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MyJockStrap

The Proselyte


Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . It was early. Very early. Too damned early for the alarm clock. . Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . What's more, it was Sunday. Was I so wiped out last night that I set the alarm when I flopped into bed? . Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . Sheesh! It's not the alarm, it's the doorbell! Who'd be ringing that at -- what is it? -- 9:30 on a Sunday morning? I bet Alice locked herself out again. . Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
. Well, she's bailed me out before, it's the least I can do. Living in a brownstone means being a good neighbor or being a shit. Stumbling a bit in my hung-over -- or was I still plotzed? -- state, I hit the buzzer to open the front door and grabbed a robe so that I could offer at least the appearance of modesty when saying "Hi!" to Alice. She might even feel guilty enough to go get a paper for me, too.

. Opening my aparment door, I bellowed down the stairwell, "Good morning, early riser!"

. "Good morning, brother! I'm here with good news from the Lord!"

. A goddamned Revivalist, brandishing Bible, tracts, and an obnoxious self-assurance. They were an all-too-familiar sight in my neighborhood, where New Wave and Second Coming existed side-by-side. Before I could slam the door, though, he bounded into view on the landing. Alone and unchaperoned, an unusual state. And proof of God's good taste in children: Golden blond hair, cut short around the sides in an endearingly outdated style, cornflower blue eyes, engaging grin, slender body under an ill-fitting suit. Shades of blue and grey very flattering, though. And the tie, crooked and not quite tight around the buttoned collar. Who was his designer, Norman Rockwell? Well, once awake, I might as well enjoy the scenery.

. "I knew God would send me to a receptive home. That's why I kept ringing. Have you been saved?" Such enthusiasm so soon after sunrise I could not match. . "Well, the lifeguard pulled me out of the lake at camp." Polite laughter. At least he's diplomatic. "No, brother, I mean saved for all eternity. Have you given yourself to Jesus?"

. "Not that I know of." (I didn't hang around in backroom bars, but I didn't get a business card from every trick, either.) "Oh, you'd know it! Giving youself to Jesus gives you a great big load of joy!" . I pass on that opening. My turn to be diplomatic. "Why don't you come in?"

. A moment's hesitation. The place does need some redding up. In my most gracious house-tour manner, I sweep up the leather pants and red bikini briefs I had dumped on the chair last night, scoop up the dirty socks from under the coffee table, and duck into the bedroom to throw them in the closet. On my return, my guest takes three or four steps over the threshhold. Closing the door behind him with one hand, I gesture him toward the couch with the other. "Why don't you take off your coat?" Blue grey double knit, gracefully draped where leather had just hung. "Would you like some coffee?" Do Christians even touch caffeine?

. "I...I'd like that," he decided, taking a seat on the couch. The sun streaming through the windows glinted on his hair and seemed to re-charge his godly batteries. "Days like this make me feel so close to the Lord! His creation all aglow in the light of His blessed sun. 'Consider the lillies of the field: they toil not neither do they spin,' yet they bring us joy every day. You can see the power of the Lord every time you look out the window." . This rap continued while I went into the kitchen to fix the coffee. His voice had the kind of Midwestern twang you don't often hear in the City, and a certain breathy quality that would sound great whispered across a pillow. Best of all, he spoke with that preacher's cadence that just picks you up and carries you along.

. "'Seek and ye shall find. Ask and ye shall receive. Knock and it shall be opened unto you!' The Bible tells us that salvation is ours for the asking. Will you come with me and ask?"

. I was listening more to the rhythm than to the sense. Something about his blend of deference and determination was terribly seductive. As I puttered around the kitchen, the robe I hadn't bothered to tie firmly came undone. I was getting distinctly turned on by his voice, and I wanted him to keep talking. "You make it sound very appealing," I called out. "Are you one of the champion soul-savers?"

. "Saving souls isn't a contest!" He was properly indignant, but a bit proud, too. "It's a duty of every Christian to prepare all men of good will for the judgement to come. And women, too!" He must have just spotted the Village Voice on the coffee table. Wonder what he makes of Honcho. "We're all brothers and sisters, you know, and we should reach out to one another in love."

. By this time, my cock was beginning to reach out itself, with some judiciously self-indulgent help from my hand. I poured the coffee and arranged the cups, sugar bowl, and creamer on a tray. Walking into the living room, I wondered, mischievously, how my guest would react to my fully exposed, erect posture. But he was searching through his briefcase.

. "There's a wonderful article here on discovering the Lord," he was saying in a loud voice, apparently assuming that I was still in the kitchen. "I can leave this here for you..." Turning around, he found my groin at eye-level. . "Cream and sugar?"

. "Ye...uh....yes, thank you. Hmmm, ur, have you ever sat down to read the Bible?"

. "Sure. King James version. I was an English major in college. What was that article you were talking about?" I used my curiosity as an excuse to sit down next to him, close enough to see what was in his hand -- and what was bulging underneath his fly.

. "It's a powerful testimony by a man who was saved. He had lived for years in sin, just like...just like so many of us. And one day a messenger came with word of the Lord's judgement and a call to save himself. And he did!"

. "And you're my messenger?" I placed an arm fraternally around his shooulder, resisting the temptation to kiss the beautiful pink curve of his ear.

. "I...I may just be. That's for the Lord to decide." . "I'd like to know some more about you. Are you from down South? Is that why you run around in so many clothes even when the weather gets warm?" I began to playfully undo his tie.

. "I'm from Kansas, and we do get our share of hot weather. But I'd dress proper anyway to show my respect for you."

. "Well, in my house, people show their respect by dressing comfortably." I began unbuttoning his shirt. He made no effort to stop me. No undershirt. A well-muscled chest, covered lightly in blond peach fuzz, then a handsomely firm stomach. "You must work very hard," I observed, gently stroking his breastbone and allowing my hand to slip negligently down to his navel, stomach, and belt buckle. I stopped before reaching the growing bulge in his pants. He was focussing very intently on my conversational lead.

. "I work in the printing plant," he explained. "It's expected of all of us who can afford it to come to the City. It's an honor and a privilege to do the Lord's work by spreading His Word. I've been dreaming of this -- doing the Lord's work, that is -- since I was eight years old and the preacher took me in his arms and waded into the stream to baptize me. I knew back then what I really wanted." He tightened his grip on the arm and the back of the couch, trying to project the appearance of casual unconcern. The most noticeable effect was the heightened definition of his pectoral muscles.

The aching in my loins became less and less metaphorical. My wandering hand had reached his belt buckle. It was a canvas belt with one of those Navy-type slide buckles, so I moved forward on the couch to use both hands to open it. I was facing him almost directly, but those gorgeous blue eyes were focussed on the windows, the bookcase, the stereo, the coffee cups -- everywhere but my face. "Do you have any friends back at the dorm?"

"I have a friend in Jesus!" This platitude came with unexpected vehemence. At the same time, my roaming figers, having gently opened his fly and released its treasure from white cotton briefs, made a surprising discovery. Uncut! Also tall, pale, and handsome. I knelt on the floor before him and took it in my mouth.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." He began so quietly I could hardly hear him, reciting the words tonelessly, like an incantation memorized but not quite understood. "He leadeth me beside the still waters. He annointeth my head with oil." A pause her, for breath. "He prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. He restoreth my soul. Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil." Another breath. Two. Three. "Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Surely....Surely....Surely.... SURELY....SURELY...."

Warm, salty, and plentiful. It will take the rest of the coffee to wash this down.

"...shall comfort me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell...." He stood up abruptly, knocking me back against the coffee table. He zipped up, without bothering to buckle the belt, grabbed his jacket and tie and bolted for the door. He had trouble figuring out the locks.

"Didn't you like the coffee?" I asked, noticing his untouched cup. "I can make tea or cocoa if you want."

But he had finally succeeded in opening the door and ran out and down the stairs. "Come again," I called after him, unsure if he understood my words were not just a polite cliche. "We hardly had a chance to talk!"

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