Page 1 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

chapter one

Tallulah Apostolic Church is one of my favorite places on Earth, and it has nothing to do with the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost. It isn’t because of the catchy songs or modestclothing, either. It’s down to him. No, not capital H-I-M.Him. Miles Brooks. My pastor-slash-potential master. My conversion therapy king.

I’ve known Miles Brooks all my life, but I think I’ve loved him even longer. Whether he knows I harbor feelings for him or not is anyone’s guess, but if I were a betting man, I’d bet my life that he’s just as clueless as he is cute—and trust me, Miles Brooks is a cutie-patootie. Since moving home from college, I’ve basked in his beauty more times than I can count. Some might brand my feelings problematic, and maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I will stop at nothing to claim him. If that means voluntarily submitting myself to one-on-one conversion therapy, praying to a God I don’t particularly believe in, just to stare at Miles’ ass in those tight gray slacks, so be it.

It’s Wednesday evening, which means service starts in fifteen minutes. My dad parks at the far end of the lot, making his usual claim that there are people in worse-off states than us who might benefit from a closer parking space. Considering the church has a whopping twenty members—my family included—I’m not sure how true that statement is. Maybe Dad’s just holding out hope that things will return to the way they’ve always been, but the day of cishet conservative values—in Tallulah, Texas, at least—are over. During Mayor Rivera’s reign, the city’s been sprinkled with drops of diversity and every color of the rainbow. Straight white guys may have run this city for the past two hundred years, but that’s no longer the case. As our almost-presidential icon once said: we are not going back. My father can fucking cope.

Johnny Matthews waddles across the parking lot, his bowlegs making him look like the Penguin from Batman. My mother and I follow behind, crossing the unnecessarily vast parking lot. As we walk onward toward Glory, he’s spewing racist, homophobic, and transphobic talking points, sentence after sentence. BeforeI left home to attend college in Dallas, I might have sat idly by trying to tune him out. Now, I sit idly by because if I open my mouth too soon, it will ruin my plan of winning the (sober) heart of Miles Brooks.

“You’re spending time with Pastor Brooks after service?” Dad asks, not really paying me much attention. Sweat is pouring down his face, the Texas sun resting in the western sky destroying any level of comfort he may have felt moments ago in his air-conditioned pickup truck. “You’re going to try to pray it through again?”

His words should make me feel shameful, but they don’t. Before I left home initially—before I was truly comfortable in my skin—I might have felt like a failure after hearing the accusatory tone in his voice, but now I’m back in Tallulah with a new grasp on the world and the things I truly believe in. Words that used to crush my spirit roll off my back like water off a duck. I keep telling myself at the end of this I’ll stand victorious, and that repeated mantra is enough to make me bite my tongue.

“Yes, sir. We’ll be here for a few hours after service.”

Dad stops waddling and turns to glare at me, his sweaty forehead glistening in the sunlight. “Well, you better hope he’ll give you a ride when you’re done. I sure as hell ain’t coming all the way back into town to pick you up, boy. If he ain’t got time to spare, you’ll have to walk.”

I want to roll my eyes at his silly threat. Miles lives right across the street from us; why the hell wouldn’t he give me a ride home?

I look at my mother, but she’s just as useless, staring down at her shoes like the submissive wife our church taught her to be, back before Miles took over. Sometimes, I catch sight of something sparkly in her eyes, though, and it gives me a glimmer of hope that maybe, once all this is done, I can save her too. It’s a pipedream, but it’s one I cling to, because my mom is special. Sure, she doesn’t stand up for me or for what’s right, but that’show these cults operate. Divide. Conquer. Force dissenters into submission.

“I want you sitting in the front row,” he orders. “I want you front and center. Maybe if God sees you’re not acting like a goddamn homo anymore, he might take mercy and deliver you from your demons.” He clenches his jaw, marching onward to Glory, muttering, “I never should have let you leave for that homo college to begin with.”

I tuck the hateful word into a little ball, burying it in the bottom of my gut like a landmine, saving it for doomsday.

Once we enter the chapel, I’m struck by the overwhelming stench of industrial-strength potpourri and frankincense, thanks to the worshippers who wear anointing oil like perfume. Dad and Mom sit at the back of the church, and I do as instructed, taking a seat in the front next to Miles Brooks’ long-suffering wife, Mallory.

I should probably feel bad for Mal, considering I fully plan on stealing the life she’s been building for over a decade, but too bad, because I don’t. Why should I risk my well-earned happily-ever-after just to spare a heartless heathen who bullied me all my life? A woman who, at one time, filed a motion to allow martial law against homosexuals, atheists, and, strangely enough, any migrant that was born in Guadalajara. I don’t know what the city ever did to her, but just the mention of the G-word sends her foaming at the mouth. She takes no issue with the rest of Mexico, confusingly enough. In fact, she believes we should welcome more migrants in—as do I—but her reasoning for doing so is in diametrical opposition to mine. While I wish for the American dream to unfold for anyone who wants it, she just sees it as a way to get back something that’s been stolen from her. Dwindling church members. Warriors for God. A right-wing awakening built off the backs of brown people, just so she doesn’t have to get her precious white hands dirty.

Her future ex-husband doesn’t share her views, thankfully. I think she has him under the illusion that she’s a big ball of love and light. That won’t last long, though. Her downfall will be magnificent. It will rival the countless times she’s called me out in front of the congregation, insisting I repent for my sin of homosexuality. The woman is—and always has been—a goddamn menace, and she has to be stopped. Even when I was a kid and she was a teenager, she would snitch on me for small infractions, tattling to Miles’ dad—our previous pastor—any time I so much as nodded off during service.

Miles is at the pulpit, reading through his notes, marking out lines he’s rehearsed countless times already, quickly scribbling new talking points over his sermon’s most recent draft. I love to watch him fast at work. His big brown eyes focusing on his interpretation of the Bible. The way his short, conservative-cut hair is meticulously parted at the side, not a strand out of place. How his pale skin contrasts beautifully to the black button-down shirt he’s wearing. And as for that body? Fuck. Poems could be written about it. He doesn’t even work out, but somehow, even in his late thirties, he looks like he hits the gym five times a week.

Miles spots me in the front row and a smile splits his face, beaming right at me. I can tell he wants to step down from the pulpit long enough to say hello, but he just widens his smile and waves at me, mouthing, “My office,” before returning to his notes.

My heart races, because I prefer to pray with Miles in his office rather than in the church’s nave, below the baptismal tub. When we’re out here, he’s always “on.” Miles isn’t Miles, he’s Brother Brooks, God’s right-hand man. On the rare occasion we congregate in his office, he’s always more relaxed. His problematic beliefs remain steadfast, but he’s not as harsh with his delivery. He also tends to remove his tie and unfasten the toptwo buttons on his shirt, giving me a peek at the promised land beneath the polycotton blend.

As Miles clears his throat, the chapel goes still around us. Despite the watered-down messages of hate he preaches every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, Miles is a mesmerizing man. He captivates the congregation from the beginning of each service, right to the end. Perhaps, had he not been born into the role, taking his father’s place when the man died, my pastor could have made a real difference in the world. A small part of me hopes that he still can. That’s the whole reason I’m doing this. He’s my reason for everything.

After an hour and a half of song and scripture, we reach my least favorite part of every service. The altar call.

Brother Brooks—not my Miles—smiles tersely at me from the pulpit, and for a moment—one single, earth-shattering moment—we’re the only two souls left in the world. Then that son of a bitch, Brother Moberly, tinkers with the piano keys, snapping Father Daddy out of the moment.

Brother Moberly’s ending will not be merciful either. I might as well blow up the whole goddamn church at this point.

“Amen,” Miles announces, even though no one is praying. “We rebuke you, spirit of gluttony.” He makes eye contact with my father, making me all tingly inside. “We rebuke you, spirit of lust.” He glares at Brother Blankenship. In fairness, Brother Billy Blankenship deserves to be called to the altar more than any of us. His wife caught the man with a woman who had just turned eighteen a few weeks ago. The whole town knows, but cishet men will protect their cishet brothers until their dying breath if it means keeping the girls and gays silent.

I turn and eye Mallory up and down. “Maybe your husband ought to rebuke the spirit of fashion fails.” I stare at her hideous top. “Because that shade is an abomination.”

She glares at me before calling out, “We rebuke you, spirit of homosexuality,” getting Miles’—and the rest of the congregation’s—attention. My cheeks burn red, but I use mytrainingto keep myself poised, pristine, and without a shred of worry on my face. I already know what’s coming, and I know resistance is futile. Now that the church’s congregation is focused on me, I’ll be called to the altar to repent for my sins. I stand, choosing to go willingly so I’ll give the impression of a good evangelical boy who wants to do right by God. Truthfully, I don’t give a damn what their God thinks.

Miles’ smile spreads even wider, radiating pride in me for willingly making the choice to stand front and center. “Yes,” he says, sounding so fucking proud of me it makes my heart skip a beat. “God sees your tears, and he walks with you, Brother Matthews.” He steps around the pulpit and kneels at the end of the stage, lording over me as I delicately sink to my knees, lacing my fingers together as I rest my arms against my thighs.

“My sweet boy,” he whispers. “He is with you, as am I. He hears your call, son. Lift up your voice. What burdens do you need lifted?”

I lick my lips, not missing the way his eyes follow the trail my tongue leaves in its wake. “I’m gay, Father. I ask the Lord to deliver me from this demon. To cast out the rainbow and leave me in His light.” The words don’t sting like they used to. There’s no shame in my heart, only truth. I’m gay, and that’s okay, even if Father Daddy doesn’t realize it yet.

He hops down from the platform and crouches in front of me, keeping himself taller to display dominance. “We ask you to cast out these demons,” he prays, placing his hand against my forehead before he starts speaking gibberish. Even when I was still a believer, I never understood the concept of speaking in tongues. It always sounded like nonsense to me. Men and women are blabbering all around me, their voices feral withdevotion. Music swells around, wrapping us up like the ugliest cashmere sweater in history. I’m pretty sure these morons are just making words up to fit in with the crowd, stitching syllables together at random with no real rhyme or reason.

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