Date: Fri, 15 Feb 2002 11:39:26 -0700
From: L
Subject: The Interview (no-sex)

------------------------------------------------------
NOTE: While this story is fictional, it draws on my
actual experience as a former LDS missionary. (There's
a story there, of course, but it's not the story
you're about to read.)

For conscience's sake, I should say that my decision
to submit this story to the Nifty Archive does not
necessarily mean that I approve of the content of
other stories in the archive. Nevertheless, I applaud
the archive's goal of collecting "the diverse hopes,
dreams, aspirations, fantasies, and experiences of the
Queer Community." Gay Mormon experience--and fantasy--
is one piece of that diversity.
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THE INTERVIEW

This is my second Sunday in the Missionary Training
Center. I am sitting with my companion, Elder Daley,
outside the branch president's office. President
MacIntyre serves as our priesthood leader during our
stay in the MTC--the equivalent of a bishop, back in
our home wards. I have requested an interview with
him.

(I haven't told Elder Daley why I need to talk with
President MacIntyre. But the very fact that I haven't
told him must make Elder Daley suspect that I'm here
to do more than simply ask President MacIntyre's
permission to make a phone call home. On our
district's first evening here in the MTC, President
MacIntyre warned us that missionaries who enter the
MTC with unconfessed transgressions offend the Spirit
and therefore have no protection against the
buffetings of Satan.  "If there's anything you should
have talked about with your bishop and stake president
before you came here, come see me immediately. For
your own sake, get your life in order.")

President MacIntyre's assistants are sitting with us.
They, too, are missionaries in training, but they've
already been in the MTC for nearly two months. They
are eager to leave for the mission field. One is going
to Ecuador, the other to Bolivia. Elder Daley and I
have been called to Colombia. The assistants and Elder
Daley talk excitedly amongst themselves, swapping
horror stories they've heard about daily life in South
America: dysentery, supersized cockroaches, hospitable
church members who serve cow's hooves for dinner. They
can hardly wait for the adventure to begin.

(My attention drifts in and out of their conversation.
I feel slightly sick. It's like hunger pangs, but with
a sharper edge. In my mind's eye, I see ulcers
bursting open like roses along the inside of my
stomach lining. What's taking President MacIntyre so
long?)

Elder Daley laments that he has so much time left in
the MTC. Six weeks, he says; I'm gonna go crazy. The
assistants are empathetic. They've been where we are
now, they know how we feel. The time'll fly, they
assure Elder Daley. By the time you get your travel
papers, you'll won't be able to believe it's been two
months already.

(Time passes differently in the MTC. Everyone says it.
The days are like weeks, and the weeks are like days.
How else could things have developed so quickly
between Elder Braithwaite and me? Sometimes it feels
like we met just yesterday, yet at other times it
feels like we've known each other for weeks. In fact,
we met a week and a half ago. Elder Braithwaite
doesn't know I'm seeing President MacIntyre. We
haven't talked since--)

President MacIntyre steps out of his office,
apologizes for the delay. Instinctively, we all stand.
President MacIntyre is as old as our fathers. He
served in the military for most of his adult life, and
it shows; his mere presence commands respect. He
shakes Elder Daley's hand, claps his other hand on
Elder Daley's shoulder, asks how he's adjusting to
missionary life. Fine, President, I'm doing great; the
language is tough, but I'm working on it. The
President nods approvingly. Keep up the good work,
Elder Daley.

My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them off on my
pants leg before shaking hands with President
MacIntyre. He acknowledges me in a solemn voice--
"Elder Mitchell"--and then pins me with a piercing
look, as if reading my soul. I try to meet his gaze,
but after a couple seconds, I fold.

(He already knows, I'm sure of it. He probably had me
pegged from the first evening we met. Who do I think
I've been kidding? Probably every missionary in my
district knows.)

President MacIntyre guides me towards the office, a
hand on my shoulder. "Wait here, Elder Daley," he
tells my companion.

"Sure thing, President."

(And now it begins. I'm going to be sent home from my
mission early--before it really even got started. I'm
going to have to explain to my parents. I'll probably
be excommunicated. They won't let me back into BYU.)

President MacIntyre closes the office door behind us.
This looks like the office of every other priesthood
leader I've ever interviewed with throughout my life:
a large wooden desk, bare except for a desk calendar
and a set of scriptures; a high-backed swivel chair
behind the desk for President MacIntyre; a lower,
harder chair in front of the desk for me; a painting
of the Savior and a photo of the First Presidency on
the wall.

(I'm already regretting having asked for this
interview. But this has to be done. It's the only way
out of the mess I've gotten myself into.)

"Let's kneel for a word of prayer, Elder Mitchell."
This is a touch I've never encountered before in an
interview with an priesthood leader. We kneel together
on the floor. President MacIntyre prays. "Our
gracious, eternal Father in Heaven, we thank thee for
the weighty privilege and responsibility you have
placed upon us in calling us to thy holy work. We pray
thy Spirit to be with us during this interview, that
Elder Mitchell will be able to open his soul, and that
I will be able to know how best to guide and assist
him. In the name of our beloved Lord and Master, thy
Son, Jesus Christ, amen."

(I add a silent prayer of my own: I need you, Heavenly
Father. My life is about to fall to pieces. But I'm
doing this because I want to be right with you. I'm
doing what I should have done long before now. I want
to get help. I want to put these urges behind me for
once and for all.)

President MacIntyre sits behind his desk, facing me--
the usual position. Like every other Latter-day Saint,
I've been having regular interviews with my bishop
since I turned twelve. The interviews became more
frequent as I approached my mission. In the space of a
year, I had to be cleared for ordination to the
Melchizedek priesthood, then for missionary service,
then for my first temple recommend. Each interview has
been basically the same: small talk about how things
are going in my life, then a list of probing questions
to test my faith and moral worthiness. The interview
is an opportunity for me to confess my sins--or to
lie, as the case may be.

(I should definitely have come clean long ago. If I
had, things wouldn't have gotten so far out of
control.)

President MacIntyre's expression is solemn. He gets
straight to the point, no small talk. "What's on your
mind, Elder Mitchell?"

(Here we go. Just spit it out. Get it into the air.)

I can't bring myself to look President MacIntyre
directly in the eyes, so I focus on the wall beyond
his shoulder. The First Presidency return my gaze,
three elderly men in business suits. "I have something
I need to confess to you."

(You're stalling. You know what you need to say,
you've worked it over in your mind a hundred times.
Just say it.)

"Yesterday I had inappropriate relations with a
missionary in my district."

His expression undergoes no change whatsoever. "You
mean sexual relations?"

(The moment he says "sexual relations," I go cold
inside. I need to make him realize that things didn't
go that far--that I'm still clean, at least in that
sense. At the same time, though, I have no illusions
about how far things might have gone if we hadn't been
interrupted, or if I'd agreed to meet Elder
Braithwaite that night the way he wanted. Did Elder
Braithwaite and I have sexual relations? Not exactly.
Did I want to have sexual relations with Elder
Braithwaite? Oh yes. Oh yes.)

"It wasn't actually sex," I say. I try to sound
contrite as I say this. I don't want to seem like I'm
making excuses or trying to minimize my guilt. But I
can tell that's exactly how it's coming out. I trail
off helplessly.

President MacIntyre leans forward, clasps his hands on
the desktop. "Elder Mitchell, as branch president, I'm
both a judge in Israel and a shepherd of the Lord's
flock. I need to know exactly what happened so I can
decide what judgment needs to be applied, and so I can
know how to help you." He pauses to let me soak this
in. "Who did you have relations with?"

(I had harbored a hope--a miniscule hope--that he
might not ask that. But of course he has to ask it.)

"Elder Braithwaite," I tell him.

(Elder Braithwaite and I became friends on our second
day in the MTC. He was the elder in our district most
like me: studious, pensive, a little shy, a
perfectionist, high-stressed. He laughed a lot to
release his nervous energy. He had a sharp mind--he'd
worked as a computer technician before his mission--
but languages were not his forte, and he lagged behind
everyone else in our fast-paced Spanish class. His
frustration at falling behind paralyzed him, causing
him to lag even further behind. I coached him outside
class, usually while we were standing in line at the
cafeteria with the rest of our district. Together we'd
go over the vocabulary or verb forms from our last
class session; I'd calm him down when he began to get
high-strung. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't
here," he told me once. His words embarrassed me but
also sent a thrill up my scalp.)

"Where did it happen?" President MacIntyre asked.

"In my room."

(I share my dorm room with Elders Daley, Gundersen,
and Holt. Elder Braithwaite and his companion, Elder
Saunders, have the next room over to themselves.)

"When?"

"Two days ago. Friday."

"When, Friday?" My short answers are irritating him.
He wants more information. "How did it happen?"

(Our district has gym from 1:00 to 2:00, four days a
week. I hate gym. As soon as warm-up exercises are
over and everyone breaks up to run, or lift weights,
or play basketball or volleyball, I and a handful of
other chess club types hide out on the stairs, where
the instructor can't see us, killing time. On Friday,
Elder Braithwaite came to the stairs looking for me.
"This is lame," he said, with his usual nervous laugh.
"Let's sneak out and go back to the dorm. I want to
write some letters." I hesitated. What about our
companions? No problem. Elder Braithwaite had already
gotten Elder Saunders to agree to a split: Elder
Saunders would temporarily be companions with my
companion, Elder Daley. Exchanging companions like
this was against MTC rules. But we knew it was done in
the mission field, which is how I rationalized that
surely it would be all right.)

"We came back early from gym class--we did an
unauthorized split."

(Sneaking out of gym was remarkably easy; the
instructor was nowhere in sight. If I'd known it could
be so easily done, I would have done it before.)

"Who suggested that you do a split? You or Elder
Braithwaite?"

"He did."

(Does that sound like I'm evading responsibility?)

"Why did you go to your room?" From the way he
emphasizes "your," I can tell President MacIntyre
means: Why did you go to your room and not Elder
Braithwaite's?

(Mission rules require us always to be in the same
room with our companion, unless one of us is in the
bathroom. Elder Braithwaite suggested we go to his
room. This was only natural, given that we had
returned to the dorms so he could write letters. But
going into his room with him, alone, felt unsafe to
me. I had the idea I'd be better able to resist
temptation if we were in my room. That makes no sense,
of course, in retrospect. Perhaps I was trying to fool
myself into believing that I wanted to resist
temptation.)

"He was going to write letters, and I was going to
read, so I suggested we go to my room. That way I
could lie down on my own bed to read."

"And then?"

(I was propped up in bed, pretending to read,
listening to Elder Braithwaite's pen scratching away
behind me, where he sat at my desk. Scratch. Pause.
Scratch. Pause. The pauses became longer. Then the
scratching stopped altogether. The sound of air
hissing out of the radiator seemed very loud.)

"After a few minutes, he came over and sat on the bed.
He said he couldn't keep his mind on his writing. He
asked what I was reading, so I showed him. And then he
lay down on the bed next to me to read, too."

"What were you reading?"

"A book about Colombia my parents gave me."

(Elder Braithwaite had asked the same question.
"Contraband," I told him. Missionaries weren't
supposed to have books aside from the scriptures and
other Church publications. He laughed. I passed him
the book. He started flipping through it. When he came
to a part he wanted to read more thoroughly, he kicked
off his shoes and moved around into the same half-
lying, half-sitting position I was in. I had to scoot
over towards the wall to make room for him. We had
never been so physically close to one another before.)

President MacIntyre nods to himself a little, as if he
finds my answer satisfactory. It occurs to me to
wonder what he imagined I might have been reading.
"What happened next?"

(Elder Braithwaite leafed through the book.
Occasionally he'd say something--"Amazing," or "I
didn't know this"--and I would have to lean up close
to him in order to see what he was responding to. I
could smell his deodorant, the conditioner in his
hair. I remembered the rule from the Missionary
Handbook that said missionaries should sleep in the
same room but not in the same bed. In my mind,
different voices clamored for attention. This is
dangerous. Don't be silly, Elder Braithwaite's just
being friendly. Nothing can go wrong as long as you
keep your own abnormal feelings under control. Just
enjoy the moment. See where it might go. Not that it's
going to go anywhere. You'd better hope it doesn't go
anywhere. But wouldn't it be wild if...And then it
happened.)

I steel myself to continue. "We were lying next to
each other on the bed, looking at the book together.
And then he pushed his leg up close against mine."

(He did it slowly, casually, as if he wasn't thinking
about it. But there was no mistaking what he was
doing. I looked at him, surprised, thrilled,
frightened. He locked eyes with me. I resisted the
impulse to turn away. My heart was racing. Without
breaking eye contact, Elder Braithwaite closed the
book and laid it aside. He put one hand on my
shoulder, close to the neck, so that his thumb brushed
my bare skin. I took a deep, shivering breath. He
brought his face towards mine.)

"And then we kissed--"

"Who initiated the kiss?"

"Um--" I don't see what difference that makes. "He
did."

(I have kissed one girl in my entire life, and the
experience left me wondering what all the fuss is
about. Elder Braithwaite's kiss was something from
another world altogther. Instincts I never knew I had
erupted from somewhere deep inside me. I found myself
trying to devour Elder Braithwaite's lips, then
breaking free to work my mouth along the side of his
face, up to his ear, and down his neck until the
fabric of his t-shirt kept me from going any farther.
We clasped each other tightly. Elder Braithwaite
pulled his neck free of my lips so we could resume
kissing. After a while he put his tongue cautiously
into my mouth. The idea of french-kissing had always
repulsed me, so I was surprised to find how much the
act excited me.)

President MacIntyre's face is stone. "What else did
you do besides kiss?"

"We...stroked each other."

"Where?"

"All over. Hair...face...arms...chest...back..."

"On top of your clothes, or underneath?"

"On top, at first. Then later, he put his hand under
my shirt, and after that, I put my hands on his back."

(The flesh-on-flesh contact when he touched my stomach
made the muscles contract involuntarily. Elder
Braithwaite slid his hand slowly up my torso to the
center of my chest. I wished he would touch my
nipples, but after pressing against my breastbone for
a few seconds, he retreated, pulling his hand out from
under my shirt. He embraced me tightly again, rolled
over on top of me. I could feel his erection pushing
against my own. I closed my eyes and tipped my head
back, whimpering a little. Elder Braithwaite buried
his face in my neck. I reached up under his shirt,
dragged my hands up the length of his back. We moved
our bodies back and forth, struggling to find the same
rhythm.)

"Did either of you touch the other below the waist?"

"No. I mean, well, not with our hands. He lay down on
top of me, and so we were touching below the waist,
you know, that way."

"So at no point did either of you directly touch or
handle the other's genitals?"

I shake my head.

"Did either of you ejaculate?"

"Things didn't go that far," I mumble, humilliated.
"The other elders came back."

(Loud voices came down the hall towards the bedroom,
one of them clearly Elder Gundersen's. I panicked, but
Elder Braithwaite kept his cool. Swiftly but calmly,
he returned to his seat at the desk. He got there just
as someone's key rattled in the doorknob. I grabbed my
book, opened to a page at random, and set the book on
my lap to conceal my erection. My heart thundered. It
hit me what an extraordinarily dangerous, foolhardy
thing Elder Braithwaite and I had done.)

"Did the other elders see you and Elder Braithwaite?"

"No. Elder Braithwaite got up before they opened the
door. And then he left..."

(The elders burst into the room, high on adrenaline.
Elder Braithwaite gathered up his things and
accompanied Elder Saunders back to their room. Elder
Daley laughed good-naturedly when he saw me with the
book. "Don't you get enough of that in class?" I
couldn't think of a rejoinder, just smiled. When the
elders stripped down to hit the showers, I made a
point of focusing on the book so I wouldn't see them
naked, even out of the corner of my eye. Soon I could
hear the elders bantering loudly with each other in
the showers down the hall. Still lying on my bed, I
closed my eyes and offered a silent but fervent prayer
of thanks that Elder Braithwaite and I hadn't been
caught. Never again, I vowed. I swear it.)

"But then he came back a few minutes later, while the
others were showering, and told me to meet him that
night, after everyone was asleep."

"Meet him where?"

"In one of the private showers in the bathroom."

(The bathroom on our dorm floor has both communal and
private showers. I would prefer to use a private
shower, to avoid being surrounded by naked male
bodies. But I've never seen anyone else using the
private showers, and I don't want to be conspicuous.
Instead I get up a half hour early, so I can use the
communal showers, but alone. Elder Braithwaite, too,
had noticed that no one uses the private showers.
That's why he thought to have us meet there. It would
be dry, and with the curtain drawn, someone getting up
late at night to use the toilet wouldn't see us.)

"Did you meet him?"

"No."

(I promised to meet him, but only so he would leave
the room before the other elders came back from the
shower. I had no intention of keeping that promise. It
wasn't even a temptation now. He planted a quick kiss
on my lips before he left. He was beaming. "I never
imagined this would happen in the MTC," he told me.)

"Why didn't you meet him?"

"I knew that what we'd done was wrong."

(Lights out was 10:30; Elder Braithwaite had told me
to meet him at 11:30. At 11:26, by Elder Holt's
digital alarm clock, I heard a door shut quietly
somewhere nearby. I lay in bed, my hands clasped
chastely across my chest, on top of the blanket. At
11:44, someone came and stood outside our door. I was
afraid he would knock, or whisper my name. But he just
stood there for a while. Then he went away.)

"Did he say anything to you the next day?"

"He asked me what happened."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I'd fallen asleep."

(He managed to separate me from the others as our
district was walking from our dorm to the cafeteria
for breakfast. He was troubled. I acted sheepish,
laughed it off: Couldn't stay awake, zonked right out,
feel so stupid. Tonight. Same time. I'll be there, I
promise. I hurried to catch up with the others. I
steered clear of Elder Braithwaite for the rest of the
day, and he didn't try to pull me aside again. We
didn't study together like we always did. He laughed
as usual with the other elders, but every now and then
he shot me a worried glance--"anxious" would be a
better description. That night, I waited to hear if
Elder Braithwaite would go to the bathroom to wait for
me. He didn't.)

"Does Elder Braithwaite know you're confessing this to
me?"

"No."

(Surely he must be afraid of that, though.)

"Why are you confessing this to me, Elder Mitchell?"

"Because...I know that what we did was a serious sin.
And I need to get right with the Lord."

President MacIntyre regards me somberly. "Elder
Mitchell, have you ever had homosexual relations?
Before this, I mean?"

"Not before this. Never."

(My physical development had always lagged behind my
peers', so at first I didn't think anything of the
fact that I wasn't interested in girls in the way
other boys my age were. It took me a while to realize
that I was, in fact, experiencing the same new
feelings my peers were. I just wasn't having those
feelings for the right sex.)

"Have you associated in the past with homosexual
individuals?"

"No. Not that I know of, anyway."

"Have you ever used pornography?"

"No."

(I've had to answer this question in past interviews.
My answer's an honest one, assuming that clothing
catalogues, National Geographic magazine, and
classical art don't count as pornography even when
used as such.)

"Do you now or have you in the past had problems with
masturbation?"

"No."

(This is a bald-faced lie, one I've told in every
interview I've had with a priesthood leader since I
was fifteen. I tell the lie to President MacIntyre
instinctively. Immediately I consider backtracking and
coming clean, but he pushes on before I have time.)

"Did you date before your mission?"

"Yes."

(I dated only because my parents pressured me to. I've
always assumed that they insisted so much because they
thought I was shy. Now it occurs to me to wonder if
they had a different worry.)

"Were you sexually attracted to the young women you
dated?"

"Yes."

(At BYU, the year before my mission, I dated a girl
from one of my classes. She was my first girlfriend,
and the only girl I've ever kissed. That distinction
is due to her being the most aggressive girl I've
dated. She asked me out, not the other way around. It
was she who put her hand in mine, who put my arm
around her shoulders, who initiated the first kiss.
Crossing these borders for the first time excited me
sexually, and that in turn gave me hope that I could
put homosexual temptation safely behind me. The summer
before my mission, she moved back home to Washington
state and become engaged to a returned missionary
there.)

"Did thinking about young women cause you to become
sexually aroused--to have an erection?"

"Yes."

(I suddenly understand why he's pursuing this line of
questioning.)

President MacIntyre settles back in his chair; I can
tell the questions are over. His demeanor is more
sympathetic now. "Elder Mitchell, a mission is a very
stressful time. You're separated from your family and
your friends. You're cut off from romantic contact
with the opposite sex. It's natural to feel lonely.
And when people are in a same-sex environment, that
can do...strange things to their emotions. It happens
in the military, during wartime, for instance.
Perfectly normal men will experience a certain...
inclination to seek sexual solace from other men. It's
wrong to act on that inclination, of course. The
prophets teach us that homosexual acts are a grievous
sin, because they pervert the sacred powers of
procreation. But the inclination to...perform such
acts is normal under the kind of circumstances that
you find yourself in right now."

(This isn't going to be as bad as I thought. My life
may not be ruined after all.)

"What I'm saying is this, Elder Mitchell. What you and
Elder Braithwaite did was wrong, and you know that.
The fact that you came to confess so promptly
indicates a repentant spirit on your part. And you are
to be commended for that."

He pauses.

"But actually, Elder Mitchell, it doesn't seem to me
that you have anything to repent of. Things between
you and Elder Braithwaite went farther than they
should have, but not as far as they might have. And
more importantly, I don't see that you're really
responsible for what's happened here. You were taken
advantage of by a predator. From what you've described
to me, it sounds like Elder Braithwaite has experience
in setting up this kind of situation. He poses an
extremely serious danger to others, and he should
never have been cleared for missionary service. He
needs to be shipped home immediately."

(My face is hot with relief, but my stomach sinks.
President MacIntyre is blind. I am not the innocent I
have apparently convined him I am. Elder Braithwaite
is no predator.)

"I want you to put this behind you, Elder Mitchell.
Don't think about it. Don't dwell on it. Never talk to
anyone about it. It's over. You're going to stay in
the MTC, you're going to learn to teach the gospel,
and you're going to serve an honorable mission for the
Lord."

(I have no doubt what the truly honorable thing to do
at this moment is. But I also have no doubt what will
happen to me if I fail to take advantage of the out
President MacIntyre is holding open for me.)

I say nothing. I nod and look appropriately humble.

"One more thing, Elder Mitchell. It's something I
heard one of the Twelve preach in general priesthood
conference some years ago."

(I am a model of rapt attention.)

"If someone ever tries to take advantage of you like
that again, you floor him if you have to. Understood?"

(I understand.)

The interview is over. As President MacIntyre escorts
me out the door, he makes a point of squeezing my
shoulder and affectionately slapping my back. "Elder
Daley," he booms--the elders waiting outside leap to
their feet--"you take good care of your companion.
He's a fine man."

"Yes, President."

(I can tell from the surprised glance Elder Daley
gives me that he indeed believed I was here to confess
a pre-mission transgression. He expected I'd be sent
home. If I were really the fine man President
MacIntyre declares me to be, I would be going home.)

"Remember what I said to you, Elder Mitchell,"
President MacIntyre tells me. I nod, unable to speak.

(Maybe President MacIntyre's right. It was Elder
Braithwaite who suggested we go back to the dorm. It
was Elder Braithwaite who came and sat down on the
bed. He was the one who put his leg up against mine.
He was the one who initiated the kiss. Not me.)

As Elder Daley and I turn to go, President MacIntyre
says in a low voice to the assistants, "Find Elder
Braithwaite and his companion, and have them come see
me immediately."

(I know better than to believe my own
rationalizations. This is my last chance to do the
right thing instead of the safe thing.)

I keep walking. Behind me, I hear President MacIntyre
return to his office and shut the door. Elder Daley
and I will return to our room. We'll go to gospel
study class, dinner, tonight's devotional. While we do
that, Elder Braithwaite will be packing. By the time
we return from the devotional, he will be gone. I will
never see him again.

(Which is the greater sin? What I did with Elder
Braithwaite? Or what I did to Elder Braithwaite? I
have two years of missionary service--and a whole
lifetime after that--to wonder.)

This is my second Sunday in the Missionary Training
Center.