The Priest's Tale - 1. Chapter 1

The sound of someone entering on the other side of the wall jolted the Reverend Peter Ruxton out of his peaceful meditation.

He whispered, “Amen,” placed a bookmark in the Breviary in his lap, and quietly slid open the thin wooden partition. Dutifully staring straight ahead, the priest leaned his left ear toward the screen and listened for the ritual opening entreaty.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been... uh... oh shit...”

He stopped, embarrassed. “Sorry, Father!... it’s been a long time...” The voice was male, young, perhaps late 20s.

Peter didn’t recognize him, which was not unusual. Catholics often went to confession in a church other than their own, preferring to bare their sins to a stranger, rather than a priest they saw every week.

Making the sign of the cross in the air over the penitent through the screen, Father Peter responded gently, “Don’t worry, my son. You’re here now. Nothing else matters.”

He paused, knowing from experience that his silence would encourage the young man to muster up the nerve to say what was on his mind.

“I, uh...” The youth clearly needed some encouragement.

“You’re talking with God. I’m only here to help you find the words you need to say to Him.”

The young man took a deep shaky breath.

“OK. Here goes... Father, I am gay.” The statement came out with a mix of fear and defiance.

Speaking evenly, so as not to reveal what he was thinking or discourage the speaker, Peter replied, “Go on, please.”

He thought to himself, I think I’m gay, too. And like you, I can’t figure out what the hell to do about it.

With a little prompting from the priest, the confession followed the predictable path. The penitent said he was 26 and had been aware of his attraction to men since his early teens.

He had tried dating girls and had sex with one or two in college. Despite trying, he had always known he was merely playing the role his family and friends expected of him.

It never felt right, and he regretted most of his relationships with women because he was insincere and hiding the fact that it would never amount to anything long-lasting. It just wasn’t fair to lead them on.

He had engaged in one or two furtive encounters with men in restrooms and adult theaters, and he was disgusted with himself afterward.

He and his roommate had sex with each other for 6 months, and he believed he had finally found what he honestly knew he needed. But the roommate dropped out of school, leaving him frustrated and all the more discouraged about his future.

Recently, though, he had met a slightly older man and they began seeing each other, including having frequent sex. The two of them had recently moved in together.

“So, what am I supposed to do?” the plaintive voice asked. “I love him, and he loves me. The Church says what we’re doing is a sin, but it also feels really right, like this is what God made me for.”

The young man paused hopefully, waiting for an answer, for guidance, for his confessor to tell him something to make his life clearer, easier, happier.

Father Peter cleared his throat and began delicately.

God, don’t let me mess this up. Help me help this guy.

“The Church believes being homosexual is not a sin. It is the way God created you, for reasons we cannot fathom. God wants you to be who you are, what you are. Make no mistake about it...”

In the dim light, he could see the man on the other side of the screen jerk up his head, which had been bowed in contrition thus far. He was staring at Father Peter through the mesh screen that divided them.

“But I thought...”

“Let me finish, please... God gives each of us gifts... and sometimes, along with them, burdens. While you are not sinning by being gay or feeling an attraction to other men, the Church teaches you must never act on those desires.”

Peter paused to let his words sink in. Experience told him they were not what the young man had hoped for.

Hearing no response, he continued, “You must never give in to temptation, to sin. You have to end the relationship with your... friend... and live a pure life. Or you could marry a woman and raise a family with her and try to put your other attraction out of your mind.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, my son, it is what the Church understands to be the will of God.”

There was still no response.

Peter took a breath and explained softly, “I realize it isn’t easy, but if you pray and work at it, you can turn your life into a blessing for yourself and others. You can overcome your wrong desires and enjoy a happy life, with or without someone to love in it. God will help you, and there are counseling services who can guide you to understand your sexual orientation in a healthy way. But stay away from the so-called conversion therapy approach.”

He almost choked on his own words.

How the hell can I say this with a straight face? This is so wrong.

Because he was also a trained psychologist, he was fully aware what he was saying was not likely to help the young man.

The man on the other side of the screen sobbed softly.

Peter spoke as compassionately as he could. “I realize you’re suffering, and it hurts me to have to tell you this. But this is what our Church teaches. We can hope it may change some day, but I don’t think it could happen any time soon.”

Not in my lifetime, or yours.

His words were met with icy silence. The sobbing had stopped and the young man was breathing angrily.

I am hurting this vulnerable young guy, and I’m driving a wedge between him and the God who made him and loves him exactly the way he is.

“So, I either go to hell or make my life a living hell, right?”

“I don’t...” Peter stopped as he heard the young man rise, roughly shove the curtain aside, and stomp down the aisle.

He shouted, “Thanks for nothing, Father!” and slammed the door of the darkened church.

Peter sat in silence, heart aching. No words came to him. He had done his duty as a Catholic priest. He had delivered the sentence of a loveless life to a young person bursting with hope and dreams for a future of companionship and affection.

A hot tear filled one eye and burned a slow path down his cheek, dripping onto the purple stole he was wearing over his black cassock.

What have I done? How could I hurt the poor young man? What the hell is wrong with me? What’s wrong with this goddamned church I represent?

Peter leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, sobbing.

No one else came in for confessions, so Peter locked the church and walked the ten steps to the rectory back door.

Maria Delgado, the cook and housekeeper, greeted him with a warm smile. “All is bueno, Padre?”

He smiled ruefully and nodded, not sure he could control his voice if he tried to speak.

He climbed the back stairs to his room, closed the door, and stretched out on the bed. His mind was jumbled, none of his thoughts made any sense to him.

If I’m honest, I have to admit I’ve always been aware I am gay. But my vocation, my calling, is to deny myself and live only for God.

Peter’s troubled memories took him back to every good-looking man he had ever known, starting with a high school classmate who, Peter suspected, would have liked to have had sex with him. Instead, he had made himself the guy’s best friend.

Then there were other men — attractive guys, if Peter dared to use the words — in college, grad school, and even seminary. By then he was well schooled in self-denial and carefully avoided any attraction that might have led to sin.

The seminary faculty and his spiritual director had sternly prohibited what they euphemistically called “particular friendships” among the men in their charge. Friends that went beyond shared experiences and interests and veered into emotional or, God forbid, physically intimacy were punished with expulsion.

Peter supposed there were gay men in seminary and perhaps naïvely assumed that, like him, they were sublimating or repressing their desires and learning to control their urges.

The young man in the confessional had brought years of Peter’s internal turmoil to a head. He was forced to face the fact that he was far too like that gay man, except he had always been too disciplined, or too afraid, to act on his sin of lust.

Or perhaps I'm too indoctrinated by the Church’s position on homosexuality and sin.

He wondered what the young man looked like. The confessional was dark, and there was nothing more than a silhouette on the other side of the screen.

Did he look like Jubb? Why am I suddenly thinking about Jubb?

A pleasant picture formed in Peter’s mind.

Jubal Gutmann, nicknamed Jubb, was two years behind him in seminary, twelve years ago. A simple Midwest farm boy, he had struggled mightily with his studies, especially Latin, a subject in which Peter excelled.

The Latin professor asked Peter to try to help Jubb, at least enough so he could pass the course. Despite his own heavy workload, he agreed to tutor his classmate.

Why in God’s name did I ever agree? Was it because Jubb was so damned cute?

The two labored over conjugations and declensions for what seemed like endless hours. Gradually, Jubb mastered at least the basics. Peter realized the two of them had also become friends... and more, dangerously more.

Peter was attracted to his classmate in a way he shouldn’t be. He convinced himself it meant nothing and went out of his way to be all business whenever they were studying together. He was sure Jubb had no idea of his feelings for him.

Nevertheless, simply the sight of the handsome young man sent a thrill up and down Peter’s spine, and immediately reminded him he must never allow himself to feel that way.

Attempting to find an outlet for his inappropriate sexual desire, Peter masturbated with the image of the younger student foremost in his mind.

His fantasies never included physical intimacy; it was enough for him to picture Jubb in the many situations in which the two had been together. The farm boy’s clean-cut innocence brought Peter to a climax time after time.

One evening at the end of term, there was a knock on the door of Peter’s room. He opened it, and there stood Jubb, with a wide smile across his face. Peter usually avoided profanity, but this surely had to be what a “shit-eating grin” looks like.

Jubb was obviously on his way back to his room from the showers. He had his sandals on, and one towel was tucked tight around his waist, while another was thrown over his shoulder like a cape. His hair was still damp, and the gold crucifix on a chain around his neck gleamed in the light spilling out of Peter’s room into the dim hallway.

The desire Peter had been suppressing for weeks begin to rage inside him.

Don’t let him come in. Whatever he wants to say, he can say it there and then go back to his room.

“Hi, Jubb. What do you need?”

“Nothing, Pete. Nothing at all. I have some amazing news.”

“Oh?”

“I got a C-minus on my Latin final!” Jubb laughed heartily. The towel around his waist threatened to fall off, so he quickly tucked it in tightly.

“That’s great. Congratulations. You worked hard for the grade.”

He actually did better than I would have predicted, but I’m relieved the tutoring is over. I was getting uncomfortable, spending so much time with Jubb.

“Oh, come on, Petey.” Peter hated the nickname but had never asked Jubb to stop using it. “We both know I owe it all to you.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help...”

Jubb cocked his head. “Are you busy?” He leaned to the side and peeked into the room.

“Well, kind of. I have an exam to study for and a paper to finish...”

“This’ll only take a minute.” Jubb grinned and gently pushed past Peter into the room.

Once inside, he sat on the side of the bed. “I’m kinda cold. Could you close the door?”

“Doors are supposed to be left open when a visitor is in the room.” He reminded both of them of the seminary rule. Peter’s stomach was doing flips, fearing what might happen if he shut the door and stayed in his room with his half-naked friend.

“Oh, don’t worry. Nobody saw me, and besides nobody actually follows the rule.”

Reluctantly, Peter closed the door of his room. He was more uncomfortable by the minute.

Patting the spot next to him on the bed, Jubb said, “Come on over. I don’t bite.”

Please say what you have to say and go back to your room. This is making me... I don’t have a word for it, but I don’t like feeling this way.

When Peter reluctantly sat next to him, the man put an arm around his shoulder. The scent of the man’s shampoo and deodorant almost overwhelmed him. He felt strangely light-headed.

“You’ve gone out of your way to help me, Petey, and I... wanted to... show my appreciation.”

“There’s no need, Jubb. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Please, Jubb, don’t stay. I don’t think I can control myself with you here like this.

“We both know that’s bullshit, Peter. You put a big hurt on your study time while you tried to pound the goddamn Latin into my big, dumb head.”

“You’re not dumb, Jubb. Latin is a hard subject, and a lot of guys have a tough time with it.”

“Yeah. Especially me.”

Jubb adjusted his seating on the bed, and the towel around his waist came loose. One end of it drooped toward the floor, exposing most of the young man’s leg. Peter immediately looked away, but said nothing.

“All the time you spent with me, I kinda got to like you a lot, Petey.”

Peter turned to look him in the face, studiously avoiding lowering his eyes toward the naked thigh.

“Well, thanks, but it was just a way to help out a friend.”

“I’m glad we’re friends, Pete. ‘Cause I want to thank you the way a friend does.”

“What do you mean? How?”

Jubb spread his legs apart.

The drooping side of the towel fell off completely, and he reached down and threw the opposite end to the side, exposing his cock and balls.

The cock was hard and pulsing lightly in time with Jubb’s heartbeat.

Peter was speechless, his breath coming in gasps.

He stared up into Jubb’s face, terrified.

“What... what are you doing, Jubb?”

“Like I said, I’m thanking you.”

He reached over and took Peter’s hand, placing it on his cock.

Peter’s whole body went limp. He knew he should resist, but he couldn’t make himself pull his hand away.

Jubb squeezed Peter’s fingers around his erection and smiled.

“Mmm. Mighty fine, Petey.”

I don’t want to do this... but I do want to. What the hell am I going to do?

Jubb kept Peter’s hand in his and began to slide it up and down his hard cock.

“Feels extra good now.”

He leaned in and kissed Peter on the cheek.

“I know you been wantin’ to do this, Pete, but you needed to keep things between us as tutor and student. Well, you succeeded, so now you can have your reward.”

“No, I...”

“Shh...”

Jubb pulled Peter’s face to his and kissed his lips, forcing them apart with his tongue.

He placed a hand on the side of Peter’s head and held him gently as they kissed.

The cock in his hand got harder, and Peter’s head began to swim.

Jubb broke the kiss, keeping his hand on Peter’s face, which he guided downward toward his belly.

He released the hand that had been holding Peter’s around his cock and lay back on the bed naked and hard, contentedly looking up at the ceiling.

“This is great, Pete. But you know what we both want now.”

Peter’s face was now only a couple of inches from the head of Jubb’s cock.

Tiny drops of liquid glistened in the slit and were beginning to ooze out around the head.

He inhaled a blend of musk, sweat, and something he couldn’t identify, but his brain told him it would probably taste wonderful.

He was shaking, but also burning with desire for Jubb.

Peter stared at his hand, wrapped around Jubb’s hard cock.

I really do want to do this. Maybe it will be something we'll both enjoy. I can always go to confession later and try to sort out my feelings.

And he began to stroke it.

Jubb moaned and squirmed a little and lay there with his eyes closed, breathing evenly.

“This is fuckin’ fantastic, Petey. Keep doin’ it that way.”

Peter’s throat was dry and he couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the erect penis, inches from his face.

The soft skin felt like silk as he moved his fingers up and down Jubb’s hardness.

The man's foreskin slid forward and back as Peter jacked him off.

He brought his face closer until his lips almost touched the head of the cock.

His hot breath added lubrication to the action of his fist.

I shouldn’t do this, but I can’t stop myself. I want this. I want him. I need to do this. I have dreamed of doing this for as long as I've known Jubb.

Jubb reached down and took hold of Peter’s wrist. He began to control the motions of Peter’s hand, faster and deeper.

Peter leaned back, fearful of getting any closer to the pulsing flesh in his hand. His vision blurred.

He wants me to put my mouth on it... but I just can't. That would be going too far.

Suddenly Jubb groaned, “Shiiit!” and thick cum shot out of his cock, all the way up to his chin.

Five, six, seven spurts of hot semen, and then Jubb released Peter’s hand and took a long, deep breath.

Then the unexpected happened.

Peter blacked out and fell off the bed.

Jubb jumped to his feet and lifted his tutor off the floor, helping him lie back on his pillow.

“What the fuck, Pete? Did you pass out?”

Peter’s breathing was shallow. His eyes focused again, and the magnificent naked man was standing over him, his cock dripping cum and still pulsing lightly as it softened. He had a look of alarm on his handsome face.

“I... I’m sorry... I guess I forgot to breathe.”

Cautiously, Peter sat up in the bed, turned and put his feet on the floor. His head was still spinning, but he was determined to get this man out of his room.

“Are you OK, man?”

Peter’s face was as pale as a ghost, and his breath was coming in gasps. “I’m all right, Jubb... I think... You need to leave... right now... I’m sorry.”

Hastily grabbing his towel and tucking it around his waist, Jubb was now red-faced, and his hands were shaking.

“Shit, Pete. I’m sorry. I got it all wrong. I totally fucked up. I...”

Peter got to his feet and faced his friend.

“Stop, Jubb. Please. I’m all right, but I need to be alone now. I don’t know why we did... what we did... why I did it... I... please leave, now.”

“Pete...” Jubb’s voice cracked and a tear made its way down one cheek. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, man.”

To his surprise and in spite of his shock and physical weakness, Peter’s sense of compassion took over.

He place one hand gently on the man’s shoulder.

“It’s OK, Jubb. I’m not mad or anything. Things got out of control somehow. I’m really glad you got a C-minus. Now, you go back to your room and get dressed, and we’ll never mention this again. It didn’t happen, OK?”

Stifling a sob, Jubb nodded. “I only wanted to thank you...”

“I know, and I do appreciate your thanks.”

Peter gently guided Jubb to the door, opened it, gave him a light push, and quickly closed the door behind his friend.

They never spoke of it again, and Jubb dropped out of seminary after the term ended. Peter had not seen or heard from him since.

Now, lying in his bed, Peter sighed deeply.

I can’t figure this out now. I’ve been torn in every direction by this... attraction... for way too long.

His painful memories were interrupted by the tiny silver bell Maria rang to signal it was time to come downstairs for dinner.

Peter reluctantly climbed out of bed and splashed cold water on his face.

He studied his appearance in the mirror. He was 37 years old, five-eleven and 170 pounds. His blond hair was almost always in need of combing. The ladies in the parish said his blue eyes were so “handsome,” but he didn’t see it.

He worked out in the gym three or four times a week, but he wasn’t focused on accomplishing anything there, other than to get out of the rectory and be around people who didn’t know or care he was a priest.

His health was good — physical health, at least. His mental health was... well, after today, he wasn’t sure what.

I guess I’m about as well as I can expect, under the circumstances.

Peter felt a little better as he made his way to the front of the building, taking the broad main staircase down to the refectory.

The massive dining table was ten feet long. In its day, it had accommodated as many as twelve priests, seminarians, and assorted visitors.

Now, there were only Peter and Monsignor Connor Dugan, the irascible, grizzled, sad old pastor of the dwindling, aging congregation.

Dugan, seated at the head of the table, looked up momentarily.

“Peter.” His flat-voiced word was his only acknowledgment that his young curate had entered the room.

“Monsignor.” He took his seat half-way down the table. At least the old priest didn’t make him sit at the far end.

They usually ate in silence, having little in common to discuss.

Peter smiled to himself.

The old fart thinks I’m a threat to his living out the rest of his life in this God-forsaken parish. Wouldn’t he be surprised to hear I would rather die.

Peter raised his head. Dugan was glaring at him.

“You’ve barely touched your steak.”

“I’m not hungry tonight.”

“That meat costs ten dollars a pound. You should eat it, out of respect for the congregation whose donations made it possible. Or out of respect for Maria.”

Annoyed, Peter blurted, “I told you I’m not hungry tonight. If you’re worried about wasting the steak, go ahead and finish mine.”

He shoved his plate down the table, got up, and left the room.

He went into the common room, dropped three ice cubes into a glass, and poured himself a large whiskey.

As he sat in gloomy silence, Dugan came into the room.

“Well, somebody’s got a bug up his ass.”

Peter snorted and frowned at him.

“Oh, come on, boy. What’s the matter?” It was clear the Monsignor didn’t want an answer but somehow felt obliged to inquire.

Surprising himself, Peter replied.

“A difficult confession this afternoon.”

“I guess we should thank God anybody at all still comes to confession.”

The older man cocked his head to one side, looking at his young curate with curiosity. “I realize you can’t violate the seal, but what made this one difficult?”

“It tested my faith in the Church.”

Dugan raised his eyebrows, then smirked. “So, the young buck has run up against a question he can’t answer, despite all those years in seminary.” The pastor was referring to Peter’s doctorate in Moral Theology, which had taken six years to complete.

Peter glared back at the old man in icy silence.

“Well, if you’re stuck, the only thing is to ring up Buck Henderson and have a chat with him.”

Monsignor Wilmer “Buck” Henderson was Chancellor of the diocese, the bishop’s right-hand man. It was common knowledge he considered himself next in line to be bishop when the current incumbent reached retirement age in three years.

Buck’s number-one job was to “handle” situations the bishop didn’t want to get involved in, especially young priests and their problems.

“A lot of good that would do.”

“Well, you could always go straight to the Old Man.”

Bishop Carlton Murray hated dealing with people’s problems, which was why he had stationed Buck squarely between himself and his clergy. Going around the Chancellor would only annoy Murray and piss off Henderson.

“Not much of an option.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to suck it up and live with it, like the rest of us have always done!”

Peter drained his glass, stood and placed it on the tray for Maria, curtly nodded good-night, and left the Monsignor to begin his nightly single-malt Scotch anesthesia.

As he lay down in his bed, Peter thought about asking for a meeting with the bishop.

Maybe hitting old Murray with this is what it will take to force me to make a decision.