Page 29 of Gay for Pray
“Jude, I’m sorry,” I say, as though I was the one who said those awful things about him.
He gathers himself, slapping on a smile as flimsy as wet tissue paper and shrugging off my hand. “Hey, whatever. They aren’t wrong, are they? I’m only here because the school offered me a full ride. I’m not like you. And clearly Iama bad influence.”
He quirks an eyebrow, trying to make light of the situation, but I’m not so ready to let those nasty remarks go. Not too long ago, I was the person saying stuff like that, and that knowledge burns a hole through my gut.
I take him by the chin, holding firmly, forcing him to look at me. The smile disintegrates, hurt shining in his light eyes. It makes me want to storm out there and confront Mr. Jones myself.
“They shouldn’t talk about you like that,” I say. “You’re a good person, Jude. Look at what you did for me. I don’t care if you don’t have Bible verses memorized. God knows what’s in a person’s heart, and your heart is good. I’m sure of that.”
His eyes go from hurt to shining with emotion. A lump corks my throat.
“If I’m so good,” he says, “how did I end up luring you into a closet?”
I let myself smile. “I started it, remember?”
“Yeah, I do. Is that…a problem for you? Are you going to hate me for this?”
It’s a reasonable question given all he knows about me, and I pause to muse over my answer. I’ve known I had these feelings since I was a kid. I tried confessing. I tried asking God for help.I tried praying about it. Somehow, none of it made it go away. Now that I’ve acted on it, it doesn’t feel like a sin. It feels…good. It feels right and natural and real. How can something like that be against God’s plan? I’m not yet sure how to reconcile the God I’ve devoted my life and soul to with the feelings Jude inspires in me, but I know God put Jude in my path to help me. He saved me at that party. He must be good. It doesn’t make sense for this to be a sin.
“No,” I say finally. “I don’t hate you, and it’s not a problem. I…have some praying to do, but…”
My thoughts are a ball of tangled yarn. I pick through them, but it only seems to tie new knots.
Jude takes my hands and helps me to my feet. We shoulder our backpacks, and he brushes me off as thought tidying up my mussed clothes. He combs his fingers through my hair to set it right, and I catch myself leaning into that casual affection.
“I always look like a mess, but you don’t,” he says by way of explanation.
I don’t really care. I just like that he’s touching me. I like his hand in my hair and his consideration in helping me look like I didn’t mess around with him in a closet.
When he deems me acceptably put together, he goes to leave, but I catch him by the wrist before he can open the door. It will break some sort of spell when he tears down that barrier between us and the rest of the world, and there are things I need to say before that happens, things I’m scared I won’t be able to say otherwise.
“I don’t think you’re a sinner,” I said. “Or a bad influence. I don’t think this was wrong.”
“Doesn’t your Bible say it’s wrong?” he pushes.
“My Bible also says not to mix fabrics, and…” I wave at our modern clothing. “Maybe the people who wrote it didn’t get every single thing right.”
He raises his eyebrows. “That’s dangerous talk coming from you, Choir Boy.”
“I know what I believe,” I say. “I know what’s in my heart. I…I don’t believe God would hate me for this, not if he’s the God I’ve been praying to all my life.”
I take a breath, because this is the part that’s going to require a bigger leap of faith on my part, a sober, blunt admission of things I’ve hardly let myself think, let alone say.
“Can I see you again?” I ask, clinging to Jude’s wrist.
His eyebrows climb higher. I love how expressive his face is, how he doesn’t try to squash and strangle the emotions that flit through his head. He’s always himself, loudly and proudly, no matter what Mr. Jones and the rest of the world might think about it. In some ways it’s terrifying, but mostly, it fills me with awe and jealousy. I can’t imagine being like him, living like him. Merely existing in his orbit is like standing closer to the sun, and I know with absolute certainty that I want an opportunity to bask in that brilliant light again, if he’ll let me.
“My dick sucking skills must really be something to convert you with one blow job,” he says with a toothy smirk.
Heat flushes through my face. I definitely wouldn’t mind if he wanted to do that again, but I would sit with him and watch that silly sci-fi show if that’s all he had to offer.
He comes closer, and I release him as he cups my burning cheeks in his cool, deft hands. We’re nearly toe to toe, Jude peering up at me under dark lashes.
“Yeah, Choir Boy, you can see me again,” he says.
His words brush against my lips. Then his whole mouth is there, soft and warm and tasting faintly different. I realize that taste must beme, and the knowledge that I’m lingering in his mouth almost gets me hard all over again.
I groan when he pulls away, my whole body aching for more of him.
