Son of a Preacher
The sun has just set. With my light luggage, I stand at the door of the house I grew up in, the house I swore never to return to, the house I will not remain in for long, just 3 days, just long enough to mourn someone I do not feel like mourning. I left home at 18, went to a different city far away, to remake myself and erase every trace of my religious upbringing. I did not run away; I simply stopped calling home after a year. I am an only son, and I knew what my absence would feel like to my traditional parents, especially my mother, and I wanted them,
her
, to feel it. I am 21 now, and I had not spoken to them in two years, until the short message from my father telling me my mother has passed away.
I ring the doorbell. I try to, but I cannot remember the last thing I said to my mother, or the last thing she said to me. It doesn't matter. I know it was nothing kind; probably her lecturing me about my sinful ways, disguised as love, reminding me that I am the son of a preacher, or telling me that God was capable of forgiving even a sodomite, if only I accepted that I had been sinful.
The door opens to a busy gloom. Family, friends, and many members of the congregation, all in dark clothing. I missed the burial service, an aunt tells me.
I meant to
, I think, but I say, "I'm so sorry, I couldn't get an earlier ticket."
Handshakes, hugs, and kind words. I almost believed for a second the love my mother had for me was unconditional.
My father appears. The pastor of the parish. It's almost funny how he, the pastor, never lectured me on the sin that was my homosexuality, but it was my mother who could not shut up about it. After I came out to them, he had only asked me questions, perhaps an attempt to better understand it. He was not okay with it, of course, but he loved me more than his love for sanctimony. I feel bad for him.
He had me when he was just 23, and he is 44 now. Apart from the bible, he also lives by the adage that your body is the temple of the holy spirit. People always mistake him for someone 10 years younger than he actually was. In the three years I was gone, I seemed to have forgotten how much I used to want a body like his, and, on some nights, perhaps after a fight with my mother, how much I wanted his body, without clothes, next to mine, or even better, on top of me. His grief somehow makes him even more appealing, makes him look younger. I take a deep breath and I try to focus on his sadness.
His eyes are red. With trembling lips he says, "I'm glad you can make it, Josh."
"I'm sorry about mother," I tell him. I feel a pang of guilt for having left.
Have I punished him too much just because I hate my mother?
He pulls me in for a hug. His body quivers as he cries on my shoulder.
I hold his firm body tighter to me, one hand over his shoulder, the other around his waist. I am reminded of the great care he takes of his body. I feel a surge of warmth. I don't remember him ever hugging me after I came out to him when I was 15. I like the felling of his body against mine, but I try not to focus on it.
* * *
It is close to midnight when everyone has left, and my father and I are sitting in the low light of the living room, talking. We do not talk about my mother or anything to do with the funeral; he asks me what I have been up to, if I have been happy, when I am planning to leave again. He doesn't ask me why I don't call. He doesn't ask me why I never came home. He doesn't try to use my absence against me.
After some time, he moves from the chair and sits next to me on the couch. He is about to say something serious, perhaps something emotional, but my mind is on his leg touching mine. And when he places a hand on my knee, my heart skipped a beat. He does not know how differently I am perceiving his innocent hand, and I feel a pinch of guilt.
"Josh, I know you have a life to go back to," he says, "and I understand your memory of this place is not the happiest, but if you can stay for longer than you plan to, I'll be very glad."
The father I knew had never been one for openness, shoring up his emotions, a proper stoic.
What has my three years of absence done to him? What is my mother's death doing to him?
He seem as if there is something deeply bothering him that has nothing to do with my absence or my mother's death. I am tempted to eagerly agree to stay for as long as he needs me, but I know that temptation is coming from the feeling of his warm hand on my restless knee.
What do I have to gain from my staying, except sexual frustration?
I hesitate to answer him.
He removes his hand suddenly and says, "But I understand if you choose to go."
"Dad," I say as I inch a little closer, our legs pressed together tighter, and I reach out for his knee, but I stop and place it on mine, my fingertips just brushing against his cotton trousers. "I know something has been bothering you. What is it?"
He does not look up. Instead, he bows down lower, rests his elbow on his knee and rubs his eyes with his fingers. He tries to say something, but the words are caught in his throat and all that comes out is a cough.
"Dad, you know you can talk to me." Against my better judgement, I raise my trembling hand and place it on his forearm, rubbing his skin with my thumb a little. I feel the ripple of his muscles as he continues massaging his eyes and my heart skips another beat.
"I think . . ."
"It's okay." I give his toned muscles a little reassuring squeeze.
"I think I'm losing my faith, son," he blurts out and looks at me. "I've been losing my faith for a long time."
What can you even say when a pastor, as well-respected pastor, tells you he is losing his faith? I am at a loss for words, but my mind is busy. What has brought this on? Is it my fault? Did something happen? But most of all, selfishly, I think,
What does this mean for me?
"Do you know why?" I ask him.
He shook his head slowly, clenching his teeth, the muscles on his jaw rippling under the skin. "I've always felt like something was missing in my life, something important. I think this was bound to happen sooner or later."
"Everything will be alright," I tell him.
He tries to hold it back, but his emotions betray him and a tear roll down his cheek which he quickly rubs away, removing his arm from my hand.
"I promise you," I add.
More tears come and he hides his face from me.
I extend my arms gladly (half-guiltily) and wrap him within it. He embraces me back and he weeps. I slide one hand up and down the length of his back, his toned muscles and his silky shirt allowing my hand to wander smoothly. With my other hand I hold the back of his head, my fingers spread and softly moving through his thick and sleek slightly-curly hair. I take a deep breath. The cedary smell of his fading cologne, tinged with a bit of sweat sends an electric through me, reminiscent of my first days of puberty when I first learnt the sweetness of the scent of boys. Despite myself, a tear escapes my eye.
I hold him tighter to me, and I say, "I'll stay for as long as you need."
Hearing this, he holds me tighter.
The moment lasts for a while. I do not let my caressing up. Then, his hands also begin to move up and down my back, from the nape of my neck down to the base of my spine. As they keep on moving, they explore wider and wider, reaching all the way round my sides to my nipples. That familiar engulfing warmth comes back, stronger this time, and it converges on my groin, provoking an involuntary stir.
I notice his weeping his stopped, and is replaced by deep breaths. And I notice I am breathing has deeply, as feverishly as him.
My mind is busy thinking, wishing, hoping, and telling myself this is not really what I want it to be.
How can it be? My own father? The pastor?
But my body has a mind of its own.
Before I can weigh the dangers of it, my hand lets go of his head, pulls back halfway and then places itself on his chest.
I hear my father's breathing pause for a brief moment before it resumes with the same fever. I can feel the rapid heartbeat despite my trembling hand, and the reverberation of the thumps make my mind one with my body again.
I rub his pectorals over his shirt. I can feel the fibres of his muscles move as he continue to move his hands all over my back.
One of my fingers slip in between his buttons and I feel the slickness of his skin covered by a film of sweat.
My father draws in a sharp breath, and he swallowed loudly.
I know exactly what that means and I feel a burst of delight in my groin.
But this is a delicate moment, ready to crumble in an instant if a wrong move is made at the wrong time. Although I want to, although my blood is screaming for it now, my bulge pressing against my restricting underwear and trousers, I cannot afford to rush this. I will have to suffer the pain of anticipation for the fruit it will bear in the end. This is what all my adolescence, all my sleepless nights spent longing for what I cannot have has been leading up to. I will not fuck this up.
As I continue to caress his chest, moving my fingers in and out of the gap and brushing against his finite bare skin, I move my other hand rubbing his back lower and lower until I touch the waistband of his trousers. And some painful seconds later, I pinch the lower part of his tucked shirt on his back and I pull it gently out in increments, until it is free. And without losing my pace, I slip my hand under the shirt and rub the bare steamy skin of his back, my arm moving up slowly toward the nape of his neck, and pulling the rest of his shirt out of his trousers in the process.
I move my other hand from his chest and enter the front of his shirt.
His bare chest is firm against my sweaty palm and his quick heartbeats send jolts through my body. My breathing staggers for a moment, and I swallow hard, almost breaking the delicacy of the moment.
"Josh," my father says, breathless. His hands have stopped moving.
My heart skips a beat.
