearm from frantic “casual” brushing against his skin.
    In that moment of extremis, I made the following deal with God: God, if this hot guy is still at the rail when I come back from the men’s room, I’ll take it as Your will. I'll ask him to dance .
    When I returned, the space at the rail was empty. My heart fell. Apparently, God’s will was for me to go home alone and masturbate.
    Despondent, I turned to the bar for a little solace. And there he was.
    “Hey,” I said.
    “Hey.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Scott.”
    “Hey! Me, too! Buy you a drink?”
    “Sure, vodka tonic.”
    “Hey! Me, too.” Oh, my God, we had so much in common! God obviously meant for us to be together! “Wanna dance?”
    "Sure."
    I was on a roll. “Wanna come home with me?”
    He shrugged. “Why not?”
    Amen , I thought. Thy will be done.
    Scott and I started dating, which complicated my religious life. We had a bit of a scheduling conflict. The problem was the Sabbath. God chose Sunday for its celebration, unless, of course, you are Jewish or Muslim. Unfortunately, in our gayborhood, Sunday is for brunch. Communion wine hasn’t got a chance against a bloody Mary in a pint glass at our local gay sports bar, Fritz. Yes, that’s right: gay sports bar. Not an oxymoron. They exist.
    Now, God appreciates a good bloody Mary, too, so He and I reached a mutually acceptable compromise — a covenant, if you will. Friday became my Sabbath; specifically, the noon mass at Saint Anthony Shrine. I kept it holy. And honored my mother and my father and my pint-sized bloody Mary, and all those other commandments.
    Having reached this covenant with the Almighty, I felt guilty. So I made one last gratuitous concession — as God no doubt knew I would. Omniscience is a boon at the bargaining table. My concession was this: I’d take added responsibility for the liturgy on that Friday Sabbath of mine. I agreed to serve as a lector at Saint Anthony’s.
    “Lay ministry?” Scott said. “That sounds hot!”
    “It has nothing to do with getting laid.”
    “Oh.” He frowned. “Whoa! Wait. You’re going to do this during working hours?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t want this religion business to interfere with my long-term plan to sit home and