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© 2008 - 2009
Paul G. Bens, Jr.
1996
GEORGE, 9
Hanging there on the cross, Christ was beautiful. Everything about him was painfully exquisite, from the curve of his thighs as they struggled under his weight, to the way his delicate, narrow fingers curved in as if yearning to reach the iron spikes driven through his palms. His hair, foul from sweat and blood oozing from a thorny halo, fell quietly over strong shoulders that carried the weight of all humanity and had surely been sculpted by God's own hand. The concavity of his armpits looked warm and soft, and the rise of his hipbones seemed an intimate invitation to bliss. But his arms were the most impressive, sinewy and silky sculptures stretching from side to side like giant wings waiting to envelop you, to take you someplace where greens were brighter and cotton balls were softer.
George Credlin didn't understand why the plaster idol hung above the altar drew him in the way it did. He just knew how he felt. Every time he looked up, he wanted to be held by that man, wanted to be a part of Him even if it meant dying on that cross. He wanted to kiss those dried lips, soothe those aching muscles, and let Christ know everything would be all right. But something more churned in him, something George felt was darker or dirtier. Something far less caring. Every time he looked up, he wanted to be able to peer under the tiny cloth which provided Catholic modesty to his Savior. He wanted to see all of God's Son, all of his beauty and, at times, he wished he could tear the cloth away. He wanted to see Christ naked. That confused him.
Years later George would realize Christ had not only been his first love, but also his first lover. Right here and right now, however, he was just a nine-year-old boy trapped in a miasma of emotion, starting to realize he was somehow different than the others, though he didn't understand why. He loved God, knew there was nothing more important than a young man's devotion to him, but the things he felt troubled him, the surges awakened--quite unintentionally--by a stoic faith which had wrapped its martyr in sex. One thing he did know was that his classmates would call him a fag if they knew he wanted to sneak a look at God's privates. So George kept his mouth shut about his desire for Jesus, would never tell anyone.