Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I was surprised as we moved into Georgetown and Christophe told me what bar he was looking for. But I didn't know how to tell him about the bar and why Christophe might not want to go there after all. So, in my weakness and cowardice I said nothing and led Christophe into the bar, which was just down the street from the clinic and homeless shelter where I did volunteer work.

Still, when the bartender hailed me with a "Hi, Father Redmond. Haven't seen you around for a while," I felt his cheeks begin to burn and ready to shrivel up into a ball. I hastily ushered Christophe to a table near the back. It's true I hadn't been in here for more than a month. I only came in here when I was looking for someone who hadn't made his appointment for counseling at the clinic and I could be fairly certain the man would be in here.

"What made you pick this bar?" I asked as we settled at a downstairs table at The Fireplace on P Street.

"Monsignor Baum told me you volunteered time at a clinic in this neighborhood. I had hoped that your showing me around would include that—maybe it would be something I could help with too. I studied to be a doctor before entering the priesthood. I have a nursing degree. From the States even—Colombia in New York."

"Ah, I wondered by your English was impeccable," I said. "Did the monsignor tell you what sort of clinic it is?"

"Yes, of course," Christophe answered. "Does it embarrass you for it to be known that you work with gay men?"

"No, I suppose not. They need the support and succor of the church as anyone else," I answered. Did Christophe know, though, that the bar he had sought out was also gay friendly? I could have told that by looking around at who was in here. But Christophe wasn't looking around much. He was devoting his attention to me—almost to an embarrassing degree.

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that," he said, as he looked up and smiled at the bartender who had brought mugs of beer over to them. The bartender grinned back, which made me cringe a bit. Donny, the barman, was obviously gay and on the make. And we obviously were on friendly terms. Even the priests collars wasn't seen as a barrier to him if the man looked macho. And Christophe quite definitely looked macho. "I'm relieved to hear that because I don't want there to be any discomfort between us," Christophe said as he turned his attention back to me.

"Discomfort?" I asked, taking a big swig of my beer, setting up a barrier between me and any serious conversation with this man who was driving me wild in an arena that I was fighting mightily to stay out of.

"Yes, I want to fit in here at the university—and I want to fit in with you, in particular."

"Oh, well," I said, at a loss for words. I took another gulp of my beer. But I knew this wasn't a good idea either. It wouldn't be good to lose control to the booze. I'd let that happen before, with tragic results—although it certainly didn't seem that way as long as that ride lasted. I looked up into Christophe's face. He was taking a long draw on his beer too, but his eyes were boring into me from above the rim of the mug.

"Yes, I'm heartened that you work with the gays of the community and accept them. Acceptance is important with me—especially when it has to live in a world of secret where it suppresses and puts a man in isolation. I understand you are a counselor at this clinic of yours. You must counsel men who have this problem."

"Yes, of course," I answered. I feared that the response sounded strained. I could hardly breathe.

"And what do you counsel these men to do, Mark? Do you tell them not to have the urges and preferences they have?"

"No, of course not."

"Do you tell them they must withdraw into themselves and try to deny their feelings and desires even to themselves?"

"No. I tell them . . ." I couldn't say it.

"You tell them to try to find someone special . . . someone they can be comfortable with, can fit in with, don't you?"

"Yes." It came out in a whisper. How did he know so precisely what I told them? And, no, what he was saying—through what I myself counseled men in the same position I was in—wasn't lost on me.

"Look at me, Mark."

I looked up into Christophe's eyes. Christophe reached across the table and took my hand and held it in his. Panicked and trapped, I looked around the bar, but everyone else was absorbed in someone else. Everyone here was here with someone. Even Donny, the bartender, was engrossed in an intimate conversation with a big bruiser at the bar.

"It's hard for a Jesuit priest," Christophe said. "It's hard for a Jesuit priest to be gay and to exist within the church—to do what he knows what his purpose is in being a priest without being able to fully and openly be himself . . . true to himself. We are lucky, you and I, that we are in an order that takes a very forgiving and supportive view of all of this."

"You don't . . . you just don't . . ." Again I couldn't say it; couldn't bring myself out of the depths.

"Yes, I do know it, Mark. I'm gay. I'm a gay Jesuit priest. But I worked my way through it and came to a reconciliation of who I am—and what I do in the church. I was like you at the beginning, in the seminary. No, don't pull away from me. You are gay too. We both know it. And we both know that you are attracted to me as I am attracted to you. I'm a dominant and you are a submissive. We are a fit. I can help you become reconciled to what you must do to maneuver in the church and still be comforted and you can make my time in Georgetown complete."

"I . . . I can't."

"Yes you can. You are drowning here. I am offering you a lifeline."

Of course I knew it. If I hadn't realized it before, I knew it in the showers in the Ginsburg Sports Center the way Christophe was with his body—the gold ball pierced in his cock glans. The brush of his hand on my back in passing me in the locker room. I knew overtures from one man to another when I experienced them. And I had experienced them before—and given into them as well. The mutual attraction had been obvious too. But, it was wrong. The church wouldn't condone it—even though neither of us had a parish; we were both academics. There could be no harm done to anyone's souls other than our own.

"I have vows. Monsignor Baum is strict and knows everything that—"

"Yes, Monsignor Baum knows everything," Christophe said. "He's the one who sent for me. He's the one who brought me to reconciliation when I was in seminary in New York. He's the one who will comfort and guide you when I'm gone—if you let him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I didn't answer "yes," but he didn't answer "no" either. The revelation hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't just admiration I felt for the monsignor. It was something deeper. And now the instances flew through my mind of when he had been signaling that as well.

"Do you live alone, Mark?"

"I'm a resident counselor at the Gewirz Student Center, across from the law school. It's mainly for law students, but single faculty members have rooms there and provide counsel to the students."

"Do you have an apartment there—just for you alone?"

"Yes. It's an efficiency, though. Just a room and a bathroom and a kitchenette."

"But you live alone there?"

"Yes."

"Drink up your beer, Mark . . . and take me to this room of yours."