21 October 2010

Mikey Ministry

Religion and politics are a conversational no no. Example:

You: Look at that rat!
You: I'm offended.


You: What do you think about Obama?
You: I'm offended.

They are very sensitive topics; you can't go without pissing someone off. I am not going to ask for pardons regarding this particular blog, but I suppose I am going to stamp this with a warning: Contains Mild Allusions to Religion and Politics. I used to be heavily involved with the Catholic Church. When I was younger, I was set on the ideals of the Church and things they stood for until I realized, as a gay man, the hypocrisy of it all. But in between this idealistic period and sad reality, I was a practicing homo amidst the love/hate message of the organized religion.

One of the things I enjoyed, though, was the bimonthly workshop retreats I participated in. We talked God; we talked mission; we talked hypocrisy. Believe it or not, the biggest believers in the Church are the very same people it stones: the divorced, the unfaithful, the abusers (alcoholic or otherwise), and of course the fags, fags, fags. I remember sitting in the pew with my mother and noticing the leader of song being a tad too "joyous" in mouthing the hymns with limp wrist and the Eucharistic ministers walking up towards the altar with sturdy gait while sporting a freshly quaffed mullet. It may be the pomp and circumstance, the ornate garb of the priest or the priest himself, but whatever it was, I was hooked.

During one of the adult-weekend retreats, the "cool kids" stayed up and partied - with me amongst them. When I had enough to drink, I walked it off heading to my car for a smoke. Not too far behind me was "Mikey." "Mikey" was a blond haired, blue eyed, 39 year old Ken doll from the suburbs of Michigan who was the lay-religious leader of the community. Holding myself up against a wall, I heard someone crunching through the gravel walking up toward me, so I squinted to make out the moon-lit silhouette in the dark and immediately recognized the handsome man. As he approached, I had my guard up since he was extremely vocal about two things: God and George W. Bush. I think he believed they were one in the same.

As I lit up, he told me how bad smoking was with a boyish, nerdy smile and I laughed about it. After a few pulls, I gave in and we headed back to the retreat venue all the while making small talk about the ultra-conservative Republican town he lived and worked in, pointing out its location at the base of his index finger. If you aren't in the know, Michaganders have a tendency to show relative direction by using the palm of their hand to represent the great state. As we kept talking, I noticed he was in the elevator with me. I asked him where he was going because I was going to bed. He simply replied: "With you."

The smooth talking, mid-Western Wolverine made his way into my room, stripped down, gave me the blow job of a lifetime and got on his back, throwing his ankles behind his head faster than you could say: "wait a gosh-darn minute - you're one of them closeted gays, aren't ya?"

Four hours later, I laid there butt-naked in a pool of sweat with only a sheet over my waist. He jumped up like a jack-in-the box, ran his hand through his high-and-tight, zipped-up, gave a peck on my lips and headed for the door saying, "God bless."

Point of the conversation: Catholic Republicans do it better.

- DeeCue

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thanks for your comment! Please 'follow" us by clicking on the "follow" link to the left of the site page. Glad you are reading.