The Preacher Pops a Boner

 

Kankakee, Illinois

When I was growing up in the Nazarene Church, we spent a lot of time at Olivet, our college on the prairie of eastern Illinois.  The church wanted to make sure that we went there after high school instead of some secular university where we would be taught liberalism, atheism, and evil-lution.

So there were ball games and special concerts  for high school students, plus an annual Olivet Weekend, with a party, a nature hike, a church service, classroom visits, a lot of "come to Olivet" sales pitches, and a night in a college dorm.

It was actually sleeping bags on the floor of the lounge in the freshman men's dorm, but still, I was surrounded by cute college men!

When I was in ninth grade, our host was David, a senior religion major (and baseball player) who told us how he was hoping to be called to a church near his home town, and his girlfriend Ruth, who mostly bragged about how she had scored the "handsomest guy on campus."

Only about half of the boys on campus wanted to become preachers, but almost all of the girls wanted to become preacher's wives, leading to some hefty competition.

On the Saturday night of our visit, David took us to a basketball game, and then to the Student Union for hamburgers.

The Red Room, Olivet's student restaurant, was packed with other kids and their escorts, so he took us to a nearby lounge: six couches and about a dozen chairs, most full, but one empty right next to the monitor's desk.  It looked into a little alcove with a yellow couch, where two college couples were kissing.

"Hey, what's that -- a kissing booth?" I asked.

"Kissing corner!"  David said with a grin.  "The only couch the monitor can't see.  Boy, I've had some good times there!"

He told us that at Olivet, boy-girl relations were strictly regulated.  You couldn't set foot in each other's dorm rooms, and in common areas, kissing was  forbidden.  They had monitors watching all the lounges, but that couch was hidden from the monitor's view, and so very popular.

"You have to take a number to get it," David said.  "But once you're there, you can do what you want.  Anyway, I'm going to park you guys here, so we don't lose our place.  Back in a while with our burgers.

We sat down facing the kissing couples.  Kissing girls -- gross!  But I was interested in one of the guys -- cute, dark haired, broad shoulders, handsome preacher's face.  He leaned toward his girlfriend, put his arm around her, and they started kissing.

He had a sizeable bulge in his pants.

And he began to rise.

And rise.

And rise.

More rising after the break

I learn about gay sex in the church parking lot

 

When I was a kid, our Nazarene church had only one preacher, whose main job was screaming and banging the pulpit for an hour three times a week (researching and writing sermons is more time-consuming than you may think).  

But when I was in ninth grade, we got a Youth Minister, in charge of kid and teen activities like Junior Joys, Nazarene Young People's Society, the Afterglow (a party after the Sunday evening service), and Canvassing (going door to door to witness).

The Preacher might be elderly, but the Youth Minister had to be young, cool, and attractive enough to keep kids interested.  Ours was Brother Bob, fresh out of Olivet, in his early 20s, tall, with enormously broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and gigantic hands.

Unfortunately, I never saw him shirtless -- he always wore a suit and tie, the Nazarene equivalent of a clerical collar.  But when I went down to the altar to get saved or sanctified, he came down and wrapped his huge hard arm around me, and I could feel his hard barrel chest against my back.

You could hardly miss the gigantic Mortadella+ swinging around in his pants every time he moved. Particularly in NYPS, when we were kneeling to pray, and he walked from person to person to see if we needed help: his crotch was exactly at eye level.  And at least once, when he hugged me after altar call, I felt it press against me like a salami stuffed in his pants.

One Sunday night at the beginning of tenth grade, I walked out into the parking lot during altar call to escape from the frenetic shouting, and saw Terry and Dave, twelfth grade best buddies, talking in the shadowy area by the church bus.

Dave was a member of church royalty, with perfectly cut black hair, perfect teeth, and an athletic physique.  
Terry was slim, with dirty-blond hair almost too shaggy to meet Nazarene standards, an aspiring Gospel singer from an unsaved family.  He backslid every few weeks and had to go down to the altar again.

I didn't usually associate with twelfth graders -- the three year age gap seemed unbreachable.  But I had to say "hello," or they might think I was spying on them.

"Ten inches, easy!" Dave was saying.  "Brother Bob's is bigger than Brother Dino's by a long shot.  No way it's happening!"

"I'm telling you, she's got nothing to worry about," Terry countered.

They were discussing a man's dick!  "Have you guys really seen Brother Bob down there?" I asked.

"I have!" Dave said. "Just before NYPS tonight -- he was at the urinal next to me in the bathroom. Man, that guy's a giant!  Bigger than Brother Dino!  Sister Cindy could never take all that -- it would break her in half."

Like all preachers, Brother Bob was married -- to Sister Cindy, very short, slim,  petite. His hand could almost fit around her waist.  They were like Fred and Wilma Flintstone.

"Oh, and you think going down on it will work better?" Terry asked.  "The mouth is smaller than the [vagina], wise guy!"

Go down on it? 

"I'm hung like a horse," Dave said. "Girls are always saying 'oh, it's too big, it hurts'!  But they go down on it with no problem at all."

"Let's let the kid decide."  Terry turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder.  "Say you were a lady, and your guy had extra-extra-extra large equipment."

I imagined Brother Bob, naked, his muscles damp with sweat, his enormous uncut Mortadella aroused and waiting.

More after the break

Cousin George: "Only fools wear pajamas"

I'm starting a new series of autobiographical stories with a Gemstone connection, mostly South Carolina or megachurch-related.  First up: Cousin George:

 
My Cousin George, son of my father's older brother, was just my age, tall and blond, with a hard chest, a thin belly, and a Southern drawl.  He lived in Walterboro, South Carolina, about 50 miles from Charleston but a thousand miles from Rock Island, so we visited only a few times during my chiildhood.  Usually my Grandma Davis took me down on the train.

What I remember most about my visits: the sizzling heat, the humidity, and the beefcake.  No one in South Carolina owned a shirt. I had never seen so many  muscular bodies.

And the racial diversity: Cousin George had friends who were Native American and Chinese, and even black (I never saw anyone black in heavily-segregated Rock Island).

We went fishing and crabbing, and  Cousin George warned me to avoid the "dead man's fingers" inside the crab shells that would turn you into "a goon."

We went swimming in the warm salty Atlantic Ocean.

At night Cousin George and I took our baths together together in scalding-hot water, and then slept naked together under thin sheets -- "only fools wear pajamas," he insisted.

When I was 13, Grandma Davis got sick, and the train-visits stopped.  We didn't stay in contact.  Occasionally my father would tell me something about his three older sisters, but he never mentioned Cousin George.  Apparently my uncle never mentioned him. Was he dead, or disinherited, or a disappointment?