No Laying On of Hands

Gay men, or at least some, I understand, enjoy turning straight guys. Although, you have to question, if the straight guy can be "turned" was he straight to begin with?

It's like the Craigslist ad that reads: "Married Man seeking other well-hung man for straight sex. Not gay at all, but just want to spend the weekend sucking a fat cock. You know, in a completely straight way."

(No, I didn't get any dates out of it...)

Actions, it seems, speak louder than words. Even the Book of James, in the Bible, chapter 2, verse 26, teaches us that "Faith, without works, is dead."

Now, there is a question about who actually wrote the book of James, whether it was one of the two apostles named James, or whether it was more likely James, the brother of Jesus, the first Bishop of Jerusalem...

But really, it doesn't matter.

However, it does all remind me of a story...

It was the early 90s. I was in college and I was running a pizza restaurant. For a dinky dirty pizza place, we actually had one hell of a staff.

My co-manager had large reptiles that roamed his home, and he also made his own bullets for his arsenal of firearms. I had a Portuguese woman, born in Angola, who spoke three languages. I had a Lebanese man with an engineering degree who spoke two languages. I had a Mexican man, who also spoke French, who worked in the kitchen at night as a second job. Several of the staff were in college getting various degrees, and the Owner, my boss, had a graduate degree in Philosophy.

Then, there was Brian. No, not me. No, not Doctor Brian. Not Brian M. Not crazy Brian D. Not funny Brian G. No, this was Brian C., and he was one of my shift supervisors.

Brian was also in school. However, he didn't actually attend a normal college. No, Brian was a seminary student. He was going to serve the Lord.

Brian's family was from Spain. He wasn't Catholic, though. I guess I never actually figured out what he was.

He wasn't necessarily religious either, which was funny for a future minister. He did, however, like to drink...

So much so, that I can credit him for introducing me to Jell-o shots. I can also credit him for teaching me that ground bloom flowers, a 4th of July favorite, actually work on top of the water in a swimming pool, not unlike Jesus himself.

And so it was, one rainy December night, that Brian and I found ourselves closing up a very empty restaurant. I ran-out the register tape and counted the cash. He mopped the floor and put away the cheese.

Having god-like authority over the inventory, I directed that we should each enjoy a pitcher of beer to increase our productivity. Brian complied with my directive, and we each began to drink.

45 minutes later, as I dead-bolted the large mahogany door, we discussed further entertainment options. We were buzzed, to be sure, and wanted to make the most of it!

He proposed pool, or maybe darts. I, of course, proposed strippers. Brian perked up through the beer-haze. He was curious. He was frightened. He admitted to me that he had never actually been to see naked ladies.

I knew I had him hooked, and only needed to reel him in.

He hemmed and hawed. I knew he was fighting against some unfortunate sense of religious guilt, not wanting to make the baby Jesus cry, and all that...

I promised he'd be safe and well-cared for. I assured his anonymity. I swore never to tell.

Hmmm... I'm kinda fucking that up right now, aren't I??

Oh well...

So, off we went, South, toward Pomona. Then East, toward Ontario.

I pulled into the parking lot of the two-story stucco building. You could smell the cherry-vanilla and hear the boom boom boom of the music from outside. The club was called De Ja Vu, and it felt like I had been there before...

I paid the cover, and ordered the drinks, non-alcoholic of course (because California sucks). It didn't matter. I was still riding that wave that only a pitcher of cheap beer can give you. Brian, on the other hand, looked like a thirsty man who had just discovered water.

Wide-eyed and dumb-struck, he soaked it all in.

Now, Brian was a nice guy, funny, with charming Southern European good looks. His hair was curly, and he had a close-trimmed beard. The girls dug him, or at least read him for the drunken first-timer that he was. They swarmed to our table, sitting on our laps, sitting in the chairs, sitting on the table itself.

He was enjoying the attention, finally calming down. The heaving cleavage being thrust into his face was helping him forget the threat of hell and eternal damnation.

For one brief minute, as he exchanged smiles and small talk with the bountiful brunette straddling his lap, I thought that I saw the real Brian. The libidinous, relaxed, unencumbered Brian. I could not hear what he was saying, but his actions were saying plenty.

Then, slowly the dancer started to stroke his face. She ran her fingers through his beard and said, laughingly, loud enough for me to hear:

"Do you know who you look like??"

"Who?" He innocently asked in return.

"Jesus!" She said.

And with that, the night came quickly to an end.