Christian Guilt Trip Part I
As a child, I was innocence wrapped-up with white ribbons.
I did my chores without being asked and helped old ladies cross the street. I went to church every Sunday and I confessed my sins on a regular basis. Sins which mostly involved watching too much TV and lying about brushing my teeth but sins nonetheless – even though, I never thought of mentioning the blasphemous hard-ons that regulated my days – and so my penance would be to recite the required amount of Hail, Mary and Lord’s Prayers. At thirteen, I knew the entire mass in Latin by heart. I was bathing in God’s light. Thank you, Sunday school!
Until that is, I discovered cocks and henceforth: my inevitable demise punishable by an eternity in Hell. I decided that being agnostic was a safer way to go. But it was too late: I was guilt-ridden for life. From now on, everything bad that would happen to me was a reminder that God hated fags. I blot it out as much as I can but it’s there: a nagging guilt that slithers its way through my cynicism, rendering me helpless. Damn you, Sunday school!
Pride 2011 promised to be one for the record books: Jerome had gone on a yoga retreat for the weekend (wanting to realign his chakras! Loser! ) but clever little me had made a copy of his keys so as to take over his nicely located flat overlooking the never-ending flow of studs making their way to Chueca. Once the parade was over, me and my minions regrouped at the flat and stood, eagle eyes, waving the pros and cons of every passing hunk before inviting them up.
The place filled up faster than expected and soon enough: shirts were ripped, nipples were licked and all Hell broke loose – Fabulousness! I woke up the next morning, my limbs cleverly intertwined in a couple of naked Brazilians, ready for more. Three hours later, I did to the boys what I did to the condoms: I threw them away.
It was only when I brushed my teeth that I realized I had white disgusting ulcers all over the inside of my mouth. I freaked out: what was it? How did I get it? God! Not an STD! I lit a cigarette to calm down but I started coughing uncontrollably and my mouth dried up as if all its moisture had been sucked out. That’s when I panicked. I kneeled to the floor and started reciting a Hail, Mary. Had I had a whip, I would have flogged myself – I used a wet towel instead.
Jerome finally got home and, on seeing how livid I was, took me to the emergency room. After hours of waiting in a badly lit room, I was introduced to a grumpy-looking doctress who rolled her eyes and made it clear we were not the first ones here from Pride. She examined me and without an ounce of compassion, announced that I had Hongos (mushrooms) before disdainfully asking me when I had last been tested for HIV (the two being apparently linked) – Oh, God! Lord, have mercy!
TO BE CONTINUED…
