Dangerous When Wet by Jamie Brickhouse

Author:Jamie Brickhouse
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466837300
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

SEVENTEEN

Forgive Me, for I Have Sinned

I scanned John’s plywood-and-cinder-block shelves, heavy with titles like Sexuality and the U.S. Catholic Church, The Case for Clerical Celibacy, and The Vatican and Homosexuality. I’d met John, last night’s hookup, at the witching hour in a dark corner of a Lower East Side, poultry-themed bar, the Cock.

As John handed me the two Advil I’d requested and a mug of black coffee, I said, “Judging from your library, I’d say that you’re either a lapsed Catholic or a priest.”

John sat opposite me on his futon, curling his long legs under his six-foot-two, meatless frame, and took a sip of his coffee. “Actually, I am a praacticing Caatholic”—his a’s were pronounced long and flat—“but a laapsed priest.”

His shrug of the shoulders and so-sue-me grin told me that he wasn’t joking. Besides, his goofy, puppy-dog, fortyish face instantly conveyed that he didn’t have an ironic bone in his lanky body.

“If I’d only known, I would have called you Father John last night.”

“Oh, Gad,” he said with a roll of the eyes. “I’m glaad you didn’t. I’m actually on leave from my church in Minnesota.” Minnesota. That explains the accent. “I’m at Fordham getting my maaster’s. My thesis is on sexuality and the Caatholic Church.”

“You’re doing some excellent fieldwork.”

“Ha. I’m making up for lost time. I’ve been a priest for fourteen years. I wanted to be a priest my whole life. When I was a little boy, I used to pretend to be a priest and say Maass in the basement with a makeshift altar and everything.”

“Wow. I grew up Catholic too, but I spent my make-believe time pretending to be Ann-Margret falling off of a Vegas stage. I don’t know what’s gayer.” He laughed. “Were you celibate the whole time you were a priest?”

“Well, I’m still a priest, just on leave. Yep. I was celibate. The entire fourteen years.” Fourteen years? I can’t imagine being celibate for fourteen hours. “A lot of my fellow priests used to sneak over to Minneaaapolis and spend entire weekends at the baaths. But I never strayed.” He took a sip of coffee from the mug he held with both hands and looked past me with a blank stare. “Celibacy fucked up my life.” Then he broke the mood by scolding me. “I was pretty drunk laast night, but you, my son”—he shook his index finger at me—“were very drunk.”

I hung my head in mock shame. “Forgive me, Father John, for I have sinned, and I have the hangover to prove it.”

I chuckled at my mock display of contrition while I winced inside at having pulled another all-nighter. Michahaze and I had classified our marriage as “modern” years ago. We went through couple’s therapy for a brief time after the Zurich trip. Neither of us could stand the therapist, an Ernie the Muppet of a man whose earnest smile hovered over praying hands while he spewed a litany of therapy jargon—“comfortability,” “anger transference,” “projecting”—in hushed tones. But he did get us talking to each other about what we wanted.

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