“I came to Buddhism because I wanted to be a better person and liked the idea that we are in charge of our own fates. I’m not accountable to a mysterious sky daddy, only myself. If I'm gay, that’s okay and I won’t be punished for it. Sexuality is not a moral issue. I am solely judged on my actions as a person. I know it seems foreign. But like I said before, I have a long way to go.”
It was strange talking about religion with him. Creed had been such a huge part of my life for so long. I still did things like pray when I told myself I didn’t believe anymore. I suppose it took a long time to deprogram. “But you weren’t born into Buddhism?”
He tossed his head back to finish off his tea, his Adam’s apple bobbing through the whiskers on his neck. He set the cup on the table and wiped his shiny lips with the back of his hand. “Nope. I’m Irish Catholic. Rather, I was.”
“Really? How did you go from that to…that?” I inquired, motioning to the statue by the window.
He smiled and licked his lips. “Long story. But the day my parents discovered I was gay set me onto that path. It just took me a very long time to get here.”
I knew I should leave this alone, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to know there were others in the world that had survived the cage of religion. “Did they kick you out or something?”
“No, but that day everything changed. First it was a short round of denial:You’re young and confused. Pray for guidance, they’d say. Then came a sort of weird period where they acknowledged that I was gay, but not really, because I was actually possessed by demons or something. I spent most of mysixteenth year in church, youth groups, and forced sports try-outs. Oddly, I was pretty good at sports, but it never turned me straight. The worst came next: The acceptance that I’d chosen to be gay and that I’d willingly damned my soul. That was unforgivable to them. They accepted I was not the son they loved, but some creature unworthy of the light of God. That was probably the worst, knowing my own parents resented me, mourned me as if I’d already died. They still tried to get me to repent, of course, but we all knew it wasn’t going to happen. So, the day I turned eighteen, I took what little I had, including my old beater I’d bought for myself with summer-job money and drove away. I had to leave if I wanted to save myself.”
I tried to imagine how he’d felt leaving the home he’d grown up in. His parents. Siblings? Friends? Everything he’d ever known all slowly fading in the rearview mirror. He must have been as terrified as the day I’d left my parent’s house with my backpack and duffle bag of clothes. “You talk about everything so easily as if it wasn’t you that it happened to.”
“Because I’m in a better place with my life now. And knowing where I came from and where I am now is important. But there were a few years in my twenties when I almost destroyed myself because I couldn’t deal with the trauma my parent’s bigotry caused.”
“What do you mean?”
He blew out a big breath and looked away as if he didn’t want to relive it. He rested his elbows on his knees and stroked his beard roots to tip. “There is this thing called religious guilt. In my case, catholic guilt. It’s immensely powerful, and sneaky. It nearly ate me alive. Leaving home had allowed me to live as my authentic self, but it set off a chain reaction. I would sleep with someone, and the next day fall into a sort of depression. We’re toldGod is always watchingand all I could think about was how He’d know every shameful thing I’d done with thatperson. A little voice would play on repeat that I was a sinner for falling to temptation. Then I’d go into this short period of having to prove to myself that I was not a sinner, and there was nothing wrong with being gay–after all, this was how he’d made me–so, I’d sleep with as many guys as I could to convince myself of that. Rinse and repeat.”
I listened to the info dump, a lot of what he was saying hitting closer to home than I liked, but it was nice to know I wasn’t the only one battling with things like this.
“I was twenty-four when I realized I was destroying myself with this circle of beating myself up over sleeping with men, then drowning myself in sex because for a short time, it made the pain go away. Old men, young boys my age, twinks, bears, all colors, all manner of kinks. I didn’t have a type. Ugh, you got me going.”
“No, I’m sorry. I guess this isn’t the best topic of conversation for a nice morning.”
“You seem like you need to hear it,” he said carefully.
I grumbled a curse under my breath and said, “You’re not wrong.”
“I won’t ask what keeps you up at night, but I am here to listen if you want to talk about it. I’ll finish with this: It took a very real scare to wake me up. Even to this day I don’t remember all the details, only that I woke up in a strange bed, naked bodies lying everywhere. I couldn’t remember a whole lot of the night before. What I do remember is the lines of coke dust on the table and the absence of condom wrappers. I’d always been careful to use protection, but I had no idea if I had or how many men I’d had sex with that night. It scared the fuck out of me. Back then we didn’t have PrEP like we do today. I’d saved myself by leaving home and I refused to destroy myself. So I made a promise and never went back to that lifestyle. Buddhism helped me cope andset me on a more productive path. Just…whatever is happening with you, don’t let yourself get to that point, okay?”
I bit my lip and nodded to let him know that I’d heard him, but I didn’t know how to respond, so I said nothing at all.
I looked to the window where the snowflakes were whipping and whirling in a flurry of activity, some pelting the glass and melting. I felt like the snowflakes outside, directionless and at the mercy of the wind.
“Let me see if I can make this Christmas a little better for you with breakfast. How do waffles sound?” he asked, bumping my arm with his.
“Are you going to put a pink frilly apron on for me, housewife?” I teased, glad for the change of subject.
“Housewife? You ain’t bringing in any kind of moolah so I ain’t your housewife.” He got up and stalked into the kitchen.
I yelled out hoarsely, “So if I was the breadwinner, I could expect dinner and blowjobs regularly?”
“Brat,” he shouted back. “You better be nice, or I’ll eat these waffles smothered in real maple syrup in front of you and not feel bad about it.”
I smiled widely, something warm and feather-soft brushing against my insides.
CHAPTER TEN
SEAN
I poured an inch of champagne into the cheap plastic flute in front of Matteo. “I can’t believe I’m contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“Hey, I’m not a minor, I’m twenty, thanks,” he said and took the flute. He inhaled and sipped at the champaign, the little bubbles dancing around his lips. “Besides, I’ve been drinking the blood of Christ since I was thirteen, so this is kid’s stuff.”
“Good point,” I said and sat down on the couch with my own flute.
