A gay story: Chapter 9: Gay Chapel The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
Chapter 9: Gay Chapel
Wednesday, August 23, 1995
Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Paul Olson walked like a condemned man, shoulders hunched, shuffling gait, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. He was headed to chapel and didn’t even know the lions were sharpening their claws, that fags were on the menu.
Matt loitered in front of the Mabee Learning Center, watching his fellow students file past on their daily trek to Chapel. The late morning sun was bright. The air smelled of freshly cut grass.
Watching Paul approach, Matt couldn’t discern any gay traits. Whatever Gaydar was, Matt’s didn’t work. He would have put Paul in the misfit toy tribe and looked elsewhere for closeted gays. But Harley and William said this kid was one of them. And Matt was determined to rescue Paul from the lion’s den.
Matt had persuaded the Gay Mafia to let him warn Paul. Warn him and then go on to chapel alone was the plan. It was too risky for gays to congregate on campus anytime. It was reckless to do so for Gay Chapel.
Paul wasn’t hard to miss. Harley had described him well: short, stocky, stringy black hair, glasses. Spooked by his own shadow.
“Paul Olson, right?” Matt intercepted Paul. Matt was all smiles, slouched down to minimize the half foot height difference between them, hands shoved in his pockets to appear less threatening.
Paul was wary. He applied the brakes and came to a stop a couple feet from Matt. “Present,” he said, as if answering a prison roll call.
They were on the sidewalk, impeding the flow of traffic, which put them on a stage where their fellow students could observe and possibly overhear them. “My name’s Matt Griffith,” Matt said. “A mutual friend told me about you. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Who’s your friend?” Paul asked. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. They also scanned Matt’s body, checking him out. Then revisited his crotch.
Matt assessed the situation, weighing whether he could persuade Paul to move their conversation onto the grass, away from eavesdroppers. Probably not. Paul was too skittish, like a feral cat sniffing a proffered can of tuna. Any sudden movements and this kid would dart for cover. At least Paul stood with his back to any approaching students. That was a good thing. Those students couldn’t see Paul’s guarded facial expressions. What they saw was Matt standing here casual and composed. Chill. What they overheard was still a concern.
Matt kept a frozen smile on his face. “My friend’s name is Harley,” he whispered.
Paul’s eyes went wide. The blood drained from his face. Matt knew that look, knew the gut punching fear it entailed. “Stay calm, Paul,” Matt said through his smiling teeth. His voice was low. “You, Harley, and I all play for the same team. Got it? I need you to trust me.”
“What team?” Paul blurted. “I don’t play any sports!” He pushed his glasses further back on his nose.
A gaggle of girls was sweeping by, a collage of swishing skirts and bouncing boobs. Their chatter was loud and piercing, like birds squawking at each other. One of the girls heard Paul’s protestation that he didn’t play sports and cocked her head quizzically at Matt and Paul. Then the gaggle was gone.
Matt laughed loudly as if Paul had said something funny. “It’s a metaphor,” Matt whispered. “Think about it. Some of us are pitchers. Some are catchers.”
Paul was still confused. He shifted his weight. His eyes looked beyond Matt, charting escape routes.
Matt spotted two of his soccer teammates approaching. Shit! They were about fifty feet away. They had the cocksure swagger of jocks everywhere, which Matt had never noticed when he was with them. Matt wondered if he walked the same way. Matt knew his teammates would spot him at any moment and would be curious about what he was doing with Paul.
Matt tried one last time to pierce Paul’s concrete thinking. “Paul,” he hissed, “our team–the team you, Harley, and I play on–likes to play with balls. Get it?”
Paul gulped and nodded just as Matt’s two teammates strutted up to them.
“Mustang!” one of the guys called out, using Matt’s team nickname.
“Call him ‘Senator’ now,” joked the other. “And salute when you say it.”
Yes, Matt had won the election. He was a representative. There were no Senators, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. And he was dreading tomorrow evening when he would attend his first Student Government Association (SGA) meeting.
“Let me do the talking here,” Matt whispered to Paul, then turned his attention to his teammates. “Idabel! Yukon!” He held up his hands to accept high-fives.
Idabel growled. “Come Saturday I’m going to singlehandedly stomp Friends University’s butts. No one’s gonna be calling me ‘Idabel’ after that!”
“I’ve seen you run,” Matt joked. “You’ll still be ‘Idabel’ when you’re a Senior.” Matt did not remind Idabel that, since the Friends game was an exhibition one, there was no opportunity to shed their nicknames.
Yukon laughed at Matt’s joke.
Idabel and Yukon glanced at Paul, obviously expecting Matt to make introductions.
Matt felt a moment of panic. Maybe he was being paranoid, given the whole Gay Chapel thing, but he wanted a plausible enough story about his connection with Paul that would not invite follow-up questions. He and Paul didn’t have any classes together, didn’t live in the same dorm as far as he knew, no obvious connection beyond their sexual orientation. “Guys, this is Paul. He’s going to tutor me.”
Idabel and Yukon greeted Paul.
Paul nodded, adjusted his glasses, but didn’t say a word. Apparently, he took Matt’s instructions literally.
“What’s he tutoring you in?” Idabel asked. “I could use some help, too.”
Matt shook his head. This was exactly the type question he wanted to avoid. “No poaching my tutor. Find your own.” Matt shooed his friends away. “Now off you go! I’m talking business with Paul, and we’re almost late to chapel. I’ll see you later.”
Idabel and Yukon loped off.
Matt waited for his teammates to be out of earshot. “Walk with me,” he said, leading Paul towards the chapel. Most of their fellow students were already inside, so Matt was less concerned about being overheard. Still, he kept his voice low as he explained that they were headed to “Gay Chapel” and that was not a good thing.
Scott Chapel loomed into view like a Mayan temple tucked into a jungle clearing. The building’s understory was squat, windowless, u-shaped. Two narrow staircases climbed to a small platform in the middle of the u, on top of which was stacked another shoebox which was itself topped by a steel-roofed pyramid. The whole modernist pile was cold and impersonal and assaulted the senses with its abrasive misproportions. It was the sort of dystopian structure where sadistic priests would perform human sacrifices, tossing the still-bleeding corpses of their victims down the stairs.
Paul slowed as they neared the stairs. His fear was palpable.
Matt’s instructions were to usher Paul into that horror show, washing his hands of further responsibility for the hapless kid, then take a seat with the soccer tribe. Matt could not do it.
“Hey Paul,” Matt said. “Can I tell you something? I’m not sure I can hold it together for this. Would you mind sitting with me? I could use the support.”
Paul smiled.
By the time Matt and Paul took their seats, the opening prayer was ending. Matt spied Jake about five rows ahead of him, at roughly the ten o’clock position. Matt hadn’t seen Jake since they had fucked four days earlier. They now shared a special bond, like the one Matt shared with William. And here he was in Gay Chapel, about to be told that gay love was a nasty, shameful thing.
Everyone stood to sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.”
They sang the other four stanzas too, crammed with martial pomp, bristling with judgment wrought by men on God’s behalf. And this song had been chosen to whip the crowd into a blood frenzy as they weeded out the fags, separating wheat from chaff. All because of poor Adam Maxwell who was still in the hospital. Hadn’t there been enough bloodshed already?
This was the doing of the mysterious Colton Langley, the kid who had ratted Adam out to the Dean. The kid, Matt had learned from the Gay Mafia, was a self-hating gay. And the Mafia suspected, but could not prove, that Colton had been involved in the mysterious expulsions of two other gay kids the previous year.
Paul pushed his glasses back on his nose, blinked his bug eyes fearfully.
Matt worried whether Paul could endure what was coming. The kid looked woozy, and this was just the warmup.
Hell, Matt worried whether he could endure it!
Dean Smith took the stage, motioned for everyone to be seated, and proceeded to introduce their guest speaker, Michael Benson, Executive Director of First Stone Ministries.
Michael. Of. Course. The man who sashayed onto the stage matched his name. He was no Mike, never had been. Michael was a barrel-chested man in his mid-thirties, with perfectly coiffed salt and pepper hair. He wore a suit and tie. And he was barefoot. He swung a pair of Nike tennis shoes from his hand like a purse.
The students greeted him with polite applause.
Michael’s effeminate voice played through the speakers. “There are students in this audience–males and females–who are struggling with same-sex attraction.” He gazed into the audience as if scanning for the closet cases.
Matt watched as everyone sank down in their seats, avoiding Michael’s scrutiny, then, having apparently realized that made them look guilty, sat back up. It was like watching people do “The Wave” in a stadium.
Michael resumed. “Same sex attraction, the so-called ‘Gay’ lifestyle will leave you broken. I have good news for you: God can heal your brokenness. He healed mine. Once I was blind. Now I see. Once I was gay. NOW I AM FREE!”
Muted applause. Matt assumed there would have been a more enthusiastic response to the message if the messenger weren’t such a big ole Queen.
Michael launched into the story behind the shoes he was carrying. Fourteen years earlier he had been “heavily in the Lifestyle”. One night he hooked up with a guy, who drove him to the riverbank, where they had sex in the back seat of the hookup’s car. Afterwards, the hookup became abusive and demanded Michael hand over his shoes as trophies. The hookup kicked Michael out of his car and made him walk home.
That night, walking home barefoot in the mud, Michael gave his heart to the Lord, and was reborn a straight man.
The moral of the tale was that Satan lured kids into the “Gay Lifestyle” like the anonymous hookup had enticed Michael. Then, once Satan got what he wanted, he’d strip you of your dignity, kick you out of his “car”, leaving you alone and metaphorically barefoot. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Matt quit listening and just stared at Michael in disgust, trying to decide if the man was delusional or just a garden variety liar peddling snake oil, a cure that clearly hadn’t worked on himself. This self-proclaimed straight man was as freakish as any two-headed calf at the state fair. And just like those oddities, Michael didn’t belong in this world other than as a side-show curiosity. He certainly didn’t belong in the hetero-world. And if he truly wasn’t attracted to men, despite his mannerisms, he didn’t belong in the gay one either.
Matt felt a tiny speck of sympathy for Michael. He must be a very lonely man standing on his soap box at the fair, looking out at all the people staring back at him.
Michael finished his stemwinder and did a sort of altar call, asking for people to come forward if they were struggling with same sex attraction. Two did. One blubbering guy and a stony-faced girl went forward.
“I know that guy,” Paul whispered. “He’s in one of my classes.”
“Was,” Matt corrected Paul. “That kid was in one of your classes.”
Michael ushered his two recruits to a side room to pray.
Dean Smith motioned for the students to quiet down. He had something to tell them. Adam Maxwell was no longer a student at OC. According to the Dean, Adam had voluntarily withdrawn so that he could focus on fixing his same sex attraction. And, yes, the Dean continued, Adam had then attempted suicide.
Matt heard scattered gasps, a couple of muffled sobs. Mostly heavy silence. Gay Adam Maxwell didn’t merit their concern. A straight kid with a paper cut would make everyone’s prayer list.
Dean Smith continued. “There’s someone who deserves special recognition. Colton Langley!” Dean Smith scanned the pews. “Colton, where are you? Come up here, son.”
Loud applause. Commotion in one of the pews as kids stood, making room for a preppy kid to climb around them.
Colton joined the Dean on stage. Cuffed khaki pants. Leather belt. Tasseled loafers. Polo shirt tucked into his pants.
Matt stared at Colton, studying every detail about him, burning Colton’s face into his memory so that the next time he saw him he could exact revenge for Adam.
Dean Smith draped an arm around Colton’s shoulder, continued addressing the student body. “Colton loves God and hates sin. I want to personally thank Colton for alerting us to the grave sins of Adam Maxwell!”
Colton gave an aww, shucks shrug, beaming in pride, basking in the praise.
Dean Smith released Colton’s shoulder, reached for his hand to shake it. “Thank you, Colton. Keep up the great work! I’m excited to see what you do this year as president of the SGA!”