Robert's Revelations Chapter 8
Robert's Revelations
This story is set in rural England in 1982. It is, obviously, written in British English with British words and spellings. The cultural references are also from that time and place so I hope that references to cars, TV shows or music won't spoil the story for those who don't know them. Follow the links provided for more information or just ignore them. (And yes, I know you can use a search engine just as well as I can. The links are for convenience, not to insult anyone.)
As always, this is fiction and any resemblance to real people is coincidental. In some chapters controversial opinions will be expressed. Please remember they are the characters' opinions, not the author's. Some are opinions I profoundly disagree with but I've tried to state them fairly, not parody them.
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Chapter Eight – Didactic Surprises
Note: This chapter contains a church sermon that I wrote. And of course, I did write it, but it might be more accurate to say that I synthesised it from a variety of sources, most of which I'm not going to name as I don't want to risk being the reason they get hate mail. C.S. Lewis was a Christian academic writing mostly in the forties and fifties who was way ahead of his time on this issue. In my view this sermon best represents the mainstream Christian position (not all Christians, there are exceptions on both sides) and the 'God hates fags' brigade have very little understanding of their own religion. Various perspectives on this will be presented by different characters, please don't assume any of them are what the author “really” thinks. This is a fiction story, I'm not interested in writing propaganda. The “confused Christian gay boy bullied by 'bigoted' (check your premises) elders” is a valid reflection of a lot of people's experience, unfortunately, but it's a bit of a cliché and I wanted to do something a bit different.
I woke in the morning feeling tired and dopey. At least I hadn't had any more weird dreams, not that I could remember anyway. I went downstairs for breakfast, still thinking about that dream. 'Billy Porter' had said “You don't want it yet. Not properly. But you will” but 'Billy Porter' didn't exist, he was a product of my own sub-conscious mind. What was I trying to tell myself?
“Robert! What's wrong with you? You're living in a dream world lately!” Mum sounded irritated for some reason. Then I realised I was about to put the cereal box under the sink with the washing powder. I tried to pull myself together.
“Sorry, Mum. A dream world of 'o' levels, and failing them.” (A handy excuse but not really a lie – I was nervous about my exams, I told myself guiltily.) I moped about, unable to settle to anything, until it was time for church.
We had a nice relaxing walk to the church and settled into the familiar ritual, not quite so familiar this time as the vicar was 'indisposed' whatever that meant and the service was being conducted by the relatively recently appointed curate. And then we got to the sermon, often bland and boring. But not this time. Boy, did he get everybody’s attention.
“My text for today is Matthew, Chapter Seven, Verse One: 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' What does this mean? Well He goes on to say 'For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?'
“What Jesus is condemning here is not judgement per se but spite and hypocrisy. After last Sunday's service I happened to have occasion to visit the Royal Oak on Church business when I was saddened to notice a few congregants in the lounge bar making what I consider to be highly unchristian comments about Jeremy Thorpe who, may I remind you, was found not guilty. They judged, and now I'm sure they would prefer that they be not judged, at least those who are here this morning, but they needn't fear. Unlike Mister Thorpe they will not be publicly named and shamed.
“In truth I had not intended to address such a controversial topic today but I woke suddenly in the early hours of this morning with an inexplicable but unshakeable conviction that there will be someone here today who desperately needs to hear this message, and I don't mean the errant bar flies. In the absence of any other credible explanation I have to believe this is providence.
“Because the object of these congregants' scorn was not that Mister Thorpe is alleged to have solicited murder, or even caused the death of a wholly innocent pet dog. No, it was the man's sexual proclivities that were beyond the pale, it seems. It reminded me of C.S. Lewis's famous comment about those who consider the one unpardonable sin to be the one they personally are not tempted to commit. A remarkably convenient view!
“I wonder if perhaps there may be some young person who is here today, or perhaps may hear about this from a friend or relative, who may be struggling to understand why they are afflicted with uniquely evil desires. I want to say to that person: You are not! We are all sinners and we all have our cross to bear.
“Now don't get me wrong. I'm not here to defend the 'Sin of Sodom' if indeed that was Sodom's sin, rape and xenophobia seem more likely candidates. There are Christians who have been defending it since at least the so-called homophile movement of the 1950s, and they have some good arguments but I disagree with them. There have even been churches openly catering primarily for homosexuals for over a decade now, the first started in 1968. As one of their leaders said 'you cannot be held morally accountable for a condition you did not freely choose.' That's right but it misses the point.
“It might surprise some of you to learn that it was the Church of England, in co-operation with the 'homophile' movements of the sixties, that led the way to Britain legalising homosexuality back in 1967. But just because something is legal that doesn't mean it is right, then or now.”
He spent the next several minutes analysing biblical verses to 'prove' that sex is legitimate only between a man and woman who are married to each other and everything else is sinful “and it makes no difference who you sin with, nor does their sex” but one should aspire to “love thy neighbour” equally regardless of their particular sins because “as I said, we are all sinners, and God does not discriminate. A gay person can be as good a Christian as any heterosexual single person, but they both are called to celibacy. And bigotry is always unchristian.
“If I may I'll finish with another favourite C.S. Lewis quote that I hope may give you pause for thought. This one comes from 'Mere Christianity' which is, of course, a collection of what were originally radio talks given during the war. As Mr Lewis puts it: 'a cold, self-righteous prig who goes regularly to church may be far nearer to hell than a prostitute. But, of course, it is better to be neither.' You surely know that not all prostitutes are female.
“And now,” he said to his stunned and shell-shocked audience, “let us pray.”
I wanted to applaud, but restrained myself. Anyone who gives the stuffed shirts of our village a message like that is my kind of preacher. I couldn't allow myself to visualise their faces; it would have been impossible not to laugh. And I was intrigued and excited at learning there are Christians who don't think it's wrong and “they have some good arguments” and even their own churches. I wanted to know more. For the sake of my friends, who don't deserve to be objects of scorn and ridicule, I qualified hastily.
Outside, after the service, the main topic of conversation was the extraordinary sermon, once some furtive looking around had established that its author was not in earshot. The consensus was that the parishioners had been grievously insulted.
Mr Bigelow, chairman of the Parish Council and stuffed shirt extraordinaire, was outraged. “Outrageous!” he declared. “Not liking queers makes us worse than the queers does it? Worse than prostitutes? Even male ones? I'll have a word with the vicar when I see him. This new boy won't last long around here with an attitude like that!”
Christianity in church? I thought sarcastically. We certainly can't have that! I knew it was futile to argue but I couldn't resist trying. “He didn't say that though, did he? He said thinking in those terms is sinful, everyone has their faults and nobody is intrinsically worse, or better, than anyone else.”
Everyone stared, and Mum radiated embarrassment and disapproval. Mr Bigelow turned to us. “Well, Mrs Symes, it seems that your son agrees with our new curate. It would behoove a boy his age to show a little respect for his elders and not answer back. He does not have the experience to know what those creatures he defends are really like.”
Stuffed shirt or what! But Mum took his side. “I'm sorry Mr Bigelow, I don't know what's got into him lately. Robert, apologise!”
I was so tempted to ask Mr Bigelow to tell us about his, clearly extensive, experience with rent boys, but I was in enough trouble already. And anyway, most likely his 'experience' amounted only to spiteful gossip about someone a bit effeminate. “Sorry, sir” I muttered, knowing that the 'sir' would mollify him.
It did. “Not to worry, lad. It's forgotten. Just be more careful next time.”
“Well I promised I'd go and visit Mrs Castle while I'm here” said Mum. “Do you think you can find your own way home without insulting anyone else?”
Oh for.... no just let it go, Rob, you'll only make it worse, I thought. You can't talk to Mum when she's in this mood. Plus it's a good opportunity to go and talk to Reverend Peters (the curate) while it's still fresh in both our minds. “Yes, I think I can probably manage that” I said drily. “See you later.”
I waited until Mum was out of sight and then went back into the church, where the Reverend was tidying up. “Reverend Peters? Can I give you a hand with that?” I helped by collecting up the hymn books and putting them away while he did other things. Then we talked.
I asked what time he'd woken with the feeling he should preach that sermon. He didn't know, hadn't looked, but agreed that around three was plausible. I told him that's when I'd woken, confused by my weird dream. “Perhaps it was then” he mused. “I certainly felt guided by providence. Was your dream about that subject?”
“Well yes, it was” I admitted, feeling embarrassed. “But I didn't do anything.” That felt dishonest. “I mean.... I was going to.... but then everything changed and a policeman was beating the person I was going to do it with but it wasn't a real policeman or a real person any more, they were Punch and Judy puppets in a show. That doesn't make any sense does it?”
“Dreams often don't. But perhaps we can make sense of them if we try. You felt that you wanted to do something but the policeman intervened and stopped it. Could the policeman be your conscience, and the other puppet represent your desire? Your conscience wants to beat the desire because it is wrong? I can't say that for sure, no-one can, but it's something you might think about. But why now? Is this a new thing? Has something happened recently? Something that goes against your religion?”
“I'm not sure that I have a religion. I'm kind of agnostic these days if I'm honest. I kind of want to believe but there's too much that doesn't make sense sometimes.” I wasn't going to lie to a clergyman, in a church, but could be 'economical with the truth' as they say. He didn't need, probably didn't want, all the details about Friday. “I found out on Friday that two of my male friends are a couple, and I feel like I want what they have. I never thought about it before and now I can't stop. It seems natural. I keep trying to tell myself it's wrong but the more I do the less I believe it. Then I had that dream last night.
“But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You said there was something called Homo File and it has good arguments and even its own churches. How can I get in touch with them and find out what they say? Do you have an address you can give me? I'd like to at least hear both sides and make up my own mind.”
“No I can't really do that....” he began.
“Why? What are you afraid of?” I interrupted angrily. Then: “Sorry. Well, no, not really. It's a fair question.”
He looked at me for a second. “I suppose if I'm afraid of anything it's that someone will tell you what you so obviously want to hear and you will believe it because it's what you want to hear. But if you'll let me finish it's not a fair question because what I was about to say is there's not 'something called Homo File' so I can't give you its address. There was a movement collectively called 'homophile' (one word) in the fifties and sixties but it pretty much disbanded after the 1967 Act so unless you have a time machine..... And the churches I mentioned are all American, the first was in California, so it might be a bit far to go.
“There are so-called 'gay rights' groups but they don't take much interest in religion I don't think. And there's something called the 'Gay Christian Movement' in London based in St. Botolph's Aldgate, I believe. I don't know much about it but I can probably find an address for you. And I can lend you a couple of journal articles about the theological debate. I want them back but you could have them photocopied I suppose.
“Sorry, that's the best I can do. And I can't do it today. Phone and make an appointment to see me in the week if you're interested. And please, if I do this favour for you, do one for me and make a second appointment and talk to me about your conclusions before you settle on them or else what are you afraid of? Oh, and what's your name just so I know? Don't worry, I'm not going to tell your parents about this.”
I felt a bit chastened for jumping to conclusions. “Thanks, that's kind of you” I said. “I'll phone after school tomorrow and make the appointment. And a second one to return your journals and talk. And I'm sorry I misunderstood and got snappy. And my name's Robert Symes. Thanks again and I'll see you soon.”
I left the church before I could embarrass myself any further and went home.
After lunch I was sitting around with nothing to do. My mind kept returning to David and Tony and the maelstrom of feelings and confusion they'd unleashed. I had no idea what religious convictions they had, if any, but I thought they might enjoy the story of certain pompous villagers being told they were less Christian than the average rent boy. Really I was just lonely and wanted someone I could talk to about what was on my mind. So I dug out the phone book and hoped he wasn't ex-directory.
There were two Porters listed in his village. 15 Maple Street and Newchurch House. It had to be the second so I dialled. “It's Robert Symes” I said when he answered. “Can we talk?”
“Hi, Rob. I'm glad you called. I was hoping you're not too freaked out about Friday, you couldn't get away quick enough yesterday morning. Do you want to talk on the phone or come over? It's still just the two of us here.” Ten minutes later I was on my bike.
David was concerned about my conflicted feelings and wanted to help but he really couldn't. It was something I had to work out for myself, we both knew that. “And I'm afraid I really can't help with the religious stuff. I refuse to believe in a 'loving' God that created me the way I am in order to torture me forever for being what he created in front of the people who love me and have done nothing to deserve having to watch that. It's too ridiculous for words. I can't really see any reason to believe in any sort of God so you're on your own there.” I wondered what Reverend Peters would have to say to that argument and resolved to find out.
Both my new friends loved the story of the sermon, David especially. It turned out he knew Mr Bigelow through his father, who did business with him, and both Porters considered the man a sanctimonious windbag. “Has experience with rent boys does he?” laughed Tony. “You should bat your eyelashes at him Rob, maybe you can earn a few quid!”
I couldn't help laughing at that, trying to imagine his face if I suggested it, but said “No thanks, mate. He's all yours if you want him. I'd rather go down a mine than go down on that!” We were all in fits at that.
“I've got an idea” said David, looking at me lasciviously. “Take your belt off.” I wondered where this was going, but did so. I was directed to lie on the floor and my hands were tied behind my back with my own belt. I was rolled over on my back and lay there looking up at them. “Do you know what a 'safe word' is? No? Well, today's safe word is Melbourne. If you say 'Melbourne' everything stops. Until then you're a helpless victim at my mercy, and everything that happens is on me, not you. And I'm cruel, dominant and merciless.”
Tony snorted. “When?”
“Well, I am today, with Robbie. He likes it.”
And I did like it, I had to admit, even if it did sound a bit of a cop out. Did I really have no responsibility for something I couldn't control but could stop at any time? Something else to think about. Later, much later. For now just accept it. This was exciting. Scary but exciting. Let him take control, and 'take the blame' as well. “What are you going to do?” I asked nervously.
“No Australian cities? Excellent! Good boy! Well, you enjoyed hearing about Stephen Lloyd, I could see that. So I thought you might like to be him. And you like seeing me as Billy Price don't you? I'm going to 'debag the poofter and see if he gets hard for the boys.' If you do I'm going to play with your toys, you can't stop me.”
I didn't want to! According to everything I knew I should want to but I didn't. And I'd already decided to let him take control, and responsibility; now I was a helpless bound victim awaiting my fate. Eagerly awaiting my fate, adrenaline surging, feeling scared but wishing he'd get on with it. “Please don't” I lied in a small voice.
I was treated once again to his feline smile. “Shut up, poofter. I'll do what I want. If you don't like it go ahead and stop me, if you can.” He knelt on the floor and started on my left shoe. Off it came, then the right. I couldn't help struggling to free my hands as he pulled my socks off but he'd done too good a job tying them. I was wearing my usual jeans and sweatshirt. He pushed the shirt halfway up my torso and I gasped as he teased my navel with a finger.
“Now it gets interesting” he remarked, popping open the button on my jeans. He pulled them open slowly with both hands, the zip opening by itself as he did so. “What have we here? Bright red y-fronts, colour co-ordinated with your face perhaps? At least it's not tighty-whities this time. Well don't be too embarrassed, you won't be wearing them long. He put his fingers in the waistband either side and pulled my trousers and underwear smoothly down my legs, over my feet and off and I lay there helpless and exposed in front of him and Tony.
After staring for a few seconds David assumed an air of disappointment. “Robbie seems a lot less enthusiastic than I'd hoped” he complained. “Perhaps there's not enough boys. Tony, why don't you go and see who's hanging around the Village Green and bring them back?”
“NO!!” I was horrified by the prospect of being seen in this state by whatever random kids Tony might find. I'd noticed quite a few there as I cycled past, both sexes, some quite young. At least, the rational part of me was horrified; the kinky part seemed to like it if the sudden rush of blood was any guide.
“That's better, this is what we like!” David said happily. “As you were, Tony, I've got my toys to play with and I'm not sharing with all the village kids.” He looked down. “And very nice toys they are too. I'm going to make them last.” I got that smile again. “Really make them last, like you taught me on Friday.”
Uh-oh! I remembered how much I'd enjoyed tormenting him on Friday. Was that really only two days ago? It felt much longer. That had been fun but I wasn't so sure I wanted to be on the receiving end. It seemed I wasn't getting a choice as he wrapped his hand around me and started slowly and gently masturbating me. This was just beginning and already I wanted him to grip harder and pump faster. I wondered just what I'd let myself in for.
Suddenly he stopped, leaned forward, and put me in his mouth. His lips closed (over his teeth, I learned later) and I was enclosed in warm wetness. He teased me with his tongue and then his head started to move and OH BOY! That was AMAZING! So much better than anything my right hand could do. I leant back to rest my head on the floor, closed my eyes and concentrated on the feeling as the pressure built towards......
Nothing? I opened my eyes and looked up. David smiled down at me, not touching me in any way. “Karma's a bitch isn't it? I'm thirsty, I think I might have a nice cup of tea before I do anything else.” His smile got wider as I literally squirmed on the floor. I couldn't stay still.
“No..... Please.....” I was almost incoherent, and desperately straining to free my hands. Now I knew what I'd done to him.
“What's the matter? Do you prefer coffee? I can make you a coffee if you'd like.” He squeezed me with a thumb and one finger, from bottom to top, forcing out a load of fluid, and smeared it around the head with one finger. “Or did you want something else? You know what to say if you do.” He knelt there just looking at me. “And don't think of trying to cheat. If you say that word everything stops. And you get dressed again. And you certainly can't masturbate in someone else's house that would be such bad form. And you won't be allowed to go to the bathroom alone, we don't trust you. I'll keep my word if you want but in your condition it's really not advisable.”
I had completely forgotten the 'safe word' by now. I wasn't best pleased to be reminded of it now. I still had a choice. Some choice! The 'safe word' was no longer safe. If I used it now I'd be in agony by the time I got home. “Shit! You bastard! You knew.... Okay, you win! Please make me come SIR, I'm begging you SIR, okay?”
He started stroking me gently with one finger. “Well, I don't know. You swear at me and call me names and then you want a favour? What do you think Tony? Should I give this rude boy what he wants?”
“I think you'd better” said Tony, trying to keep a straight face. “If you don't he looks like his balls might explode. There'd be blood everywhere. It'd be a real fag having to clean all that up.”
“I think you're right.” He took me in a firm grip and started pumping. It didn't take long for the pressure to build and build until I felt actual pain in my balls. And then I blew. Harder, longer, and more than I ever had before. I lay back with my eyes closed as I slowly got my breath back.
When I opened my eyes David was approaching me with the inevitable roll of kitchen paper. He cleaned the worst of the mess off my stomach, then told me to roll onto my side so he could release the belt. “You'll have to sponge your shirt down in the kitchen” he said apologetically. I looked down; it was a bit of a mess. I didn't care. I felt deeply contented. There was an ache in my balls but it was a happy, pleasant ache that felt really good somehow. I finished cleaning myself up and put my clothes back on.
And then we heard the car on the gravel drive outside.
Chapter 9 coming soon.