This year Christmas falls on a Friday.  Bummer!  I’ll miss casual Friday in the office, and meeting up with my friends for TGIF drinks at Maury’s, my favorite gay bar in The Village.  Both the office and Maury’s will be tight shut.  All my friends will be spending the holiday with their families.  Not me, or is it, not I?  Who gives a fuck?

Christmas means nothing to me.  It’s supposed to be a Christian holiday, but it’s a holiday invented by retailers, especially the big department store chains.  Besides, its roots are in paganism.  To me, the Judeo-Christian Bible is in the same category as Roman-Greco mythology.  I find it hard to believe that anyone can believe in all that nonsense.  It’s only one step shy of calling for sacrificing vestal virgins to the gods.

If you think that I am bitter about the religion of my youth, you couldn’t be more right.  I was raised a strict Baptist in Selma, Alabama.  I come from good people, I swear.  There was a picture hanging in my grandfather’s living room of himself, marching arm and arm with the African-American protesters in Selma, at the beginning of the civil rights movement.  He woke up one morning to find “Nigger Lover” painted in red across the white siding of his house.  He repainted it himself while the local newspaper took pictures.

Unfortunately, my grandfather was gone, when my father did to me what he did, just a few short years ago.  Dad is a Southern Baptist Minister.  Our church was integrated before any other church in the area, so you can understand what good Christian folks attended my father’s sanctuary.  I truly believed that my father loved everybody just as my grandfather had.  I was terribly wrong.

When I was very, very young I can remember my father sermonizing against “those people.”  I had no idea who they were, but they were really bad, and they all populated hell. Ugh.  It meant nothing to me.  As I grew a little older, I began to wonder about my father’s dislike for “those people.”  He seemed to love everybody, except this one group of sinners.  One day a member of his flock made a nasty remark about members of another religion.  I distinctly heard my dad tell him, in a most kindly manner, that he shouldn’t think that way.  “Catholics and Jews,” he said, “may worship differently than we do, but remember, they revere the same God we do.”  After hearing that, I still believed that he was a good man, who permitted diversity in his religious observance, just as Jesus had.  If Jesus had obeyed the authorities of his day, he never would have preached to the gentiles, and most of us would still be praying to Odin, Jupiter, or Zeus.  On reflection, it’s a viable alternative to the hypocrisy of religious practice today.

By the time I was almost a teen-ager, I figured out that “those people” my father referred to, were homosexuals.  I had not yet identified myself with that group, but I was well on my way to joining the ranks.  I had a friend from school named Phillipe Gomez.  Phil’s parents were second generation Mexican-Americans.  His father owned a large landscaping company, and they were pretty high up the social stratus in our city.  Phil attended a very small Catholic Church in our neighborhood.

I honestly don’t remember how it started, but Phil and I started to play with each other at a very early age.  We began with mutual masturbation.  We progressed to oral sex, and neither of us could get enough of that worthy pursuit.  We did not attempt anal sex until we were adults.  We usually played with each other after school in Phil’s bedroom.  He was an only child, and both his parents worked.  His father was usually out on a job, while his mother covered the retail nursery.

All during high school, Mr. Gomez allowed Phil and me to work part time on Saturdays in his business.  Both our families observed the Sabbath, and none of us worked on Sundays, except my father, of course.  During the summer months, we worked full time for Phil’s father.  He and my father became very good friends, which was to work against me in the future.

When we graduated high school, Phillipe went to work full time in the family business, and I went off to the University of Alabama in Birmingham.  (Go Crimson Tide).  We missed each other terribly.  Phil had to wait for one of my rare trips home for us to make love.  I was luckier.  I made a few contacts at school and was enjoying a full-blown homosexual life.  That is to say, I was having plenty of sex, but love waited for Phil.

I came home for spring break in my senior year, and my life changed forever.  I only had five weeks left to my college career.  Phil and I had trouble getting together now because he worked the same hours as his parents.  On the Saturday night before Easter Sunday, Phil called.  His folks had been invited to dinner at the home of his aunt.  She lived in a city about seventy-five miles away, and they wouldn’t be home before midnight.  He begged me to come over and I rushed to be with him.

Not ten miles out of Selma, The Lopezes began to regret that they had accepted the invitation.  The two lane highway they were on was bumper to bumper with holiday traffic.  Suddenly, a car, two cars in front of them, pulled into the oncoming traffic lane in an attempt to get ahead.  He was rewarded with a front end collision.  Both drivers were killed.  Phil’s parents were peripherally involved, but their car was damaged enough to abort their trip.  After the police finished questioning everyone involved, and their car was towed to the repair shop, they called for a cab and went home.

Phil and I never heard them come into the house.  They weren’t doing much talking.  They were exhausted, and intended on going right to bed.  They had to pass Phil’s room to get to theirs.  His door was wide open and they were greeted by the sight of their only son fucking me missionary style, and shouting obscenities.  His mother screamed, and his father pulled him off me.

“Get dressed and get out,” he yelled at me.

By the time I got home, my father was waiting for me in the front hall.  His good friend, Mr. Gomez, had already turned me in.  Dad grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me into the living room.  “What did I do, God,” he yelled, “to deserve a faggot son?”  I dared believe for one second that he was blaming himself, thinking that he had committed some sort of sin to be punished like this.

“Repent,” he screamed at me.  I almost laughed at him.  He sounded like an old-fashioned tent revival evangelist.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whimpered.  “I am who I am.  I am what God created.  I have nothing to repent for.”

He slapped me across the face.  “Don’t blame God,” he commanded.

“Well then, it must be you or mom, who passed on the gene.”  I intended on hurting him, but he rewarded me with another slap across a cheek.

“Get out,” he yelled, “and don’t ever come back.  I never want to see you again.”

So I went back to Birmingham, and graduated college without my parents attending the ceremonies.  I never saw Phil again, but we exchanged E Mails often, and remained secret friends.

Phil got married to a young Mexican girl his parents sponsored into the country.  He admitted to me that she was very pretty, and he had been able to perform his husbandly duties, but he had to pretend that she was me in order for him to get hard.  Now three years later, she had not yet gotten pregnant.  He admitted that he spent more time teaching her English than working on producing an heir.  While he was at work, she helped his mother in the retail nursery.

I was not as lucky as Phil.  I could not go home after graduation, nor did I want to, so I considered looking for work in cities with large gay populations.  I had majored in finance, and I got a job with a large microchip manufacturer.  Their plant was out on Long Island, NY, but the offices were in lower Manhattan.  I expected to end up in the accounting office, but they shocked me by assigning me to the marketing department.  I was surprised, and a little frightened at first, but I needn’t have been.  In a very short time, I realized how much I enjoyed the work, and I fitted right in.

Housing is expensive in New York, but I was lucky enough to find a studio apartment in Greenwich Village.  It was overpriced, but I made a good enough salary to afford it. 

So here it is three years after I was exiled from Selma.  I am a different person than I was then.  I am not completely ready to declare that there is no creative force in the universe, but I have completely abandoned religion.  Karl Marx was correct.  It is the opium of the people.  Right on, Karl. 

I have made many acquaintances in the New York gay community, and I get plenty of sex, but I miss Phil terribly.  He was my first love, and I fear he will be my only love.  As long as he lives, I cannot bring myself to love someone else, even as I face another lonely Christmas in The Big Apple.  Worse yet, Friday evening is the most social evening of my week, and that will be stolen away from me this year.  All my “play mates” will be celebrating the nonsense of a virgin birth.

On the Tuesday evening before Christmas, I began to feel sorrier for myself than usual.  I tried telling myself to get over it, but it wasn’t working.  A voice kept telling me that I made my bed and I had to sleep in it.  After I made myself a frozen meat loaf dinner, I got naked and sat down before my computer.  I knew that sometime during the evening I would probably watch porn, and I wanted to be ready for it.  I’d probably whack off.

I went directly to my E Mail.  There were eight messages.  I quickly deleted six of them.  They were all spam.  One of the other two was from a fuck buddy, and the other was from Phil.  I opened the fuck buddy’s letter first.  I intended to open Phil’s letter last so that I could savor it.  My fuck buddy asked to get together tonight, and he wanted me to meet him at a gay bar in The Village.  I texted him back, and told him that I was busy.  I asked for a rain check.  Then I opened Phil’s letter and I was thrown for a loop.

Dear James:

So much has happened since I wrote to you last just a few days ago.  I don’t know where to begin.  Last night Marita told me that she was pregnant, and the child was not mine.  She wants a divorce so that she can marry the baby’s father.  So, my little naïve, barely able to speak English, little immigrant girl, has been fucking other guys behind my back.  The little hypocrite is so pious in her Catholicism that I wanted to laugh in her face.  She told me that until she met Joseph, there were many others.  Joseph is a laborer who works for me.  I told her that I would not oppose a divorce, but she wasn’t getting a penny from me, and Joseph was fired.  She laughed at me, and told me that he already had a better position, in an office, no less.

This morning I told my father what happened.  I said that I needed a few days off.  At first he was sympathetic, but when I told him I was going out of town, he smirked, and said that he bet I was going to visit my faggot friend, the minister’s son.  I didn’t deny it.  He just sneered at me, and told me to go.

Not an hour later, I got a call from your father.  My caller ID showed James Collins, and I thought it was you.  I answered immediately.  I forgot that we hadn’t shared our phone numbers for security sake.  I was shocked when I realized that it was your father.  He asked me for your address and telephone number, and I had to swear to him that I didn’t have it.  I told him that you had once mentioned that you worked in Manhattan, and all I had was your E Mail address.  He begged me to give it to him, but I told him that he should give me his, and I would send it to you.  Any contact between you guys has to come from you.  I have no idea what he wants from you, but if you contact him, you can find out.  His E Mail address is:

PastorJim@aol.com. 

If you contact him, I need to know what happens.

Now for the big news.  I am coming to visit you for Christmas.  I’ll be arriving at Grand Central Station tomorrow at 4 PM.  I need your cell phone number, so we can find each other at the station.  My number is: 334-555-1430.  You have no idea, how much I need to see you.  I still love you.  I always will.

Yours always, Phil.

I stared at my screen for at least an hour, but I had the good sense to print out Phil’s letter.  I sent him my cell phone number.  The whole time I was crying.  I was going to hold Phil in my arms again for however little time.  For one brief moment, my faith was reborn, but that was short lived.  Suddenly, I thought about my father, and I began to shake.  I wrestled with the pros and cons of contacting him.  Did he want to reconcile?

Did I want to reconcile with him?

Stupid, stupid me.  I began to brew an idea that I had to ask God to help me make the decision to call or not to call.  I laughed out loud.  They say there are no atheists in foxholes, and I was in a foxhole of my own creation.  Should I pray to Zeus, or the God of the Jews and the Christians?  “Pick a god,” I said to myself.  “One’s as good as the other.”  I decided to consult all of them as a panel, and see if they answered me. 

I entered into some surreal world where I fell to my knees and shouted out, “Odin, Jupiter, Zeus, Yahweh, Buddha, Jesus and Moses, speak to me.  Tell me what to do.”  Of course, I got the answer I expected, which was no answer at all.

“Tell you what,” I shouted out, trying to make a deal with the gods, “I’ll go to sleep, and you can give me your answer while I sleep.”

Well there was to be no porn, and no whacking off this evening.  Besides, I wanted to save myself for Phil.  Hard as it is to believe, just as I climbed into bed, I got an idea.  I told myself to consult a bible. 

Before I lost my faith, I had a King James Bible in my college dorm room.  I used to read a page or two almost every night before I went to sleep.  When I moved to New York, I packed the Bible up with my other books and belongings.  Although I no longer read it or consulted it, it was still in my apartment.  I went to the bookcase, and pulled the book off the shelf.  I flipped the pages, and then I let the book fall open to any random page.

I glanced at the book.  It lay opened at a more than prominent location.  It was opened at The Ten Commandments, and the first one that caught my eye was “Honor thy father and thy mother.”

I knew intellectually that this was one big coincidence, but I was moved to honor my father.  I went back to my computer and sent him an E Mail.

My friend Phil Lopez sent me your E Mail address, and indicated that you might want to contact me.  If your aim is to continue to curse me, don’t bother.  You have done a very good job of that already.  If you want to have a relationship with me, no matter how tenuous, I would welcome that.  The ball is in your court.

I thought long and hard about it.  In the end I ended the letter,

Merry Christmas.  I still love you and mom, James.

I went to bed.  In the morning, I ran to my computer.  I quickly deleted the usual spam, and again two letters remained, one from my father and one from Phil.  This time I opened Phil’s letter first.  He confirmed his 4 PM arrival and repeated his cell phone number.

I shook when I opened my father’s letter.  I read,

Dear Son: 

Be at ease.  I have no desire to chastise you any more than I already have.  That having been said, I can never condone your life style.  With that having been said also, please believe that your mother and I love you.  Even if we can’t approve of your lifestyle, we can learn to accept it.  We want to see you so desperately, and hold you in our arms again.

Since gay marriage has become legal, I have been approached by two couples who want me to marry them in church.  They don’t want to be married in some cold court room.

One of the couples are two older women.  They have been living together for twenty-five years, and have attended my church for all that time.  I never knew about them.  The other couple are two young men.  One of them, George Malton, told me that he knew you.  He said he was in your high school graduation class.  I had to turn down both couples.  Our church is philosophically opposed to such unions.  Will you believe me that I really felt bad that I had to say no?  Both couples seemed so much in love.  I can admit to you that I am reexamining my definition of love.  As you can imagine that’s a lot for me to admit to you.

At any rate this letter is an open invitation to you.  Anytime you want to come home for a visit, I assure you that you will be met with open and loving arms.  Phil told me that he is going to visit you in New York for Christmas, but we would love if you could visit us soon after that.

Affectionately, your father.

PS.  Merry Christmas to you also.

I must have read the letter several dozen times.  I could not believe what my father had revealed to me. It sounded like he would have married the two gay couples, but he was forbidden to do so by the larger church body.  Somehow none of that mattered.  He and my mother still loved me.  They wanted to hug me and hold me tight.  I cried a lot, and determined that I would go back to Selma for a visit, something I thought I would never do.  Finally, I decided to write to my folks, but at the last moment, I made up my mind to call them instead.  I did so want to hear their voices, and even though I didn’t believe in Christmas or Christ or any of those myths, they did, and I wanted to wish them a merry Christmas.

I decided that it was a good time to call them right now.  It was shortly after breakfast, and I could speak to both of them.  I was shocked to realize that I had forgotten my old telephone number, and I had to get it through information.

My father picked up the phone on the third ring.  “Jimmy,” he sobbed.  He must have seen the caller ID, and he always called me Jimmy when he got emotional.  I hate to be called Jim or Jimmy.  My name is James, just James.

Unfortunately, I was speechless.  All I could croak out was, “How are you guys?”

“We’re fine, we’re fine,” he said, “but please, we want to hear about you.  Just wait a second until Mom picks up one of the extensions.”

When I heard a phone click, I asked, “Mom is that you?”

“Yes,” she giggled.  My mother always giggled when she was nervous.  “How are you darling?”

“I’m doing good, honest.”

“Are you making a living?” Dad asked.  He sounded concerned.

“Yes, I am, Dad.  I work for a microchip manufacturer in their marketing department.  I’m having fun, but I want to be in finance, and I’ve asked for a transfer.  I have reason to believe, I might get the transfer in the near future.”

“I’ll pray for you,” Dad said.  I cringed, and I decided to tell a big lie just to make him and my mom happy.

“Ever since I left home,” I started, “I have prayed that you still loved me.”  I deftly avoided saying, “ever since you kicked me out.”

“We never stopped loving you,” they said together.

“I prayed every day for your soul,” my dad added.  I cringed again.

“And I prayed every day that God would soften your heart toward me.  I can’t change what I am or how I feel, and I begged God to make you understand my anguish.  Don’t you think I’d rather be straight?  I’d like that very much, but I can’t help being gay any more than I can help loving Phil.”

“I know,” Dad sighed.  “When I counseled those two gay couples, if there was one thing I learned, is that they genuinely loved each other.  I realized that it was not my place to designate who can love, and who can’t.  That’s up to God.”

“Thank you guys,” I said.  “That’s all I ever asked of God is that you would come to understand.”

“I hear in your voice, that you never lost your faith.  That makes me so happy.”  My dad suddenly became Pastor Jim. 

I was racked with guilt, but I managed to lie again.  “I could never lose my faith.  After all, I’m your son, Dad.”

“When do you think you can come home for a visit?” my mom asked.

“My office is closed until Monday.  I’ll check with my boss then to see when he can let me go, and I’ll get back to you.  If you wouldn’t mind, maybe next year I can come home for Christmas.”

“That would be wonderful, Son,” my dad said, “but in the meantime do you think we could talk to each other on a regular basis?”

“You bet,” I said enthusiastically.  “How about every Sunday, after church.”

“Do you go to church?” my dad asked.

“Yes.  It’s not a Baptist church.  It’s a gay church.  Even the Pastor is gay.”  It’s a good thing I didn’t believe in God, because I had told my father so many lies, that if I was a believer, I would believe I was heading straight for hell.  I had never been inside that church.

“A gay church?” my father’s voice raised in disbelief.  “I didn’t think…” His voice trailed off.

“We aren’t heathens.  Most of us believe in God.”

“Of course.  Of course, you do.  Forgive me.”

We were all reluctant to say goodbye, but eventually we did.

That afternoon I stood in front of the ticket booths at Grand Central Station waiting for my phone to ring.  Notwithstanding that I was expecting it, I jumped when it rang.  “I’m here, Phil, I’m here,” I yelled.

“I just got off the train.  Where are you?”

“I’m in front of the ticket booths in the main terminal.  I’ll wait for you here.” 

For the next seven minutes I searched the faces in the crowd, and then I saw him.  I ran toward him calling his name.  He dropped his suitcase, and we embraced.  We didn’t give a shit what anyone thought, and we kissed on the lips.  Both of us were crying.

Ordinarily I would have taken the subway downtown, but today I sprung for a cab.  We kept kissing in the back seat until the cab driver was prompted to ask, “Would you guys like me to take you to a hotel?  If not, try to hold out.  I don’t need all that stuff on my back seat.”  The three of us laughed.

We entered my apartment, and stripped faster than I ever dreamed we could, but Phil put me off.  He said that the trip had been long, and he needed a shower.

“No problem,” I said, “As long as I can shower with you.”

We worked a miracle in the shower.  We sucked each other back and forth, and fucked each other back and forth, but for all our youth, we refrained from cumming.  We dried up and took our love to bed.  Phil fucked me with as little lubrication as possible.  I hurt, and I was in heaven at the same time.  When he shot his load high up my bowels, I cried like a baby from sheer happiness.  Later, when I shot up his man hole, he cried just as loud as I had.

Afterward, we lay quietly in bed, just kissing and fondling our very limp cocks.  Phil gave out one long sigh, and asked me, “What is it about this Christmas that is so miraculous?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he smiled at me, “I count at least three Christmas miracles, a holy trinity, if you allow me the conceit.  First my wife leaves me, then out of the blue you get reunited with your folks, and then, miracle of all miracles, we get to be together.”

I gave Phil my best Mona Lisa smile.  “It’s not much of a miracle if you’ll be leaving me in a few days,” I lamented.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Phil said, “but I ain’t going nowhere.”  Before I left I told my father that if you were willing, I would be moving to New York.  He and I have had a very strained relationship since I came out.  I told him to sell the business when he was ready to retire.  I want none of it.  I’ll get a job here, I know I will.  Betcha ten bucks I can wait tables in a Mexican restaurant.  I hear there are lots of them in New York.”

I was too stunned to talk.  Neither of us said another word until we woke up the next morning.  Then it was I who found my tongue.

“You said that we were experiencing three Christmas miracles,” I reminded Phil.  “I don’t know if each of The Magi gave us a gift, or if it’s one big coincidence, but on the off chance that there is a God, I want to give Him His due.  I’d like to go to church on Friday morning.  I thought I was going to spend a lonely Friday this Christmas Day, and here you are.”

“Do you still believe in God?”

“Not really, but there are things that happen that can’t be explained, so maybe I should at least be a seeker of the truth.”

“Great, are we going to go to a Catholic or a Protestant church?”

“How about a church that accepts both of us, and not only us, but Muslims and Jews as well.”

“I never heard of a church like that,” Phil said.  He was awed.

“I’ll take you to one,” I said but before I do, let’s make love from now until Christmas morning.”

Phil laughed?  “Is that an order?”

“You bet it is,” I said, and I fell to my knees and devoured his cock.  I swear I could feel it going down my throat, and I feared that I might choke.

On Christmas morning, we entered the church.  My dreaded lonely day was starting out pretty well.  I had the love of my life with me, and I knew I’d never be lonely again, but I also got a few surprises.  I kept running into friends I knew.  I had no idea they attended this church.  One of them even kidded me.  “So you’re one of those kind of people that only comes to church on Christmas and Easter,” he chided me.

A strange thing happened during the sermon.  The minister turned into my father.  As clear as day, I could see him in his own church preaching.  “Those people” were not a factor today.  He spoke of love, and acceptance and diversity.  I knew it wasn’t my father speaking, but I kept imagining it was.  I couldn’t erase the vision from my brain.

At the end of the service, Phil and I kissed, and silently I said a prayer, “Thank you God for the best Christmas, and the best Friday I ever had.”  I seemed to be regaining a little bit of my faith.

I said to Phil, “Let’s go home and get into bed.  We have all weekend to make love. TGIF!!!!!!”

Posted: 12/11/15