Doing The Lord's Work

Sometime between “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and the first reading, I notice that Derek Rittner is sitting in the pew in front of us. He looks exactly the same as he did when we were in elementary school together, except now his skin is tanner and his shoulders are broader. I kind of want him to turn around and smile, but I mostly want to disappear. For a moment, I consider telling my dad and brother that I have to take a shit, then bolting out the front of the church and sprinting to playground behind the gym where I could smoke a cigarette in cold solitude. I haven’t seen Derek Rittner in nearly a decade, but looking at him makes me feel like I did when I was a kid: horny and panicked.

Now, my sweater is itchy and my clothes generally feel like they don’t fit. I feel stupid for wearing a blue pullover from Target with blue skinny pants, also from Target. The monochromatic outfit I’m wearing is unseasonal and I’m totally underdressed for Christmas mass. My hair is too long, my forehead is too oily, and my man-tits are bulging out above my potbelly. I feel lumpy and prickly and out-of-shape. I am basically a bag of oranges wrapped in cheap, hot fabric. And just four feet away sits Derek Rittner in a dark suit that looks like it was sewed onto his perfectly carved body. He’s facing forward, but I can still tell that his complexion is smooth and spotless — infallible as always. I don’t really care for his haircut, which I decide is called the “corporate pageboy.” When he turns to whisper something to his sister, I catch a flicker of his eyes; bitter emeralds that often possessed me do things to myself when I was alone in my room after school. Know what I mean? Dick stuff. Anyway, there he is in all his post-pubescent glory, licking his lips in the House of The Lord and here I am: pink and splotchy and full of self-loathing. Dear God, he’s beautiful.

Father Steve is talking about the real reason for the season and I’m sending Melanie a text that says, “I’m at St. Andrew and Derek Rittner is right in front of me!!!” Melanie and I grew up together and share a mutual attraction for the boys who never noticed us in grade school. Right on queue, Melanie texts me right back saying, “God, I wanted his nuts so bad.” I’m mildly surprised she hasn’t screwed Derek yet. Every now and then, I’ll strike up a conversation about one of the cute boys from St. Andrew and Melanie will say something like “Oh him? Yeah, I gave him a handy junior year” or “I let him finger me at a party once, but I haven’t seen him since.”

I always thought Melanie was pretty — I even took her to a Homecoming Dance once — but now she’s striking. She’s the type of girl who blossomed late in high school and flourished in college. She’s also the type of girl who grew up to have the looks and charisma to reach into the past and bang all the guys who wouldn’t bang her before. She’s living everyone’s dream, including my own.

Melanie and I circa 2003, and again on January 25, 2014.

Melanie got prettier, but prettier wouldn’t work for me because I’m a dude. Growing up gay is tough because every crush feels either risky or pointless. It’s brutal being a kid who’s attracted to people who can seemingly never like him back. But alas, I got older and now I’m pretty much slamming whatever I want. I’ve even had sex with a Colonel in the military! Never thought that would happen when I was eleven years old. That’s pretty cool, right? I guess it does get better.

I’ll never have a shot with any of the popular boys I grew up with, but I’m okay with that. I can just live through Melanie and all the dirty, dirty things she does with them. There are a lot of men out there and I’m doing my best with the ones who will have me. She’s got the rest covered. God bless her for that.

In the mean time, Derek Rittner is filing into line to receive the Eucharist. His ass is what I would call a champagne booty. The choir is singing “Silent Night” and my little brother is texting his girlfriend. I actually have to shit now, but I’m mortified by the idea of running into Derek in the men’s room after I’ve only presently dumped out. My dad makes eye contact with me and then nods in Derek’s direction. I look towards Derek, then back to my dad and shrug as if to say, what about him?  He purses his lips and gestures with his hand to Derek’s mom, who I haven’t noticed until just now. She is wearing a skintight cheetah-print wrap dress and a full face of porn star make-up, complete with pale pink lip-gloss. She shuffles in behind her son and they both process towards the altar, together prepared to receive God’s grace.