I never really liked church as a kid. It seemed like a stupid way to end the weekend and had a fun factor rating of about a 1. It only got a 1 because of the occasional fainting of an old bag parishioner or a fart, burp or any other unidentifiable bodily sound. The thought of getting up early and putting on a scratchy, hand-me-down suit and a clip on tie was enough to make me fake sick weekly. My mother, who was a nurse, would tell me to get dressed and go because if I was gonna die I should die in church.
Around the age of 13, while sitting there staring at the piece of lint dangling on the back of the sweater in front of me, I glanced up at the giant image of Christ on the cross in stained glass. I looked at the faces of the people at his feet sobbing and mourning his death. The bleeding nails in his feet and then up his legs.....his strong muscular legs that lead the eye to a rock hard thigh area and across a scantily draped loin cloth up to a perfectly proportioned stomach and ripped abdominal area and then finally to the chiseled pectorals and bear daddy beard..............what the fuck was happening to me? Was I hot for Jesus? I didn't even know what gay was. All I knew was that that image in the glass was making my boy weenie tingle. I was going to hell for sure now. Then I saw a picture of Satan and thought he was even hotter. Naked and red, goutee and horns.....very humpy. Hell wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the eternal damnation and the heat.
So years later, as I look back, my very first boyfriend looked just like Jesus, but my current boyfriend looks just like the Devil.
