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Lust and Lies: Confessions of a Recovering Catho-holic
By Jacques s Fleury
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
A story about my experiences in the Catholic Church, overcoming their hypocrisy to find God in the midst of their debris.
Lust and Lies: Confessions of a Recovering Catho-holic
By Jacques Fleury: The Haitian firefly
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been one hour since my last confession.” The preceding statement was my mantra for the thirteen years I spent enduring the fear, shame, guilt, secrecy, brutality and hypocrisy in “Frere Andre” (Brother Andre) an exclusive Catholic school in Haiti, where they used to beat God into us to “save” us from our “sinful” selves!
Actually it’s quite an interesting story. My father was afraid for me, for my soul. He knew that as young boys reached puberty, they tended to have…(and I say this with a whisper) a sinful desire to experiment with their –err--elongating sexualities. So he enrolled me in a rigid all-boy Catholic school to keep me holy. Boy was that a mistake!
The inception of my rebellion began ironically in Catholic school. It was there that I learned the detriment of labels that were attributed to us like “no good”, “devil’s spawn” and “sinners.” The Brothers and Priests never bothered to tell us that they were sinners too. I believe that it would have made things easier for us, to know that we were not alone. I eventually succumbed to this un-holy maelstrom of fear, guilt and shame, particularly in relation to sex. We were perpetually told that we would be stricken with the wrath of God for sins we had yet to commit. We didn’t even know what sin was! We endured daily castigations for simply being imperfect beings, as if that in it self was a Sin that we had to beg forgiveness for and they, being so holier than thou, did not!
Since we were told that we were no good anyways, we logically fell into a bottomless well of sexual ecstasy through experimentation, even though we knew that God was probably shaking his head and waving his disapproving finger at us.
Some of the “sins” we were committing in retrospect were quite amusing. We used to play a game called “L’inspecteur Des Pigeons” (The Pigeon Inspector.) In the early morning when our youthful loins were swinging happily in our tight little pants like a disobedient fire horse, we devised this secret ritual to satisfy our tension-induced curiosities. Basically we were appraising the size of our instrument of “sin.” We decided that the boy with the biggest—err-- “pigeon” would be the inspector. And if another boy out grew him, then he would be the new inspector. After the inspection, the chosen one, the one with the biggest “pigeon”, would then get a private re-inspection in the boys’ bathroom. Meanwhile, the rest of us would look through the keyhole watching the chosen one’s bushy “pigeon” gets blown down to oblivion by the “inspector”, and gasp when it eventually reached a Shakespearian crescendo then deflating to a creamy ending!
Of course occasionally we would get caught. The Brother would apprehend the “sinner”, have him lie across his throbbing lap and pound his taut boyish butt with his ruler. In the midst of all this, the boy would screech while the Brother growled, as hot sweat streamed down his face, which bore a reluctant grimace to mask his sick shameful satisfaction amidst all this calamity and malediction. Sometimes he abandoned the ruler and used his bare hands. I was called to the board more than once and the Brother lingered on my buttocks just a bit longer than I thought was necessary as he proceeded to spank me. I saw this happen with the other boys, particularly the younger ones. I did not understand why I felt uncomfortable after this sacrament perpetrated by those whom were meant to protect us, not get-off on us! But today, I do. After all this humiliation, the one thing he couldn’t hide was his erection. I hated being the victim of this hedonistic ritual.
School was not the only place where we explored our burgeoning sexualities. I lived with my mom and her sisters in a spacious house with plenty of room to sin in. It was there that I took my sexual experimentation to a deeper level. My boy cousins and me fooled around with the young maids and each other. Particularly during black outs! In Haiti, messing with the maids is considered rites of passage; in America it would be child abuse. All the bible-thumping adults who condemned us when they caught us and preached no sex before marriage were banging before their own weddings. Sex was never talked about. My own mother told me that when she asked her mother where babies come from, grandma told her that they came from the mouth!
We were constantly told that we were children of the dark; devil’s spawn they called us. I was called a sinner before I even knew what sin was. The guilt and shame were constantly eroding my soul. I thought that God could never love a sinner like me. When the Catholic molestation scandal broke out, it was such a relief to hear that I was not alone. I was not the only one who was touched inappropriately, like when the Brother fondled my buttocks. It was liberating to learn that the Priests who infiltrated our budding psyches with negativity by constantly reminding us that we were sinners, which then caused us to feel unworthy of God’s love, were sinners themselves. I then found the courage to say to hell with the secrets and lies, to hell with the Catholic spell! I no longer feel lower then the bottom of a bottomless well! I really tried to be “The Best Little Catholic Boy in the World”, but essentially I fell off the good boy wagon and right into a tumult of sexual exploits, often squirting my guilt with rabbit speed all over the face of Catholic hypocrisy.
Today I know that sex is a healthy thing. Today, I have chosen to discriminate in most sexual situations and at least attempt to make informed decisions. Today I exercise more control over my sex, over this mighty tree, rooted in sexual repression that threatens to pop the buttons on my boxers. More importantly, I have also made my peace with my past in the Catholic Church. After re-visiting the church scene, I’ve concluded that God is not in a building; he/she is in my heart. I have been brought back to God and have accepted him/her in my life not out of fear, but out of love.
Nowadays, because of theatrical productions like “The Vagina Monologues” and more recently “The Penis Responds”, sex is being dragged from under the covers of shame and guilt, and erections are exposed for discussion and much more--just remember, with this new found sexual liberation comes responsibility. So exercise wisdom and caution when deciding who gets to play with your sanctity. And to my fellow “Catho-holics,” I say slip away from the scourge of fear, shame, guilt and criticism. Free yourself from your toughest critic—yourself—and let the good times roll!
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|Reviewed by Walt Hardester
|I enjoyed this story......
glad to hear you let go
Ah.. sanctimonious perverts....the worst kind