Showering with Portuguese boys at a church conference in Switzerland

 

When I was sixteen years old, I was selected to join 500 Nazarene teenagers from around the world in Fiesch, Switzerland for our World Youth Conference

It was like Nazarene summer camp, with daily sermons, Bible studies, jump quizzes, and seminars on soul-winning, except we had afternoons and one full day off for field trips and sightseeing  We could go out on our own, but:
1. Don't talk to the locals.
2. Don't set foot in any Catholic church.
3. Be back by 7:00.

But every good Nazarene knows how to bend the rules.

"I'm sure the rules don't apply if we're going to save souls," my friend Annette, a delegate from Idaho, exclaimed.  "We're in a country full of Catholic and Reformed Church sinners.  Wouldn't it be great if we could plant the seeds of a mighty revival and win Switzerland for the Lord?"

Overbrimming with the "Faith in God can move a mighty mountain" and "If you ask anything in My Name, that will I do" mantras,  we decided to go soulwinning in the Belly of the Beast, the most evil, depraved site imaginable, a Catholic church!

But not in Fiesch -- we figured that would be well-traveled territory.  On our free day, we packed several copies of the Gute Nachricht Bibel, a English-German phrase book, some snacks, and a change of clothes, and took the train 2 hours south to Zermatt a famous tourist town at the base of the Matterhorn. Our guidebook led us to the St. Mauritius Church, which dates from 1285.  We marched inside to bring the Gospel to the idolators.

It was a Thursday morning at 10:00 am.  It was empty.

Disappointed, we stood around outside, waiting for a Catholic to come by so we could start a soul-winning conversation.

Soon two cute black-haired teenagers came by, wearing backpacks.  One was tall and slim, the other more compact and muscular, but they looked so alike that they must have been brothers.

Well, cute boys are as good as Catholics.  Annette, who had taken first year German, started the ball rolling: "Entschuldigen, aber sie hören,die gut Nachricht dein Jesus Christ?"  (A bad attempt to say "Have you heard the Good News of Jesus Christ?".)

They stopped, grinning, and consulted in a language I didn't understand.  "Keine Deutsch," the taller one said.

"English?" I asked.  "Francais?"

"Oh, Americanos!" the short, compact one exclaimed.  "Michael Jackson. Beat it...beat it...beat it..."  He gyrated his hips

They were 17-year old Joao (the tall one) and 15-year old Lucio (the compact, muscular one).  But we didn't get much more from their effusive conversation in their unknown language. Later I discovered that it was Portuguese -- I was taking advanced Spanish, but I didn't understand more than a word here and there.

We ended up strolling down Schluhmattstrasse with them, Annette and Joao in the front, me and a grinning Lucio  in the rear.

Lucio kept grinning at me and talking nonstop in incomprehensible Portuguese, interspliced with fragmentary English: ("You Chicago?  Al Capone big gun, yes?").

It was great fun getting so much attention from a cute guy with a compact, muscular frame.  I wouldn't figure "it" out for another year, but still, I kept wondering what he looked like naked.  Was he cut or uncut?  Was he hung?

Somehow we ended up waiting 20 minutes to get on a gondola weaving its way up the mountainside.

A gondola is a small car suspended by a cable as it sways 1000 feet above the ground.

I was terrified!  I clung to Lucio, who wrapped a muscular arm around me and grinned.  I felt his hard chest beneath my hand, smelled his cologne, and couldn't help fondling a bit.  He hugged me tighter.  "No afraid, yes?  I....I...uh...save."

But we had only reached Furi, the first cable car station.  There were three more to reach the top!  No way!  Instead we stopped at a restaurant for fried eggs, sausage, a kind of hard cheese, and hot chocolate, and conversation about "Rambo!  He very muscle, yes?  You like?"

Annette tried to explain that as Christians, we didn't go to movies, but they didn't understand.

Then there was nothing to do but ski down, walk down, or take the gondola.  In the flat Midwest, we don't learn to ski, and there was no way I was getting on that gondola again!

More Nazarene Youth Conference after the break

So we walked down the mountain on a steep, scary trail, again in pairs, with Joao and Annette taking the front, intermittently holding hands.

"We take hand too, yes?" Lucio asked.  "Walk better."  I couldn't see how holding hands helped you walk better, but ok, I was fine with holding hands with a hot, muscular guy who kept grinning at me.

Even in the cold mountain air, it was hot, sweaty work.  By the time we got down to Zermatt again, we were soaked.

"Come to hotel, wash," Joao suggested.

It was actually a youth hostel with communal showers. Annette went off by herself to the girls' shower room, and Joao, Lucio, and I stripped and went to the boys'.

I saw them both naked!  Both uncut, Joao rather big, Lucio averaged sized.

Lucio noticed me looking.  "In my country we big!"

Joao slapped him on the butt and said something in their language.  I felt myself beginning to get aroused.  "Yes, very nice," I said, quickly finishing up and going for a towel.

We dressed, exchanged addresses -- they were from Portugal after all -- and tried to say goodbye with handshakes.

"No way Jose," Lucio exclaimed.  "In my country we...um...kiss."  He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks. Annette got a full-on-mouth kiss from Joao.

On the way back to Fiesch on the train, Annette said "Well, we didn't save their souls, but we planted the seeds.  We witnessed by example."

"And you got a date," I pointed out.

"Yeah, that was definitely a plus.  Sorry you were stuck with Joao's kid brother instead of a girl."

"Oh well, that's the breaks," I said with a grin

I'm still not sure whether the hugging, hand-holding, and kiss on the cheeks signified mere Portuguese friendliness, or whether I actually did have a date with a boy named Lucio on that long-ago afternoon on the Matterhorn.

Left: I thought this story was a little beefcake-light, so I added a contemporary guy from Braga.

  

And a soldier from Lisbon.  

See also: The Preacher pops  a boner

Eight more hot/hung guys from Portugal