Boys in Church

Sunday, I meet up with my boy, Stephen, at church, because it is a designated activity on Sunday, which is a school night, as mum says. We sit in the back row and pray, pretend to pray, go through the motions, you know, like nearly everyone else. 

We both turned 18 on the same day, we're the same age. We think it gives us something special, a bond, a natural coupling, I guess you might call it. Maybe.

We sit up the back so we can put our knees up on the back of the seat in front, because we like to sit that way, because it feels a bit naughty, rebellious even. Yeah, I know, two eighteen year old boys rebelling by being in church.

The women who come in in twin sets, with husbands in brown, give us disapproving looks, they kind of his in a whisper, but then then sit up the front far enough away from us to not bother us again.

Stephen and my little fingers touch on the seat between us, and we give each other sideways look of approval, as we pull our hands away. 

We both smile, kind of coy and then slide our hands back together when we think neither of us are looking, and hold hands, just one hand sliding over the other. I think it feels nice. Stephen’s is the only boy’s hand I have held.

The show gets under way. The bloke in the dress comes out and starts talking. 

Blessings are done.

Songs are sung. Stephen and I sing out.

Then the bloke in a dress starts talking long and boring.

After that, I sneak a quick kiss on Stephen’s cheek. And when I got to sneak a second, he turns to face me and our lips meet for the first time, the first of many kisses Stephen and I would sneak with each other.

I'm crazy about my boy. All that blond hair. And that smile.

We hold hands and listen to the priest, laughing at what he has to say.

“Blah, blah, blah,” I turn to Stephen and say.

"Do you think many people believe this crap now," he asks.

"Nah, it's just habit now for most of them, like biting their nails, or smoking," I say.

“Do you think any of them live their lives by it?”

“It?” I question.

“The word of god, dummy.”

“Nah. They just say they do on Sundays, to get in good with the priest, so they can get their kids and grand kids christened, or baptised, or whatever it is they want done to them, then the rest of the week they just do whatever feels good.”

“But why do they do that?”

“Dunno. A two way bet, I guess. Just in case all this crap is true, all the time really knowing it isn’t.”

We both smile.