My first time was with a boy named Justin.
Justin and I dated during my final semester of high school. We were the openly-queer couple in the rural-conservative school. For the most part, we kept our relationship a secret, but we were so deep in puppy love that if anyone had seen us alone, they would think we would be together forever.
After a few months of dating (and making out, groping, and everything but), Justin and I decided that we wanted to take our relationship to the next level: we wanted to be each other’s first.
Justin and I were both raised by Catholic parents who would have appreciated us waiting until marriage, but considering the fact that we were both going to Hell for being with each other anyway, we decided to give in to our lesser desires.
We arranged the encounter: One day, after school, I would drive Justin to my house because my mother and father would not be home from work for another three hours. Justin would tell his mom that he had a meeting after school and that she had to pick him up at four. This would give us time to do the deed and for me to drive him back to school before either of our parents could find anything out.
After the bell rang, we hopped in my truck, anxious to get to it all.
We arrived at my house, checked to make sure that no one was home, went to my room, plopped down on the bed, kissed passionately, and did what we set out to do (although, I must admit, two teenage boys with over-zealous hormones usually have no idea what they are doing, but the sentiment was what counted for us).
After we were done, we lied in my bed in each other’s arms. I had never felt more connected to another human being in my life. I had found the person to whom I wanted to make love to—we did, and a beautiful moment was born.
Still in afterglow, we lied in silence, occasionally kissing each other and rubbing our hands over each other’s bodies. I looked across my bedroom, and a gleam caught my eye.
I focused in on it, and saw that the gleam came from the rosary that my godparents gave me for my first Communion—my mother ensured that I hung it from my wall to keep the Evil Spirits away.
I saw the little Jesus, nailed to the Cross, His face in the deepest agony.
I thought about the little Jesus, looking at Justin and I from across the room. I realized that He had seen what Justin and I had just done.
I thought about our Catholic parents.
I thought about Leviticus 18:22.
I thought about the little Jesus again, thinking what he thought of what he just saw.
I began to laugh hysterically.