Fitting In

"But you don't have classes today, do you?"

I was sitting in the dean's office, steeped in the Gothic architecture and trappings, including the imposing stain-glass window behind where he sat, of the older buildings on the Georgetown University campus. Georgetown was the premier Jesuit educational institution in the United States, sitting on the heights beside the Potomac River just to the south of the government center of Washington, D.C. It was a real privilege for me to be able to teach there. It was hard not to say yes to anything the monsignor requested in this setting. This was especially so, since I was a Jesuit priest myself and charged to obey.

I must say that it also was because I deeply admired the monsignor and considered him my principle guide in life.

"No, Monsignor," I answered, but it was not a welcome task. "But I was planning to catch up on grading essays and a test—and in visiting the shelter and clinic up on P street." I was an assistant professor of American literature at the university but we all had duties in the Washington, D.C., community as well. Mine were at the P Street gay men's shelter and clinic, where I counseled the homeless and otherwise lost. I had been lost myself once and had been found by the Jesuits.

"As you know, Father Ormand, from Paris, is joining our faculty to teach French literature for a semester," the monsignor continued, not responding immediately to my weak attempt to beg off. "As he is in your department, I had thought you would help him fit in . . . starting with giving him a tour of the university today. But if you . . ."

"No, that's fine. I can certainly do that," I answered. There goes all of my plans for today—and possibly for days to come, I thought. "Is he—?"

"He should be along in a few minutes. Thank you for doing this, Mark. It will be a help to him for fitting in, and I think it will be a help to you, as well."

"I help to me?" I asked. I no longer bridled at his use of my given name to address me. It initially had seemed too familiar when I was struggling not to be too familiar with the church leader. Georgetown wasn't exactly liberal church, where now some Catholic institutions were dropping all use of titles altogether and even not dressing in clerical dress, but it had come half way. The monsignor could use given names for those lower in the order, and those on the same level could use given names with each other—but the old ways held for addressing a superior. And, although we didn't wear cassocks here except on formal occasions, we did dress in black and wear the clerical collar.

I was relieved that the monsignor wore the clerical collar. It was a constant reminder to me of the limits to our relationship.

"You seem to have had your own difficulties fitting in here, Mark. You seem like an affable chap by nature, but you are withdrawn here. You hold yourself in isolation. I think it would be good for you to spend more time with others. Having Father Ormand to show around should give you more contact with others. I'm not asking you to do this entirely for his benefit. You would benefit from more contact with your colleagues too. I know there was that business at the seminary before coming to us, but you mustn't punish yourself forever. I think—"

"Yes, Monsignor. I understand. Thank you for thinking of me." I couldn't stand the thought of him bringing up the seminary and what had happened there. In reality, I couldn't really understand him knowing about it at all—or the Sword of Damocles that hovered over my head continually from that period in my life. I hadn't thought of doing anything in life other than being a Jesuit priest and scholar. I couldn't imagine being forced to be anything else. The monsignor didn't seem to understand. My reticence and isolation were the penance I had sought to be able to continue as a priest—and were a self-imposed barrier to unclean thoughts of others, including the monsignor himself.

"Ah, there he is now," Baum said, standing and looking to the door to the outer corridor, a smile of welcome on his face.

Following the monsignor's line of sight, I swiveled my head and simultaneously went hot and cold and felt a stirring in my groin. He was gorgeous. Dark and sultry, his lips full and sensuous. Despite the dark, wavy hair, his eyes were a pale blue. His smile went into his eyes, scrunching up at the corners in honest laugh lines. He must be in his forties, I thought—his early forties, maybe. Just like Philip. His effect on me was just like what Philip had had. He was solidly built, muscular, on the rugby player form. I counted my blessings for the barrier of the clerical color he wore.

His eyes went directly to the monsignor, but then slid off his figure to me. Did I detect the smile becoming warmer then. Back to the monsignor, but almost immediately back to me before taking the proper stance of looking directly at the monsignor, walking toward him and going down on his knee.

"Come now, none of that formality, Christophe" Baum said, pleasure clearly showing in his face. Despite the disclaimer of the old-style bending of the knee to a far superior, the monsignor put out his hand for the priest to kiss before putting a hand on his shoulder and bidding him to rise.

In the meantime, I was hyperventilating and madly trying to come up with reasons why I, in fact, was too busy today to show the French priest around. This was disaster. It was the devil's work.

"Christophe, I want you to meet our Mark Redmond. He teaches in the literature department too—American literature—and has gracefully volunteered to show you around today—to help you fit in at Georgetown."

"Father Redmond," the Frenchman said, turning his mesmerizing blue eyes on me. He took my hand, and for a second I thought he'd lift it to those sensuous lips of his and kiss it. But he didn't. "I thank you for taking the time to show me around. I know you must be a busy young man."

"No problem. My pleasure . . . Father Ormand," I managed to squeak out. He was denoting the difference in our ages, but treating me as a superior. I could do no less than return the title of respect.

"Come now, it should be Christophe and Mark between you," the monsignor said in a jolly voice. "You two are, I'm sure going to become close friends here."

My heart was beating fast. I'd already had a close friend like Christophe and it had nearly destroyed my life.

* * * *

The tour of the Georgetown campus had moved out from the academic buildings to the student centers and arrived, eventually. at the Ginsburg Sports Center.

"You must be worn out from all of the walking," I said, half hoping that Father Ormand indeed was tired and ready to go back to the visiting priest faculty residence. Having to turn to him every few minutes and see that glorious smile and the pale blue eyes to be lost in was getting to be much too disconcerting for me. This was what I was trying to escape, deny myself to.

"Not at all," Christophe answered. "In fact, I wish I had my sports gear here. This facility looks great and I really need to get the kinks out. What I wouldn't give for a game of racquetball just now." They were standing across the glass wall from what was an empty racquetball court. "Do you play racquetball?"

"Yes, I do," I admitted. I was one of the fastest ways to keep one's body in trim.

"That would be just what I could use right now to top off my day."

So, if he got in a game they could wrap this up and the torture would stop, I wondered. "I have my gear in a locker here," I said. "And I have extra shorts, T-shirts, and jocks . . . if you really want to play. I see that the court is free for a couple of hours yet."

"That would be great. I feel sluggish from the lack of exercise. And the shorts and jock will be sufficient. These sneakers should be good enough too."

I almost hyperventilated at the thought he wanted to go skins. But we just walked for over an hour and a half thought. Just how full of energy is he?

Quite full, it turned out, as we had an active game in which Christophe, looking magnificent playing skins, his chest and arms covered in silky black down, danced circles around me, making me feel like I was the sluggish one. For such a solidly built man—not fat, by any means, but with a hard body that was thick and muscular—the Frenchmen moved quickly and gracefully.

We both got a good workout, though, raising a sheen of healthy sweat on our bodies. I had pulled off my athletic T toward the end of the game as well to try to get cooler. Christophe patted me on the back and butt as we walked, close beside each other to the locker room and the communal shower.

Christophe was completely uninhibited in the shower, contrasted to my own efforts at more modesty. Christophe frankly looked directly at me, turning three quarters toward me, as I turned three quarters from Christophe to soap up. I made every attempt to hide my half hard, cut cock. Christophe didn't. He was uncut and horse hung. Whereas I drew my body in as I showered and was the last one in the shower and the first one to leave, Christophe proudly stretched his body out, having every right to be proud of his hard body, and covered all crevices and curves with the soaped sponge.

I almost hyperventilated again when, stealing a glance at Christophe that I couldn't help from doing frequently, I saw Christophe pull his foreskin back to soap up and rinse his bulb, revealing that it was pierced and had a gold ball near the tip of it.

Rinsing off as quickly as I could, I was out of the shower and into my briefs and trousers, hiding a full hard on and having a bit of trouble fitting it into the crotch of my pants, when, naked and walking proud and with a half hard on, Christophe strutted out of the shower. He put a hand on my bare back as he passed me to reach the guest locker assigned to him. I almost moaned and could feel the burn of the palm of the man's palm on my back after Christophe had cleared past me.

It was the devil's work. I was being tempted, I knew. It was a good thing that Father Ormand wasn't "like that." He was so open and unconcerned about our nakedness that my plight and temptation couldn't have entered his mind. There was the half hard monster cock, of course, but he had handled it at length while soaping off—he'd thoroughly worked his entire body with the soap and sponge. I had almost embarrassed myself from not being able to stop stealing glances. At least the ordeal was about over, I thought. I'd take him to the visiting residence facility now and try to forget him.

"I'd like to see more of Georgetown," Christophe said as he pulled on his briefs. "I understand that it was a town before the capital grew up around it. I feel like having a drink now. I've heard of a place up on P Street that I'd like to try. Do you have time to join me . . . and help guide me how to P Street? I'll buy."

"Sure, I'd be happy to," I responded. Oh, shit, I thought. When will the agony of this temptation end?

* * * *

I was surprised as we moved into Georgetown and Christophe told me what bar he was looking for. But I didn't know how to tell him about the bar and why Christophe might not want to go there after all. So, in my weakness and cowardice I said nothing and led Christophe into the bar, which was just down the street from the clinic and homeless shelter where I did volunteer work.

Still, when the bartender hailed me with a "Hi, Father Redmond. Haven't seen you around for a while," I felt his cheeks begin to burn and ready to shrivel up into a ball. I hastily ushered Christophe to a table near the back. It's true I hadn't been in here for more than a month. I only came in here when I was looking for someone who hadn't made his appointment for counseling at the clinic and I could be fairly certain the man would be in here.

"What made you pick this bar?" I asked as we settled at a downstairs table at The Fireplace on P Street.

"Monsignor Baum told me you volunteered time at a clinic in this neighborhood. I had hoped that your showing me around would include that—maybe it would be something I could help with too. I studied to be a doctor before entering the priesthood. I have a nursing degree. From the States even—Colombia in New York."

"Ah, I wondered by your English was impeccable," I said. "Did the monsignor tell you what sort of clinic it is?"

"Yes, of course," Christophe answered. "Does it embarrass you for it to be known that you work with gay men?"

"No, I suppose not. They need the support and succor of the church as anyone else," I answered. Did Christophe know, though, that the bar he had sought out was also gay friendly? I could have told that by looking around at who was in here. But Christophe wasn't looking around much. He was devoting his attention to me—almost to an embarrassing degree.

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that," he said, as he looked up and smiled at the bartender who had brought mugs of beer over to them. The bartender grinned back, which made me cringe a bit. Donny, the barman, was obviously gay and on the make. And we obviously were on friendly terms. Even the priests collars wasn't seen as a barrier to him if the man looked macho. And Christophe quite definitely looked macho. "I'm relieved to hear that because I don't want there to be any discomfort between us," Christophe said as he turned his attention back to me.

"Discomfort?" I asked, taking a big swig of my beer, setting up a barrier between me and any serious conversation with this man who was driving me wild in an arena that I was fighting mightily to stay out of.

"Yes, I want to fit in here at the university—and I want to fit in with you, in particular."

"Oh, well," I said, at a loss for words. I took another gulp of my beer. But I knew this wasn't a good idea either. It wouldn't be good to lose control to the booze. I'd let that happen before, with tragic results—although it certainly didn't seem that way as long as that ride lasted. I looked up into Christophe's face. He was taking a long draw on his beer too, but his eyes were boring into me from above the rim of the mug.

"Yes, I'm heartened that you work with the gays of the community and accept them. Acceptance is important with me—especially when it has to live in a world of secret where it suppresses and puts a man in isolation. I understand you are a counselor at this clinic of yours. You must counsel men who have this problem."

"Yes, of course," I answered. I feared that the response sounded strained. I could hardly breathe.

"And what do you counsel these men to do, Mark? Do you tell them not to have the urges and preferences they have?"

"No, of course not."

"Do you tell them they must withdraw into themselves and try to deny their feelings and desires even to themselves?"

"No. I tell them . . ." I couldn't say it.

"You tell them to try to find someone special . . . someone they can be comfortable with, can fit in with, don't you?"

"Yes." It came out in a whisper. How did he know so precisely what I told them? And, no, what he was saying—through what I myself counseled men in the same position I was in—wasn't lost on me.

"Look at me, Mark."

I looked up into Christophe's eyes. Christophe reached across the table and took my hand and held it in his. Panicked and trapped, I looked around the bar, but everyone else was absorbed in someone else. Everyone here was here with someone. Even Donny, the bartender, was engrossed in an intimate conversation with a big bruiser at the bar.

"It's hard for a Jesuit priest," Christophe said. "It's hard for a Jesuit priest to be gay and to exist within the church—to do what he knows what his purpose is in being a priest without being able to fully and openly be himself . . . true to himself. We are lucky, you and I, that we are in an order that takes a very forgiving and supportive view of all of this."

"You don't . . . you just don't . . ." Again I couldn't say it; couldn't bring myself out of the depths.

"Yes, I do know it, Mark. I'm gay. I'm a gay Jesuit priest. But I worked my way through it and came to a reconciliation of who I am—and what I do in the church. I was like you at the beginning, in the seminary. No, don't pull away from me. You are gay too. We both know it. And we both know that you are attracted to me as I am attracted to you. I'm a dominant and you are a submissive. We are a fit. I can help you become reconciled to what you must do to maneuver in the church and still be comforted and you can make my time in Georgetown complete."

"I . . . I can't."

"Yes you can. You are drowning here. I am offering you a lifeline."

Of course I knew it. If I hadn't realized it before, I knew it in the showers in the Ginsburg Sports Center the way Christophe was with his body—the gold ball pierced in his cock glans. The brush of his hand on my back in passing me in the locker room. I knew overtures from one man to another when I experienced them. And I had experienced them before—and given into them as well. The mutual attraction had been obvious too. But, it was wrong. The church wouldn't condone it—even though neither of us had a parish; we were both academics. There could be no harm done to anyone's souls other than our own.

"I have vows. Monsignor Baum is strict and knows everything that—"

"Yes, Monsignor Baum knows everything," Christophe said. "He's the one who sent for me. He's the one who brought me to reconciliation when I was in seminary in New York. He's the one who will comfort and guide you when I'm gone—if you let him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I didn't answer "yes," but he didn't answer "no" either. The revelation hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't just admiration I felt for the monsignor. It was something deeper. And now the instances flew through my mind of when he had been signaling that as well.

"Do you live alone, Mark?"

"I'm a resident counselor at the Gewirz Student Center, across from the law school. It's mainly for law students, but single faculty members have rooms there and provide counsel to the students."

"Do you have an apartment there—just for you alone?"

"Yes. It's an efficiency, though. Just a room and a bathroom and a kitchenette."

"But you live alone there?"

"Yes."

"Drink up your beer, Mark . . . and take me to this room of yours."

* * * *

The lights were off, but there was enough light coming in through the single window from the street light on the walkway between academic buildings outside the Gewirz Student Center for us to savor the deepening pleasure of both of us as our arousal built and we each came closer to release. I was backed up against the wall just inside the door into my efficiency. One foot was on the floor. my other leg was hooked on Christophe's hip and the Frenchmen pressed me into the wall. I was trembling from the compromising position, the ease with which I surrendered, and the anticipation of what I hoped—not that I had surrendered to it—of what was to come. Both of us were still wearing our cleric shirts, but they no longer were a barrier to anything. Our trousers and briefs were puddled on the floor at our feet.

I cupped Christophe's head, my fingers digging into the curly black hair of the Frenchmen, in both hands. We were locked in a kiss, Christophe dominating, his tongue swabbing the inside of my cheek. I had never been as fully possessed as this before. Christophe was dominating in all. He was pressing me against the wall. He was rhythmically pressing and releasing against my body. He was holding me in place and in thrall just with one hand on his waist. He was grasping both of our cocks in a hand and relentlessly frotting them. I was completely lost to his control, the total submissive to his masterful domination.

I was moaning deeply, panting, breathing heavily. In complete charge, Christophe was forceful and in command. Both of us were hard, but I was the one who was writhing, belabored, under Christophe's determined control.