Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Secret Admirer II
The following morning, I received another message from Saint72:
I wrote back:
A few hours later, I received another message from him:
In my life, I have done so many unusual, depraved, demeaning, outrageous, and radical things for love, for sex. But until now, going to church had never been among them. And I was not certain just how far I was willing to go.
To me, churches were places where I felt awkward, as awkward, as out-of-place, and even as naked as I might feel, say, in a banya. I certainly did not want to go to the church alone and not even the Catholic expatriates that I knew in Tashkent attended mass. They were perplexed, even horrified, by my expression of interest. I didn't want to admit to the real reason for why I was going; instead I would come up with innocent sounding reasons that they found suspicious. "I have been thinking of checking it out for a long time," I would innocently say; it was undebateable -- the Church had an interesting history, and I read up on it. The construction had begun during the Russian Empire and then was halted under the Bolsheviks at the beginning of the Soviet Union. Now after decades of standing half-built, the structure was finally completed and the church was functioning. I had driven by it so many times and always wanted to stop in, or so I said to friends, pleading that they accompany me. No one was interested; certainly not if it involved waking up early on a Sunday morning. They hadn't the foggiest idea even of what time mass begun.
I don't know why I felt like I needed someone there to hold my hand. In the end, when we love, when fall in love, when we look for love, we do it all by ourselves and from loneliness. And had I not moved all the way to this strange and wonderful foreign country, sight unseen, without knowing a soul, all by myself? ¶ 5:28 PM
The following morning, I received another message from Saint72:
Why do you not answer me? I want to see you. I am gay and I need someone to talk to. Please answer.
I wrote back:
Who are you?
A few hours later, I received another message from him:
Come to Roman Catholic Church on Sunday. I will expect you there.
In my life, I have done so many unusual, depraved, demeaning, outrageous, and radical things for love, for sex. But until now, going to church had never been among them. And I was not certain just how far I was willing to go.
To me, churches were places where I felt awkward, as awkward, as out-of-place, and even as naked as I might feel, say, in a banya. I certainly did not want to go to the church alone and not even the Catholic expatriates that I knew in Tashkent attended mass. They were perplexed, even horrified, by my expression of interest. I didn't want to admit to the real reason for why I was going; instead I would come up with innocent sounding reasons that they found suspicious. "I have been thinking of checking it out for a long time," I would innocently say; it was undebateable -- the Church had an interesting history, and I read up on it. The construction had begun during the Russian Empire and then was halted under the Bolsheviks at the beginning of the Soviet Union. Now after decades of standing half-built, the structure was finally completed and the church was functioning. I had driven by it so many times and always wanted to stop in, or so I said to friends, pleading that they accompany me. No one was interested; certainly not if it involved waking up early on a Sunday morning. They hadn't the foggiest idea even of what time mass begun.
I don't know why I felt like I needed someone there to hold my hand. In the end, when we love, when fall in love, when we look for love, we do it all by ourselves and from loneliness. And had I not moved all the way to this strange and wonderful foreign country, sight unseen, without knowing a soul, all by myself? ¶ 5:28 PM
