Thursday, April 28, 2011

Missionary Man: Part 1

Old Southern money doesn’t shout. It whispers.

In the days when I was growing up, especially, the best families didn’t drive flashy sports cars, or Hummers, or SUVs. They made do with the ancient, respectable models the size of parade floats, fifteen years out of date but immaculately maintained. They might have lived in Richmond’s relatively exclusive west end, with its deep and grassy lots, but in the well-kept and modest homes they’d inherited from their families, not a McMansion. The women wore pearls and joined the Daughters of the Confederacy; the men boasted ties patterned in thick diagonal stripes, pants with cuffs cut too high, and tobacco-stained fingertips.

Old money was genteel. It didn’t call attention to itself. One could recognize it easily enough, though, if one looked.

I could tell the Cadillac driving slowly down the street adjacent to the park belonged to old Southern money. I was sitting beneath my favorite tree in Bryan Park in the summer of my sixteenth year, paperback book in my hands, my bony back raw from the bark digging into my skin, my skinny legs protruding from a pair of very short yellow corduroy Ocean Pacific shorts, when I saw the vehicle round the corner. I was out early in the morning—almost too early to be cruising, since the action never started until lunchtime. I liked being outdoors, though, and independent. The prospect of a possible morning hookup only persuaded me to get to the park early, on those stiflingly hot mornings when I had nothing to do.

The car was a huge boat of a thing, an old Cadillac that had obviously been freshly washed. Beneath the low-hanging crape myrtles it cruised along the residential street. Since it had been the only car to pass since I’d arrived a half-hour before, I watched across the little pond as it traversed the length of the quiet avenue, then made a U-turn. The drive either could have been lost, in which case he would have returned to the Boulevard at the street’s end, or else he could be a cruiser, in which case he’d take the park entrance and drive my way. My dick twitched slightly with anticipation when the Cadillac’s right blinker sprang into life right before the turn-off into the park.

Almost regally, the Cadillac took the narrow pavement in my direction. The road had only one destination—a picnic shelter within the woods, and the restrooms beyond where I’d nearly been arrested the summer before. Cars that meandered through the park’s southern half, with its multiple shelters and tennis courts and recreational facilities were likely just souls seeking to commune with nature or get away from it all—or after five, they were the rednecks with their Confederate flags in the back windows and their brown paper bags concealing their containers of beer or hard liquor. Anyone making the effort to come to the park through its back entrance, however, was likely looking for sex.

I caught a glimpse of the driver as his car inched by. Its wheels made a crackling noise as I pretended to be distracted from my reading and craned my neck to see; he was one of those Southern archetypes with which I’d grown up—a man of certain years not old enough to be elderly by a long shot, but somehow giving the impression of creaky old age. He had enough weight on him to give the appearance of jowls, and though he didn’t wear a tie, he wore a pressed shirt and a sports coat of summer seersucker. Sunglasses obscured his glance, but as he passed he straightened up in his seat and looked in my direction.

Master of subtlety that I was, I let my right knee fall casually to the ground. I wasn’t wearing underwear. My junk didn’t spill out of the leg of my short shorts (hey, it was the nineteen-seventies), but they might as well have. I turned my head and watched as slowly the old Caddy disappeared in the direction of the woods.

I didn’t hop on my bike and follow. I wasn’t entirely sure of the guy—that is, whether he was cruising me, or whether at that point he was worth my time. A few minutes later, however, when he hadn’t returned, I was about ready to get on my bike and investigate. Then I saw the Cadillac driving back down the road. Now that the driver’s side was facing me, I could tell that his head turned as he passed. He continued looking in my direction almost the entire length of his drive out. And then he was back onto the residential road, and gone.

That might have been it, but five minutes later, his Cadillac was back. Driving more quickly and with purpose, it made the U-turn once more and nosed its bulky way into the park. It slowed down as it passed me, and then returned within the space of a couple of minutes. Both times, the driver stared at me intently, making my dick grow.

When it came back a third time, I knew it was time to do something. I waited until the car was crossed the bridge over the duck pond, then stood up and dusted myself off. My hands were on my bike and I was by the road’s side when he passed. This time he stopped, as I expected. “Morning, son,” said the man from within the Cadillac. His voice was deep, and his accent as thick as sorghum syrup.

“Hi,” I said. My dick was mostly hard, and hanging down the leg of my shorts. It wouldn’t have taken much for the head to protrude from beneath the corduroy hem.

He was staring at it, over the top of his sunglasses. “Maybe you’d like to set a spell,” he suggested. “I can turn on my air conditioning if you’re hot. And,” he added in that drawling way Southerners have when they make a double-entendre, “you do look hot.”

The guy might have been more jowly than I typically liked, but it was a hot morning, and I was bored and horny. I nodded. He drove and I biked to the end of the road, where he parked his car and I locked my ten-speed to a rack so riddled with rust that it was almost invisible against the picnic shelter. He’d already rolled up the windows and fired up the air by the time I reached the passenger side of the Cadillac. He leaned over to open the door for me.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, noticing that there was a book on the passenger seat. He picked it up so that I could climb in. When he set it on the console, its red ribbon flopped over its leather spine and onto the dashboard. His trembling, chubby hand traveled over my hair as he studied me. “You surely are a pretty boy, son,” he said, smiling at me. His hands were perfectly manicured; their flesh was soft as lard. The heel of his hand moved down my face, the ring on his fourth finger warm against my cheek. His thumb and forefinger pulled down my lower lip, as if he wanted to insert a cherry in my mouth. “Pretty lips.”

When he withdrew his fingers, I licked where they’d been.

“How old are you, son?” he wanted to know. “Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Fourteen,” I whispered. I was sixteen, and as tall as I was gangly. But if he wanted me to be fourteen, I’d be fourteen.

“Damn, son.” He cleared the arousal from his throat. “Have you ever sucked a man’s penis before?”

“Once,” I nodded. “Kind of.” I was a coy little thing. Once or a thousand times.

“What do you think about sucking on mine a little?” When I didn’t say anything, seeming to hesitate, he reached down and unbuckled his belt, then unfastened his lightweight summer slacks. With a bit of fumbling, he withdrew an uncut dick of perhaps five thick inches. The skin was already pulled back from the tip, exposing a furious purple head. I’d laid eyes on much more impressive meat, but this guy was almost more aroused than I’d seen any man, and a thick pearl of pre-cum adorned the slit. “It’s a nice one. Touch it,” he said, imploring me. “Come on, son. It won’t hurt you.”

When I lowered myself across the seat to take the dick in my mouth, he sighed. He tasted of that morning’s shower, and vaguely of the medicinal aftershave that southern barbers used to have on hand. His dick forced my mouth wide open. His bulk pinned the back of my head against the steering wheel as he jack-rabbited in and out of my lips.

“Sweet Jesus,” he murmured, over and over again as I sucked. I didn’t give the kind of blow job that someone gives when he’s only sucked once. I used all the expert skills I’d by then collected to make the man tremble and moan. “Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus,” he said, over and over.

When I came up for air once and looked behind me, I could see that the man’s hand clutched the Bible he’d thrown on the dashboard. The other clasped the back of my head and pushed me back down on his dick.

When he came, it was quietly, almost genteel. He let out a few heavy breaths, then the quietest of sighs, as his body spasmed and a squirt of semen painted the inside of my throat. I swallowed, then waited for the last of his shots of cum before I sat up again. “Thanks,” I said, wiping off my mouth.

“You are a damned sinner, and you are going straight to hell, son.” The man said the words matter-of-factly as his chubby hands fumbled over his clothing. “The Bible says that fornicators and homosexuals will burn in the deepest pits of perdition!” He had that preacher’s gift of speaking the word lord to sound as if it were printed in small upper-case letters, like in a King James Bible. “And you, son, are both.”

I stared at the guy. I hadn’t seen anyone turn on a dime like this, going so quickly from need to hellfire and damnation. It was ridiculous, I knew. I turned to exit the car.

He caught me by the hands, though, restraining me tightly so that I couldn’t exit. “You need to pray, son. You need to pray to the Lord with me to sin no more!” He pulled my hands onto the leather-bound Bible on his lap. I seemed to be the only one uncomfortably aware that it was close to where I’d been only moments before. “Together we are going to pray that you accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your soul and accept his grace in order that you may sin and be a homosexual no more.”

Homosexshul, he pronounced it. Squeezing my hands so tightly that they colored, he immediately launched into a lengthy prayer. Basically he turned me in to God, exposing to his heavenly creator what a terrible young sinner I was, and how my evil and wicked ways were turning the godly onto the road of peril and sin, and how my sweet young face was nothing but the devil’s own mask . . . oh, there was a lot of stuff he said that morning, during that long prayer in the tepid air conditioning of his Cadillac.
I believed none of it.

When it was done, he opened his eyes and asked, “Do you see the error of your ways, son?” What was unsettling about the guy was that he was totally earnest about the whole thing. He didn’t seem to see any irony of his own words and actions. He really thought that I was the sinner, and the cause of what he’d just done. “Will you accept the Lord into your heart, here with me now?”

I wasn’t doing any such thing. Without expression, I yanked open the latch and pushed the heavy door open, then kicked it shut behind me. My feet stirred up little whirlwinds of dust as I jogged back to the bike rack, where my fingers raced to twist out the combination of my lock. “Hell is no laughing matter, son!” he called out the window after me. “You don’t want to be a sad, lonely homosexshul for all your life! You are going to want a wife, children! You are going to want a legacy, son!”

By then I was on my bike, pedaling furiously down the road. So that he couldn’t follow me, I turned down one of the park’s chained-off side roads where a bicycle could travel, but a car could not. His words followed me, clinging like black strands of sticky spider web. He did not. I waited until from a distance I saw the Cadillac drive back down the road and out of the park. It didn’t return, not that morning.

All that afternoon I had mentally to brush off those words. They left me grimy. They were a soot so fine that it could never quite rinse away, and so foul and dark that it made the rest of the world seem just as gritty and incapable of being cleansed.


  1. Great story! Christians can be a fucked up lot sometimes, eh?

  2. Man, some guys just really don't know when they're being hypocritical, do they? This was a really interesting story. I love your description of old money southerners, it reminds me of so many in my family down South. That man even sort of reminds me of a few men related to me, except none of them are very religious.

    Thanks for the great story! I noticed it is a part 1 so now I'm waiting with anticipation for the conclusion. :)


  3. Wow! Beautifully written! Hypocrisy is such a rampant and frustrating thing. Thank you for sharing this. There's no shame in being who we are!

  4. Brilliant. And of course sad. Holds a mirror up to today's Republican Party.

  5. looking forward to part 2 :)

  6. I'm going to borrow from "Riptide". "The minister disapproves does he? After two thousand years of of murder, inquisition and intolerance, it's any wonder the Christian minister still feels he holds the moral high ground." Christianists and religionists are such arsees. Great writing as always. Great comments from your Breeder Readers.

  7. 8:59 Anonymous,

    Yuh-huh! And thanks!

  8. Ace,

    Thanks, my friend. I anticipate another installment next week.

    You know, it's funny, but when I'm in other parts of the country I decide to myself that these Southern archetypes with which I grew up must've vanished by now. Then I go home to visit my dad and they're still all over the place. Slightly updated, but recognizable nonetheless.

  9. Otter,

    I agree. There's no shame whatsoever in accepting what you are. When it comes to sex, however, many men and women simply can't.

    Thank you!

  10. 9:42 Anonymous,

    It is sad. There's a real melancholy in such a life.

  11. Nick,

    Thanks! The next part I'll probably get to next week.

  12. 9:58 Anonymous,

    That's a great quote. Thanks for sharing it!

  13. That reminds me of the experience I had with the Bishop of Hollywood California's 2nd Ward LDS church. Just the Sunday before he gave a very spirited sermon on the evils of homosexuality and he picked me up the following week (didn't recognize me as I belonged to the 1st Ward) as I waited for the bus to go home after work. I don't know if he was gay but he could sure suck cock.
    The following Sunday he was back and gave an even more vigorous speech. I left the LDS church that week and don't regret it.

  14. Raulito,

    I've heard that the LDS are a hard sect in which to grow up gay. I'm pretty sure that these men come in every denomination, however.

  15. There's nothing wrong with you, everything is entirely wrong with him. It's sad that he probably spent his life being miserable and trying to bring misery to others, but at least you have found an identity and happiness, as well as bringing happiness to others. Jerk.

  16. 10:56 Anonymous,

    I know that know, and I knew it then, even at that young age. If a kid can recognize the truth of such a lesson, think how much self-delusion it must've taken for that guy never to have recognized it.

  17. Wonderfull...

    Sex with a lecture.. :)

    That could ba a new service for repent Christians no?

  18. They're still here all right. And still doing "the Lord's work" just as hypocritically. That's got to be a record for the quickest transmogrification from "sweet Jesus" to come-to-Jesus ever! (Fortunately I didn't get the altar call from my Baptist Sunday School teacher when I climbed out of his Coupe de Ville post-blowjob.)

    This one definitely resonates. It was funny that you said "he was totally earnest" as I had pictured him as Ernest Angley throughout. I'm looking forward to the second installment as you wrestle with the devil. My money's on the talented and tantalizing teen.

    (I hate to make two Cadillac references in one post, but I still own my mother's 1979 Sedan de Ville d'Elegance if you'd like to take a spin around the park. It's got powder-blue Venetian velour upholstery, deep shag carpet, AM/FM electronic stereo with 8-track tape—and I can crank-up the A/C! Pick you up?)

  19. SLUT! Enticing that poor man like you did. And forcing yourself on him like that scared him so much he had to turn to his Bible for comfort.

    You tainted the south is what you did, you and those damn

  20. Ugh. He's probably going to hell, but we aren't.

  21. throb919 is right. Once you get out of the tourist areas and the bayou, the old money is still making the slow decline to obscurity. LOL If they aren't preaching to you about your holy duty as a man to procreate, they're trying to get you to marry their daughter or help them with house work.


  22. As a recovering born again christian, who realized what he really, really needed all those years ago was to accept his love of dick for what it was, I cannot help but shake my head. If there was anyone 'lost' here, it was not you...

  23. I simply love your telling of these stories from your youth, mostly for the descriptions of life in the south. I read this and wonder how many of the men I knew growing up could have been capable of being the man in the Cadillac. Probably many.

    On another note, I really hate politics. I don't see the connection between the man you described and his religious hypocrisy with any of the Republicans I know, any more (or less) than any of the Democrats I know.

    And there goes my erection...

  24. HS,

    I think sex with a lecture is actually pretty common among some highly religious couples. I knew of a woman whose husband used to give her a lecture before they fucked, every time, about how neither one of them was supposed to enjoy it, and how they should concentrate on being reproductive vessels for the duration. That didn't last.

  25. Throb,

    Who am I to resist powder-blue Venetian velour? Pick me up at eight.

  26. Cyberi4a,

    We tend to call them 'carpetbaggers' in public and 'Yankees' only amongst ourselves.

  27. Saab,

    I think the poor guy was already in his own personal hell. That's bad enough to wish on someone.

  28. Richard,

    Speaking as someone who has seen the torture up close of highly-religious folk struggling with their sexuality, I know how terrible an ordeal it can be. To have broken free of it is quite an accomplishment, and I congratulate you.

  29. JFBreak,

    I was staying away from the party line division, myself. For one thing, I don't think I ever knew for whom this guy voted. Or cared.

    For another, though it's easy to lump Christian zealots with the Republican party, I'm not sure it's entirely accurate—especially in the nineteen-seventies, when those lines had only just started to be drawn. My mom's family was composed of devout Southern Baptists. All her brothers and her father were Southern Baptist ministers. They were also politically extremely liberal, and it wasn't seen as a contradiction in terms at the time.

    The Southern Baptist Convention aligned itself with conservative politics in 1979, but it took another ten or so years of dissent and arguing before most of those family members left the church. And that's about the same timeline for the politicization of other conservative Christian denominations.

    All this would've been happening when I was about sixteen, but the effects weren't yet widespread. Equating a person's fundamentalism with his political views would have been more of a crapshoot, still.

  30. Rob, you ever wonder if your whipped out you cock, whether the preachy guy would have sucked you dry? I think so. My think he doth protest too much!


  31. You've written a lot about those periods between 13-17. The perv in me wants to know...could you share a pic or two of you from that era?

  32. Chris,

    I didn't have to wonder for long. I'll be writing about that, soon enough.

  33. 10:37 Anonymous,

    I write about this period in my life because it was a formative era of my sexuality, and I think it's worth both exploring and preserving through writing. There's so much fantasy sex circulating in our society that I think leavening it with real sexual memoirs is important.

    Since I don't post face photos of myself on this blog, I'm not going to be posting face photos of myself as an adolescent here, either. I don't claim to have been the prettiest or the hottest kid. Just one of the easiest.

  34. Dear Rob, I look forward to that update! Your writing is tantalizing!