This short story turned into my debut novel. Read the origins of Love God F Religion in its entirety here!
A Short Story
by
Sam R. Sailors
Theoretically, in God’s eyes, I am no longer a Virgin.
Hope springs through the grassy section of the courtyard common area at Gilbert Christian Church. Her dirty blonde hair is tied up tight but short reducing the natural curls and waves in the way that’s accustom to competitive cheer and an intent to reduce the individualism that can come with well-groomed and healthy hair, all in an effort to promote a team mentality. She flawlessly executes another flip with a twist — splendidly bendy. The kind of pliable youth that strokes the imagination of men well into their golden years. The thoughts and fantasies that are hidden away under the pressure and shame of acknowledging the desires of younger flesh, only to be pulled out during the most personal and intimate times. Hope still stands out from the small groups of junior high and high school students, no more than three or four, who pepper the courtyard, lost in conversation, as if their egocentric nuclei are the centers of the universe.
Her glances in my direction come frequently, but not overly eager. Each glimpse graced with a satisfied smile. Alluring and genuine, a frisky smile. Perfect teeth hugged by sweetheart dimples and those bright, penetrating, jade green eyes — she has my attention. She’s well aware I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her for the better part of an hour since the two of us made blasphemous use of the baptismal preparation room as our own private seven (twenty-five) minutes in heaven. It’s either the hundred-degree weather, or enduring heat from her body pressed up against mine that’s caused a bit of perspiration, and I enjoy the warmth.
I wonder how far we can push the limits, or how far I’d let her push. She knows she’s the instigator, in control. She lives for it, strives on that perfect balance and impact of a good tease. We came close today, certainly closer in our thoughts and whispered intentions before I pulled gently away. Would today have been the day? Would I really want to cross that line with Hope? I know I’ve pictured it over and over and over, but I’m not sold. According to last week’s sermon, just thinking about all this fantastically fun stuff has certainly crossed the line, but if that’s true, then I crossed the line when I was nine, even if I didn’t fully comprehend exactly what I was feeling or thinking about. My lips feel great though, thanks to the freshly transferred raspberry Chapstick that tickles my tongue. Was she wearing something cheap from Avon, or maybe she snuck something fancy from her mom’s stash that I can’t quite identify from the scent that’s lingering on my shirt collar?
My musing is shattered, as the hand I’m holding squeezes and starts to pull hard for me to stand up and snap out of it. Becca, the girl I guess I’m “with” at the moment — nothing official in my mind, no spoken commitment or professions of exclusivity, at least from my side — offers a tolerable smile and jabs me hard in the ribs. “Come on, come on!” Becca pleads and continues to wrench my arm with an unsuspecting force, till I grudgingly rise and follow. I smell her now, overwhelmingly so, a pungent, almost musky smell of a teen who might not be aware of the necessity for deodorant. She leads me towards the church, away from my prevailing stimulus of Hope and reminds me chime by chime that service will start soon. Most of my friends are repulsed by Becca, but I like her enough to keep things moving along till some event or circumstance comes along that justifies change. Maybe repulsed is too strong a word, but it’s close.
She’s not stunning by any means, no sense of style, personal space, or vocal volume and has even worse pitch. Shrill is not too kind a word. She’s the one always “singing” at the top of her lungs, just off key, hoping to catch the attention of the worship band. To be chosen as the next special service guest singer, constantly fishing for compliments that never come. She’s passive aggressive, manipulative, chintzy, and relentlessly annoying, but maybe in the right ways, if there is such a thing. She pays attention to me in ways that most don’t, and sometimes clingy feels nice. Sometimes.
Today, she’s dressed in hand-me-down overalls – loose at the shoulders and rolled at the bottom to take up the extra length. Her father’s maybe? A burgundy, bargain-bin tank top and those stupid thick plastic flip-flop things adding another inch to her already tall 5’7 frame. She compensates for the extra height with pathos posture and an unwavering lack of self-respect. I don’t mind today’s outfit as much as her others, she looks almost presentable. Plus, the hints of exposed mid-drift tease at her tight stomach and the low-cut arms of the tank top peak at the lacey bralette, framing momentary side boob in youthful glory, leaving my imagination little work to do — the true reasons I’m even in this “relationship” to begin with. I will happily take what I can get as long as at least a few of my favorite boxes are checked.
Luke opens the doors to the aging sanctuary, recently converted to the youth building after the main sanctuary was completed. The doors, a fragile maturing composite pair, into which had been installed a plywood panel to repair a wayward baseball incident, swung back to a pair of magnetic door holders. Becca and I slip through, hit sharply by the cool AC, as Luke calls out to the group that service will be starting shortly. Luke is a game changer for me, the new guy on the block and somebody I think I admire. He has just come to our little hometown of Gilbert, Arizona in search of a productive use for what he calls a senseless degree in religious studies. Luke holds himself a little taller than most would at his immense height and wouldn’t have to watch what he eats like I do. Luke’s name fits him easily, as would a Mark or James or some other Americana-Christian, Anglo Saxon moniker, with the face of a teen or a cherub or some young celestial, the quality that will hold with Luke far past his youth pastor role, till he is older, seasoned, puts on a few pounds and accepts the responsibility and dignity of a senior pastor; for now as perfect a role model in Gilbert could possibly be in fitted jeans, Converse All Stars, dark Polo shirts without buttons buttoned, having walked off the set of 90210, carrying the latest translation of our Bible. He comes off as easy to talk with, not just to, and from the way he talks with girls of any age, he’s likely somebody I could learn a thing or two in my campaign for the favor of the fairer sex. I figure I could covertly pull a few words of wisdom from a string of some seemingly random conversations that will lead me to the promised land without hinting at my true intent: losing my virginity, the only reason I still go to this place of “worship.”
God may think I’ve lost it, but I would beg to differ. I suppose if I were able to explain a few things to him/her, he/she might see things my way and cut a guy some slack. He/she might even provide a few tips and hints himself, or herself, I try not to assume.
In church, I feel like a larger fish in a smaller pond[SS1] . My quirky-cool combination of good-ish intentions, mediocre looks, and equally mediocre musicianship behind a drum set, gives me a fighting shot. Glad to be past the body morphing JNCO jeans, Kmart skater shoes, and blue hair of junior high, I’ve moved into similar dark polo shirts as Luke, buttons unbuttoned, better fitting but not fitted jeans, Converse All Star low tops and even wear a belt, settling into a metro-sexual prep look that makes me feel a bit older, suave, and distinguished in ways I envision will get the appropriate attention from competent girls who would be willing to teach me a thing or two about the no pants dance.
All the “Most Desirables” from school would never show their face around here and are likely at home nursing a hangover from whatever cliché party was raging the night before. Girls like Terresa Sparn who states the best way to keep from getting pregnant is to stick strictly to anal sex, or Brenda Smith, who went by Brendi when she used to attend church here but changed her name and Sunday routine once her boobs came in early sophomore year, or Nancey Miller who has been able to out-drink any self-proclaimed booze hound since she was fourteen. Guys like Vince Miller, Nancy’s brother, who can shotgun two beers at the same time and always gives his sister a run for her money as long as it’s cheap beer. I’ve never seen any of these antics in person, but the stories sound fantastically terrible and distant. Two or more groups of people not separated by proximity as much as by upbringing, social status, and religious repetition.
Here, in church, are the rest of us. Not the nobodies necessarily but not the “tens.” Hypothetically, my chances of scoring here are much higher, and it appears like most of these gals might just be in this for the same reasons. Sure, the behaviors and promiscuity may be further masked and hidden by a conscience or commitment to a higher power, but there is an underlining sexual tension that is thick and present, presenting itself in open weaves, exposed skin, suggestive glances and maybe too many and too long hugs. Church becomes a reasonable and innocent enough excuse to get out of the house and spend some quality time with the opposite sex for a couple hours without the parental units fearing the worst.
Becca slows down just enough for us to turn a corner and head into the youth sanctuary. She gives me a quick, dry, peck on the cheek and heads to the front row for her favorite spot: the one from where she can see me from, but, more importantly to her, BE seen by the rest of the band. The sanctuary is small but welcoming, almost like it was built to stimulate the feeling that the room won’t fit any more members, that you must expand, grow into another location, a new building, more. The ceiling a tad too low for the expanse of the room, the windows a bit too few and too far in-between. The walls are covered in faux-brick laminate over corrugated metal panels lined with large framed burlap coffee sacks, providing some organic texture and hinting to an acknowledgement of other countries. Fake vines and trees sporadically placed throughout. A homage to a warehouse or coffee house and … a greenhouse apparently. Heavy chairs with ample cushioning and stain resistant patterns that could hide coffee or blood stains for years, linked together by small hooks that keep them perfectly spaced like memorial tombstones atop dyed concrete floors where the well-traveled carpet was once glued down. In whole, the room feels undecided and conflicted. The results of poor planning, poor execution, and allowing the youth members a vessel to express themselves and help release their creative voices. Plus, it was cheaper to let the youth do the work, sold as creating ownership and pride in the room, to reduce vandalism and build greater participation. It all feels a bit opposed, diverged, or fake to me, forced. The main sanctuary, the offices, the courtyards and playgrounds, the sport courts, the youth rooms, the study rooms, the towers and the stained-glass windows, even the restrooms, like the entire complex is trying too hard to prove its outward reaching, well-traveled views. Prove that this church can be more than and is not like the other grandstanding, self-serving, profit centers. You can feel safe knowing that your ten percent is going to those in need.
I head down the aisle to the baptismal prep room for the second time this morning, arousal rising. The rest of the band is waiting patiently, and I enter hoping that no one can smell the teenage lust, sweat, and hormones that linger in the room from only an hour before. Andrew, our rhythm guitar player, who I consider my friend and toughest competition, grabs my left hand as our bass player grabs my right, completing an awkward circle with the rest of the band. Prayers must have greater effect or a stronger ability to reach God if we hold hands. Not unlike the portrayed circles of Wizards and Witches in Charmed or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Andrew leads the group in a pre-service prayer asking for guidance, strength for some reason, and that our worship be well received. Andrew is a bit older than I am and came to the group as the newest love interest of my true lust, Charlie. I hated Andrew at first and acted accordingly, often passing biased, unfounded judgment and criticism to whomever would listen but quickly reconsidered. I wasn’t winning any points with Charlie by being an unnoticed, passive-aggressive asshole and could find more success by slowly driving them apart from within. I knew Charlie well enough to understand which buttons to press, which flaws to underhandedly highlight while playing the part of the now welcoming team member.
This perfect plan of mine has taken a lot longer than I’d anticipated and has had the annoying side effect of finding that Andrew is actually a pretty cool guy and a decent musician. It’s not hard to see what Charlie sees in him. Tall enough, pierced ears, short cropped black hair, fit without caring, thanks to generations of good breeding, not overly well spoken but smart enough, styled by album covers and posters, and the first in our group to actually have a real tattoo. The epitome of late 90s skate pop with a Hungarian twist. He finishes his mediocre prayer, and we walk through the side door onto the poorly lit makeshift stage. I slip behind the church’s drum kit, an electronic relic that out-dates me by a solid decade and get ready to start our poorly rehearsed praise to the Lord of Lords.
We bang out three songs to high praise from the group of roughly sixty teens and “young adults” as Luke bounds up to the stage, building on the energy to take us through this week’s sermon. I admit, I enjoy the clapping and compliments but truly think these folks need to get out more if they think we have any real talent. Luke riffs off a couple lines before yet another prayer, although delivered much more fluently and rehearsed than Andrews’s, before starting a video clip to put us all in the mood and really “connect” with us youth. On screen, Rob Bell begins raising crucial and controversial questions about growing up in today’s changing Christianity. Well thought out metaphors, similes, and analogies that bring the old book new meaning, relating to current events and culture.
The video is edgy and contemporary – high production value, high budget, and liberal market research to study what appeals to our demographic, certainly nothing we could replicate in AV club at school. Even with all camera changes, artistic angles, post editing, lighting, staging, and effects the video doesn’t pull my attention away from Hope. I get hard just reminiscing as she throws me another provocative smile from a few rows back. Becca thinks I’m looking at her.
The film comes to a dramatic conclusion, delivering a solid call to action, an alter call, asking us all to really consider our actions and how God sees our heart. I feel these two statements can easily contradict each other; Rob makes it seem black and white. Lights come up, and the music stops abruptly — the sound guy needs some practice. Luke starts connecting the video to our growing and confusing lives, “The answers are here! We need to go out into the world and convert! Bring people to Christ. Show them there is a better way. Convert those who are truly alone and who invest their lives in false religions, false Gods, and false beliefs. Help yourself by helping others first. Show the world what being a Christian really means. Show them with actions and love. There are people lost out there, people in your schools, in your communities, even in your homes who are lost and searching for answers. We can and will show them the better way, the right way, the one true way and the one true God. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I can show you, and all you have to do is follow these rules and trust in him.” He preaches with passion, conviction, and seems to know exactly where we need help the most.
Luke certainly has my attention more often than the video did and makes some points that connect even as I struggle to shrug them off. I do find myself confused sometimes, feeling alone and in search of answers - like most, if not all teens.
It’s built into us, in our DNA. A need to seek enlightenment and guidance from our elders. Bring us together as a community, a common force in search of a common enemy by way of a common guide. Religious groups for centuries feed on this need, nurture it, use it to their advantage. We all hope in some way that the religion we choose to believe in, is the truth, the one true religion, without a need to abuse or deface the guide we chose to follow. No one wants to feel alone, or unsupported — abandoned. No one wants to be misled or deceived. Believing is hard enough as it is. It’s hard to believe that this God that I’ve known since I was barely old enough to talk, could really still understand me at this point in my life. Hard to believe that the stories I’ve learned to believe haven’t been manufactured or altered in any way. Can I really be this lucky, to be born into the only real religion? Could Luke actually be there for me when I need help on topics I can’t even talk to my folks about? Can I trust him? Did Hope just actually eye fuck me from across the room again? Yeah, yeah, she did.
Luke wraps up his lesson and transitions with another prayer asking the band back on stage for one last “song.” This song goes off worse than the first three, but nobody seems to notice. We end, the same cheering, clapping, ringing in our ears, and compliments come our way followed by yet another prayer. How many prayers so far? I lose count.
The band starts packing up, chatting about where to eat, and what to do after. I’m astonished by these real in-depth, intellectually stimulating conversations inspired by the week’s lesson. We chose the regular no name fast food sandwich joint, and I ask to bum a ride with Andrew as my car once again is in need of repair. I despise riding in Andrew’s truck, but have few options – convenience wins again. His 98 Toyota Tacoma, Sierra Beige Metallic, complete with roll bar, captain’s chairs, upgraded exhaust and the three-inch suspension lift, not just a body lift like most, always adds to my envy, and even worse, it always smells like Charlie’s shampoo.
We wade our way through the group of believers, accepting words of gratitude and promise of real futures in music, trying to get out to the truck. Someone grabs my ass with a tight squeeze. It should be Becca, was likely Hope — I wish it was Charlie. I can’t even turn around to check as the crowd is thick and Diana, the senior worship pastor’s wife, has my other cheeks in her hands, telling me how well we did today and that soon I’ll be asked to the main sanctuary to play adult services. I wish I wasn’t excited about this bit of news, but that stab of mild small-town fame, exaggerated by my imagination, starts scratching, and I start to believe I could do something special.
***
It's Sunday again.
Routine keeps me comfortable and oddly uncomfortable at the same time. I walk the line, Jonny Cash style with my focus and attention, between what seems good for everybody else but at the same time a constant nagging that maybe I could be doing more. It’s like a little fucking voice saying, “Oh yeah, this feels nice, if you’re too much of a pussy to step away from the herd! Bleeeep Bleep baahhhh.” You’d think I’m being a bit dramatic but sometimes I swear my subconscious makes sheep noises. Once again, Hope and I find our way alone, providing almost too similar excuses to our friends that couldn’t possibly hold up under any scrutiny.
This week our beloved tryst retreat is actually being used by someone about to devote their entire existence to the man or woman upstairs. It’s truly amazing how well Hope knows her way around the grounds as she eagerly guides me to a small storage room in the main sanctuary that she assures me shouldn’t be used till the next potluck. I get the feeling I’m not the first she’s brought here and far from the last. We pull our bodies close, tangled in adolescent hunting and groping. The familiar warmth and scent that I didn’t know I missed during the past week.
She fumbles to get her hand down my pants, fingers poking and prodding at fasteners and hems. Maybe I’ve put on a couple pounds, but it seems like my jeans are tighter than usual. She chooses to forgo the deep restrictive reach requesting I unbutton and drop-trou – ladies choice, no complaints here. I pop free and come to attention – hearing cartoon “boing” noises in my head. The dim light of the storage room casts flattering shadows to enhance my mediocrity. Hope always plays the excited and impressed, and I wouldn’t dare question. I welcome the boost to my confidence. Not more than three eager strokes in - the door opens.
Diana stands there for a moment. Direct and intense eye contact as I try and stop Hope from switching to her mouth – she hasn’t noticed our intruder. There isn’t much at this point I can figure will get us out of our predicament. No divine intervention nor devilish intrusion and I don’t think either Diana nor Hope fully realize or acknowledge what’s going on. I snap my pants up quickly but careful not to catch anything valuable in the fasteners and try to save face. Diana remains speechless, and Hope has apparently left the planet in shock. I start off as any accused would with “It’s not what it looks like.” – it’s exactly what it looks like.
Still nobody moves or responds. The film has been paused. I grab Hope’s hand and cautiously move past Diana as to not rouse the frozen beast. To awake would wreak havoc at any moment. Hope and I make a break for the exits parting ways to retreat through separate doors in a feeble attempt to look innocent. Then nothing. No shouts of blasphemy, pitchfork mobs, bleeding tears from Jesus statues, or bolts of lightning. Nothing that would suggest two of the chosen ones had just defiled the sanctuary.
[SS1]I know what the phrase normally says, but my intent is not push the narator's confidence too high by saying he is a large fish. He doesn't hold himself that high yet, he's just a larger fish. And it's not a small pond as there are still tons of poeple here to compete with, so I chose "Smaller" to represent that.