I was born in 1969, not
far from San Francisco. I attended Catholic parochial schools from
kindergarten to the Twelfth grade. This was the 1970s and
80s, when the Church was feeling the first repercussions from the
Second Vatican Council, Humanae Vitae, and the world-wide
sexual revolution. I remember learning very little from my Catholic
religious education, though I can still recall all the lyrics from
“The Sound of Silence” taught to us by a smiling guitar-strumming
sister. One peculiar incident that also always stood out from the fog
of the past, was a priest telling my class that the best Catholics
are those that question everything. He didn’t explain this concept,
that would have been difficult as we were all still only pre-teens,
he just threw it out there. Well, it stuck in my mind. Later on, as a
young adult, I think I never really knew Jesus, therefore I could not
believe in him. But I doubted everything the Catholic Church held as
sacred: and the only place I knew these dogmas was when we recited
The Creed during Mass. While being forced to go to church,
either by my parents our as a part of some school function, I stopped
saying it all-together.
Once I turned eighteen, one of the first solo trips
that I made was to the Castro in San Francisco. For those who may not
be familiar with this neighbor, it is the epee-center of the gay
world. Ever since I had been exposed to pornography at a very young
age, I was perpetually confused about my sexuality. Was I straight,
gay, or bi? I thought I could find out in the homosexual mecca. That
day, I planned on meeting a friend there, but until he arrived, I had
a few hours to kill. I walked around the area, stopping into the
various antique stores and bookshops. In one place, that was crammed
with old posters, antique bronzes, and furniture, I saw a beautiful
watercolor hanging in the very back of the room. I could tell that it
depicted several nude men standing around a lake. As I got closer, I
was shocked to see that all the figures sported grossly enlarged
genitals. This experience, though I could hardly realize it then,
spoke much of what I would later find in gay culture: a longing for
beauty and the divine that somehow always becomes base and
materialistic.
In the spirit of further exploration, I started
picking up female prostitutes and visiting the legal brothels in
Nevada. I enjoyed myself, but the risk and the cost became too much
for me. Since I was already hooked on porn, I found some cheaper
relief at local adult bookstores and theaters. I thought I was lucky,
when I discovered that you could have anonymous and free sex with
various men at these sordid dives. Thus began my dark descent into
the world of homosexual promiscuity. Soon afterward, I started
hearing strange voices. They told me to do things; to go to places
that I had never been before. One of the first locations they guided
me was a gay sex-club. I would make many such trips to that one and
other such haunts around the Bay Area. I met my first lover there. He
was older, wealthy, and kind, but equally deceptive. He introduced me
to the kink sub-cultures. Once we tired of each other, I moved on to
some of his friends. Many of them liked to be video-taped while
having sex. At first I loved it, then I became bored. For gay man,
there is this constant sort-of restlessness. Its pervasive and
all-encompassing. The wounds that we can not admit to, are ever
present. In our mind, the only remedy: is another man. For we lack
the innate masculinity that should be present within us.
One day, a friend told me about an amateur
pornographer who paid guys to masturbate in front of his camera. I
thought the idea rather tame, but I gave it a try. The adoration and
praise that I received, if only from a third rate-porn pusher, was
intoxicating. From there, I entered the universe of BDSM (bondage,
discipline, and sado-masochism.) To keep my interest, I needed
something more hard-core. Other men recorded our dungeon rituals.
Then watching porn was a much more involved affair. You could not
just click your finger, you had to actually get into your car and buy
the stuff or order it through the mail. Back when I was in porn, pornography, especially
gay porn, was a more inclusive and cultish affair. I was a part of
the coven. From that point, I couldn’t stop. I felt myself always
falling further and further downwards. I wanted some meaning in my
life. Foolishly, I thought I found what I was yearning for in the
occult. It started by dabbling in the New Age, that progressed to
pagan ceremonies and eventually satanism. It fit neatly with the
quasi-religious practices and symbolism that was everywhere in the
gay culture: the sex act was the new sacrament. My new obsession gave
me a fleeting sense of power, but everything only got worse.
Near death, vomiting up gallons of blood in a
hospital emergency room, the demons finally came for me. At first, I
cursed at the Lord, then I became frightened. I did not want to go to
hell. For the first time, in many years, I called out to God. That
instant, the demons left. For the next few days, I was catatonic. I
didn’t know what to do. The only Church I had ever known was the
Catholic Church. Could I go back? Did I even want to? Thankfully, our
Blessed Pope John Paul II had published The Catechism of the
Catholic Church since the time I left the Faith. Thank the Lord,
my mother owned a copy. I turned to the section on homosexuality.
There was hope. From my childhood, I remembered something about going
to a thing called Penance. I tracked down a kindly priest I once to a
liking to during the beginning of my fall, and confessed my sins. It
all seemed too easy. Things were still not right with me. I felt
sullied and evil. I clung to all that I was. I could not accept the
love of Jesus.
I spent the next few years, running to and from
different religious communities. I knew, deep down, that I did not
have a religious vocation, but I felt safe in remote monasteries
surrounded by religious and priests. I thought the devil could not
find me there. I was wrong. Suddenly, I was forced to return to
California and face my past once again. Through the Grace of God, a
newly ordained priest was giving a series of talks on the occult in
my hometown. I decided to go. Once he was finished, I spoke briefly
to him. He seemed to already know much of my story. He asked me to
follow him into a little room in the back of the church. I didn’t
know what was going to happen. I sat down, he placed his stole on my
head and prayed over me. I was delivered from the devils still
causing my fear and lack of trust in the Lord. Now, I could love
Jesus with my whole heart.
Occasionally, the forgotten whispers of my past
will echo through my head. When I am under stress, anxious, or
depressed, they sound almost melodious. They call me back. But the
world that I once inhabited is a place I can not go back to; for
there, only death awaits me. The struggle to remain next to Jesus is
often a heavy burden. I believe that gay men are given a very special
opportunity to carry the Cross with Our Lord and share in his most
intimate sufferings. For we too, have known rejection and hatred. But
we have a choice: we can surrender to our weaknesses and let
ourselves be crushed or the weight can become light and joyful.
Onetime, before Jesus saved me, I met a sickly man riddled with AIDS.
He was not angry or bitter because he knew what had brought him to
that state. Then, I thought his cheerful demeanor very strange. Only
he had accepted the truth. His suffering was joined with Our Lord. He
was doing what he had to do. And he died in peace.
