Date: Thu, 7 Jan 2016 20:44:42 -0500
From: ronyx <ronyx@woh.rr.com>
Subject: Other Sinful Things   Chapter 1

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to anyone are purely
coincidental. The story is intended for a mature audience. It may contain
profanity and references to gay sex. If this offends you, please leave and
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Birds Don't Sing Before a Storm, A Delicate Situation, Reggie's Journal,
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Other Sinful Things      Chapter 1


Dear God,

I know I've said this many times over the years, but this time I think I'm
serious. I just can't take it anymore. I promised you I would be strong,
but each day my strength is weakening. It's getting harder and harder to
live with Dad. I know sons are supposed to honor and respect their parents,
but you don't know what it is like living with him. Well, maybe you do. I
just guess you listen to him more than me. Anyway, God, I just wanted you
to know I feel like I can't take it anymore. Dad says you challenge us each
day. He says you put obstacles in our way to test our faith. I just don't
think I have any faith left.

Sorry I've failed you.
Bobby

I guess this sounds kind of silly, but I write God all the time. I write
especially when I am having trouble with things, and that seems like all
the time now. Most of my problems center around my dad.  You see, he's a
big time minister. When I was little, I had trouble talking about what was
bothering me. So one day, he handed me a pencil and a little notebook. I
think I may have been about five then.  Anyway, he told me if something
bothered me, that I should write a letter to God. He said God reads
everything.

When I started writing, things were simple. The first time I wrote a letter
to God, it was because Charles stole an apple from my lunchbox, and I
called him a bad name. That night, I opened up the notebook, and I asked
God to forgive me of my sins. At five, calling someone an asshole was a big
deal. If Dad had heard me, he probably would have made me stand before the
congregation, and then he would have spent the next ten minutes using me as
an example of how young people are straying away from God and following the
wicked ways of the Devil.

He did that once when I was twelve. I was climbing around on the roof, and
I slipped and fell. I didn't hurt myself, but when I hit the ground, I
hollered out rather loudly, "Shit!"

Unfortunately, I fell outside his study, and he had the window open and he
heard me. He came to the window, but he didn't look out to see if I had
hurt myself. Instead, he hollered out, "Jacob, come into my office. Now!"

It seemed like it took forever to get off the ground and walk slowly to his
study. I knew what was awaiting me for I had been through it many times
before. I had heard him warn parents many Sundays, "Spare the rod, and
spoil the child." And he lived by that saying.  On more than a few
occasions, I had experienced the rod. Well, not really a rod, but a switch
from a sycamore tree in the back yard. When I was ten, he had pulled me out
into the yard, made me climb the tree and cut a branch he had pointed
out. I can't even recall what I did to get whipped that day. I probably
didn't move fast enough when he told me to do something.

When I entered his study, he was waiting. He had the switch in his right
hand, and he was hitting his left hand with it. My skin crawled from the
sharp, cracking sound it was making.

He then hit his desk sharply with the sycamore stick. I held back tears as
his dark brown eyes stared angrily at me. They seemed to turn black as he
began to admonish me. He shouted, "The Devil is in you, Boy!" He waited a
second before he shouted, "Well?"

I jumped and muttered, "Yes, Sir." I sniffled, but I didn't dare cry.
"Crying is for the weak," he had warned me over the years. He would then
relate stories of how men in the Bible, like Noah and Moses, faced
hardships and didn't cry.

"Even the Good Lord as he hung on the cross didn't cry," he warned me. "And
no son of mine is going to be weak. The Devil makes men weak. God gives
them strength."

As he sharply whipped his left hand with the switch, he began to rant about
my sinful transgression in the backyard. Not once did he ask me if I had
hurt myself. He was more concerned with exorcising the demon within me that
had made me blurt out that sinful word.

When he had finished, he approached me with the switch clutched tightly in
his hand. "Now, Boy," he said angrily. As I stifled back my tears, I turned
toward the wall and pulled my shorts and underwear down to my knees.

I heard him pray, "Dear God, save this boy from the Devil. Forgive him of
his transgressions, so that one day he will earn a place beside you in
Heaven." My body trembled as I stood exposed to him. I jumped when he
hollered out, "Now, Boy!"

I muttered, "Forgive me, Jesus. I know not what I do."

The first hit is the worse. You know it's coming, and you know it's going
to hurt. And it does. It is almost like your mind blocks out the others,
usually five or six depending on the sin. That day earned me a dozen or
more. I don't know because I didn't count them.

When he finished, he turned me, and with myself still exposed, he had me
bend down on my knees to pray. He knelt down and put his hands on my head
and once again, he asked God to save my wicked soul. When he finished, he
stood, looked down on me with disdain, and then he left the room.

I stood and felt behind me. There were slight traces of blood on my hand.
There always was from the sycamore switch. I pulled my clothing over my
tender skin and left. I made my way to my room, closed my door, climbed
atop my bed and cried. Only in loneliness did I dare to weep.

That was five years ago. Since I'm now older, and taller than him, he
stopped using the switch.  However, now his words bite into my soul deeper
than any sycamore switch.  Today, they made a deep and lasting impression.

His Sunday sermon started out like it usually does. He has the congregation
stand while he calls upon the Lord to come into our souls and bear witness
of his love. My mother and I sit in the front row.  She is my father's
greatest admirer. I have heard her say since I was a little boy that my
father is a true man of God, and that the Holy Spirit runs through his
veins.

She nods and says, "Amen," after almost every sentence he utters from his
large, oaken pulpit. When I was little, I couldn't see him unless he came
out from behind it. As I grew taller, his face seemed to emerge like the
rising sun from behind the pulpit. Now, I can watch as his face tightens as
he rants about worldly sins, and I can see the veins in his neck protrude
in anger.

Today's sermon was on human failings, one of his most popular themes. As
I've grown older, I am beginning to question why he devotes so much time to
the subject. I would think that perhaps he struggles with his own demons,
but I have never known my father to 'be bitten by Satan's temptations,' as
he calls them. From what I can tell, he lives the life he expects others to
live.

Perhaps, if he had some recognizable failure, then the pain I am
experiencing might be lessened. I could tell myself that since he is not
perfect, then he cannot expect me to be. However, he doesn't.  He's a
bitter and cruel man, but the congregation views this as a strength of
character. They see him as a warrior against Satan and evil. He has told
them often that he will smile once he sits at the table with Jesus in
heaven.

So today, his sermon began with an admonition of falling to the temptations
of the Devil. Several times, I closed my eyes briefly until he would slam
his hand down on his oaken pulpit to illustrate his anger. Then, I heard
him holler out, "The days are now coming to an end! The Rapture is neigh!
God said that the end would come when the world embraces the sins of the
homosexuals."

His sermons had often contained Biblical quotes about the sins of
homosexuality. That was nothing new. However, today, he seemed to be
directing his comments at me. His eyes flared with anger as he slammed his
hand on the pulpit, looked down condescendingly at me and shouted, "Man
sleeping with man, woman sleeping with woman." He held his Bible into the
air and shouted louder, "This goes against everything that God has written
in this Good Book." He then looked down at me and growled, "It goes against
everything I believe."

Even though I didn't look over, I could sense my mother looking over at me.
My face reddened as I felt everyone in the church was looking at me. They
knew my father well enough to know when he was singling out someone in the
congregation. He had a way of doing that. A rumor or hint of gossip could
be either confirmed or denied by a single stare. Everyone would shrink from
his accusations, as I was now doing. Although I didn't know why I was doing
it.

He couldn't be implying that I was a homosexual. I didn't know myself if I
was straight or gay. Living under his roof, I always assumed that any
thoughts of sex was sinful and forbidden. While my friends talked about
masturbating, I viewed it as a filthy and lustful activity. I was always
afraid he might walk into my room late at night and catch me in the sinful
act of pleasuring myself.

I was also prone to having wet dreams since I didn't relieve my lustful
desires. A nightly eruption as I slept couldn't possibly be considered
sinful. It was something that was entirely out of my control. Two years ago
I considered asking my father for his advice about the subject, but I was
afraid of his reaction. I was quite sure he would tell me that my curiosity
was one of Satan's temptations.

I cast my eyes upward when he slammed his hand back down on the pulpit. I
could see the anger darting out from behind his cold, dark eyes. "The Lord
is coming!" he shouted. He extended his Bible toward Heaven. "In the last
days," he warned, "We won't know if man or woman walks among us."

I was becoming confused. I thought he was directing his anger at me, but
now he stood gallantly behind the podium and stared around the
congregation. "You heard me right," he stated again. "We won't know if man
or woman walks among us."

My mother shouted, "Amen," and began waving her hand into the air. Others
soon mimicked her action. My father emerged from behind the podium and
stood before the stairs leading up to the altar.

He looked out onto the hundreds of people who had congregated to hear his
words. He spoke low and with a tone of warning. He then looked down at me
and said angrily, "Watch your children, you mothers and fathers." His voice
grew louder.

"There is today a child of evil in our high school." I looked around and
saw others with puzzled expressions as they looked up at my father.

"I have been told that there is a young man who has enrolled in Northdale
High School," he said as he began to descend the stairs. He looked down at
Mrs. Emory, one of the octogenarians of our church.  "His Lord given name
is Samuel. That is a good Holy name." he spoke reverently. Mrs. Emory
looked up, smiled and nodded her head.

He then stepped out into the aisle, shook his head unbelievingly and said
angrily, "But his mother enrolled him into the school with the name of
Tiffany!" There was a collective gasp throughout the church.

My father dramatically slammed his hand upon his Bible. Everyone, including
myself, jumped when his hand smacked the ornate cover. "Tiffany!" he
shouted angrily. "A young man whom God deemed to be a man portrays himself
to be a woman!" I watched as my father's body shook with anger.

He stared out over the congregation, shook his head solemnly and then
returned to the stage. He dramatically waited until the conversation had
returned to silence inside the church.

"I've read of this happening elsewhere," he muttered softly. He shook his
head and continued, "I was hoping that our children would never have to
experience this evil in their lifetime." He raised his Bible into the
air. "But that evil now lurks among us."

He began to point his finger at the parents in the room, particularly those
who had children in high school. "Watch your children," he
warned. "Perversion is among us. The Devil walks the halls of Northdale
High School."

The hair on my neck stood on end when he looked down at me and stated,
"Keep your child close to you, and he'll not stray from the Lord." He then
lifted his arms and told everyone to rise. He then led the congregation in
a solemn singing of "Just As I Am."

Mother and I rode home in silence. She looked at me several times, and I
knew she wanted to ask me about Samuel, Tiffany or whomever they call
themselves. There was nothing I could tell her. School doesn't start until
next week, and since I'm not exactly a social butterfly, there is no way I
would be aware of any of the gossip that might be going around.

Most students avoid me like I am some kind of a leper. They have since I
first started school. The few people my age I talk to are those who attend
my father's church. And even then, they have little to do with me other
than at Sunday Bible study.

It's not that they don't like me. They fear my father. They think that if
they say something wrong in my presence, then I might tell my father. I
would never do that, but I've never had a chance to tell them. I've heard
the beginnings of their quiet conversations, but they always stop if they
think I am in close enough to hear.

For just one minute, I wish I was like them. I wish I could go to a
football game on Friday night, and maybe to a movie on Saturday. But my
father would never permit it. He thinks such activities are evil.  Sports
is the devil's meeting ground, and I can't even begin to discuss his rants
about television and movies. In fact, we don't even have a television in
our home.

I have a laptop computer, but it has parental control. He monitors my
activities regularly to make sure I'm not visiting sites that are filled
with sin and temptation. I've watched him sneak into my room late at night
and remove my laptop. A half hour later, he'll creep back into my room and
replace it on my desk. I know what he has done, but I would never confront
him about it. If I did, it would only make him more suspicious. I feel like
I'm choking now. All I need is for him to tighten his reins even more.

So I live the life of an outcast. I have no real friends other than the few
students who talk to me occasionally. Because I live the life of a hermit,
I read a lot. Of course my father has to approve my reading material. He
wants to make sure I'm not reading anything the 'devil has laid his hands
upon.'  He also makes sure that I complete my homework assignments before I
can do anything else. Which is funny because what else is there for me to
do other than my chores and reading?

I'll be a junior next week when I start school. I'll probably be the
valedictorian of our class, but not because I want to be. In fact, I
tremble each time I think about having to give the valedictorian's speech
at graduation next year. I'm quite sure my father will write it for
me. That means it will be laced with warnings about my generation being
sinners, misfits and degenerates. I'm quite sure it will end with some
prayer in which I will be forced to ask God for forgiveness of my
classmates' sins and transgressions.

Maybe I'll get sick on the night of graduation. However, it wouldn't
matter.  He's made me go to school when I had severe colds and migraine
headaches. I'm one of three who will probably graduate with a certificate
for perfect attendance.

By now, you're probably saying, "Poor Guy." But I don't need anyone's
sympathy. What I really need is a pocketful of cash and a decent car to
help get me away from this place the night I graduate. My father has
enrolled me in a Bible college thirty miles away. He wants me to become a
preacher like him. I don't know how to tell him I don't want to do it. That
is a conversation I'll never be able to have with him or Mother. So I plan
to run away- just leave. I don't know where I'll go, or how I'll get there.
However, I have a year. Maybe some escape plan will materialize by then.

Dear God, School starts tomorrow, and I really could use some
strength. Each year I feel like I'm just going through the motions because
I don't know where you want me to go. Father's sermon yesterday upset
me. He always preaches about your love, but I can't understand why his
heart is filled with so much hate. I don't know what to believe
anymore. Are you a wrathful God or a loving God?  Bobby

I hate the first day of school. It is always the same. I wait at the end of
the drive for the yellow school bus to arrive. Mother stands on the porch
in her apron, waits for me to board, waves goodbye and then dries the tears
from her eyes.

She used to wait beside me at the road, but when I entered middle school I
begged her not to anymore. It was embarrassing. None of the other mothers
accompanied their child to the bus stop and made sure they got on
safely. Other students would ridicule me unmercifully, and it only
reinforced the social stigma that was already building around me. Other
boys referred to me as a "Mommy's Boy," as I trudged red-faced to the back
of the bus and plopped dejectedly down into a seat.

It took me weeks to finally convince her that I was old enough to board the
bus alone. She wept on the sofa and stroked my blond hair back as she
cried, "My little boy is growing up." Finally, she relented. Now, she
embarrasses me by waiting on the porch, but at least I can deal with that.

As soon as I boarded the bus, others began to giggle. I stood looking down
the aisle, afraid to make my way to the back. I had to be careful to dodge
a boy's foot who thought it would be funny to watch me trip over it.

I was dressed in my usual attire: white dress shirt, black pants and black
loafers. If I was wearing a black tie, I would look like a young Mormon
missionary. Two years ago, I asked my father if I could wear 'normal'
teenage clothes. I had to endure an hour rant about how young people's
dress was immoral and ungodly. All I wanted to do was wear a tee shirt and
denim jeans. How ungodly could that possibly be?

As I made my way down the aisle, I could hear others snickering and
giggling. I knew it was because of my clothing. Since my demeanor was quiet
and demure, most students left me alone.

I took a seat on the last row and I stared out the window as cars rushed
past. It was a beautiful morning, but it just didn't match my
mood. Occasionally, I would glance forward to see other students sharing
animated conversations. I imagined that most involved catching up on the
summer fun.

The bus ride takes about twenty minutes to school from my stop. The
distance is less than two miles, but there are numerous stops. As we neared
school, the excitement began to build. Laughter and merriment filled the
bus.

Then suddenly, everything became silent. I looked out the window to see
what had happened to bring about such silence. A young girl was running
from her home. She dropped a book on the drive, motioned for the bus driver
to wait before she continued to run to get on.

She stood at the front and peered around. She was small and petite, maybe
about 5'6. Her waist was so small, I thought I could easily put my hands
around her. She had straight, long blond hair that flowed down around her
neck. She had on designer jeans and a brown silky blouse. A large turquoise
necklace clung tightly to her chest. I thought she was very pretty.

Several students began to giggle, and before long, the bus was filled with
laughter. I didn't know what was so funny. The girl appeared
humiliated. She hung her head and slowly made her way to the back.  For a
minute, I thought she was going to sit beside me, but she sat in the seat
opposite the aisle.  Everyone had turned to stare at her. Giggles and muted
murmuring continued to fill the bus.

I glanced over at her, and her hands were trembling. She sat looking down
at the floor as she nervously adjusted the three books in her lap. Once,
she glanced over at me, and our eyes met briefly.

She was extremely pretty, and I couldn't understand why everyone had
reacted like they did when she got on the bus. I would have expected the
boys to react differently.  Catcalls and whistles would have seemed like
the normal reaction to a girl so pretty. Even the other girls on the bus
didn't appear intimidated as they usual do when another new girl enrolls in
school.

I became embarrassed because others continued to stare. As other students
boarded, and before the bus even began to lurch forward, they would be
informed of the new student sitting in the aisle opposite me.

Once when the bus pulled off, I glanced over. She was peering out the
window, and she appeared to be ignoring the attention that was directed
towards her. As I studied her pretty features, I noticed the slight trace
of a wispy mustache above her lip.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that this was the young man my father had
ranted about the morning before at church. The student sitting opposite me
was Samuel- or Tiffany. I wasn't sure.

As I looked forward, most students had returned to their conversations. I
glanced back over, and I saw her hands still trembling.

An unexplained surge of sadness overcame me. It was soon replaced by
tremendous fear.



***********

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