Dating a Muscle Boy—Part One

I had a life before suicide.

November 2003

It was snowing on our first date. We had not met in person, but for two weeks prior to our date we had chatted for several hours, online, courtesy of RomanceGayMan.com. His screen name is “FatherM,” mine is “Nooneknowsbutme.” That’s the way of internet dating. Strange screen names that somewhat reflect who we are, and puffed up “stats” (height, weight, measurements and more) that make you sound far sexier than the real thing. We had exchanged pictures by email, but you can’t trust the camera. I have met guys who described themselves as Rock Hudson, and even had pictures to prove it, but in person you see what they failed to mention: a big ass, a funny walk, a dull personality. You have to meet in public, to make sure the guy lives up to his profile and his promises.

I was so impressed by Marcus’ romance ad, that I have saved it and keep it to this day in my memorabilia box (along with my elementary school report cards, my first communion ribbon, and my first official gay porn magazine, the one with the very sexy hairy chested man promising to do things to you that you could never imagine could actually be done). Marcus’ advertisement (which he still has on the internet), reads as follows, verbatim:

"My posting of this ad comes right at a time when I am so much in need of intimacy. I have been wishing to meet another masculine and intelligent man, from anywhere, with whom to share my thoughts, my feelings, my soul. I am an ex-priest, and I loved my religious life and ministry. Anyone I date would have to respect my continuing devotion to God. At this point in my life, I have a need not so much for sex, although that would be fine — but more of the sense of belonging to someone, and the sense of someone belonging to me, in some strange sense. The Lord has lavished upon my life great blessings, and I still pray that I may meet a fellow soul out there who might wish to begin a deep friendship, even from across the miles, and see where it takes us."

* * *

By the email exchanges and long telephone conversations before our first date, I knew quite a bit about Marcus’ extraordinary background. He had been a faithful and devoted Catholic priest for about fifteen years. His parish was in Miami, Florida, where he carried favor with the Hispanic population. Marcus is tall, with piercing brown eyes, and shockingly blond hair (which I think he colors), and he speaks Spanish. He says he left the Church under a dark cloud regarding his sexuality; he has not been very forthcoming with details about this cloud, and I have not pressed him about it. I don’t want him to think I’m snoopy, not before the actual first date in any event.

Of course, gay men and ex-priests are a dime a dozen. I’ve often theorized that the Catholic Church and its monasteries put out more gay men than all other religions combined. I’ve dated ex-monks, ex-choir masters, ex-alter boys, ex-bishops from the holy roman catholic monopoly. They all claim to have loved the church but have learned to hate it. What makes Marcus unique is that after having served so many years as a priest, attending to the souls, he is now a well buffed and sexy physical trainer, attending to the bodies. He helps put middle-aged women back into shape, charming them with his good looks. He also works with overweight children and their parents, teaching them the values of proper nutrition and a healthy lifestyle. But above all, he works out like a fiend and he is very, very muscular. I call him my Muscle Boy.

* * *

Before the pictures there were only the words. Marcus’ voice, coming through my phone, firm crisp, choppy words, masculine sensitivity. He’s telling me about the priesthood. I like the sound of his voice, it melts away the inhibitions. And without pictures, without him knowing what I look like and without me knowing his physical beauty, anything is possible.

“Did you enjoy the priesthood?” I ask him.

“I liked aspects of service,” he explains. “I was assigned to a mostly Salvadorian parish.”

“I bet they admired you.”

“I admired them,” he answers. “So many of them had seen violence, escaped El Salvador in fear of their lives, and yet they remained faithful.”

“Still, you’re the blond American,” I add. I don’t know why I’m being such an ass. “The gringo who speaks Spanish. They must have been impressed.”

Marcus continues to speak earnestly, “I learned more from them than they ever learned from me.”

I continue to be an ass. I do that every once in a while. “Well,” I say, sounding almost dismissive. “I would have a hard time with the vow of poverty.”

“Not quite poverty,” he says, and this time I detect a slight annoyance in his voice.

Silence.

“The Church provided everything I needed,” he continues. “And the parish was extremely generous. On All Saint’s Day, they would bring corn hojuelas dipped in honey, along with flowers for the dead. Throughout Holy Week and Easter, they would feast me with coyoles and torrejas drenched with syrup. On weekends they would fatten me up with pork and chicken tamales, fried yuca and pasteles de chucho. At night or at midday, they would surprise me with pupusas, made of corn and rice dough filled with pumpkin flowers and cheese, or chicharrón, or best of all pupusas revueltas of mixed bacon, goat’s milk and fried beans. Other times we would enjoy fried plantains and casamiento, the wedding, a mixture of beans with rice and aromatic herbs that filled the church with the sweetest of scents. For deserts, they would treat me with "semita", quesadilla, alboroto and chilate with nuégados and buñuelos. For snacks, they would feed me fresh corn tamales, riguas and baby corn atole. To quench my thirst, they would bless me with chicha, prepared lovingly with fermented pineapple peel, cashew and nance fruits. And in the mornings, when I awoke from restless nights, in the earliest of hours when there is nothing but silence, they would share with me their shuco, made of blue maize, accompanied with red beans and brown bread.”

We pause our conversation. I reflect on the sweetness of his voice, and his flawless Spanish accent. “Food,” I answer. “A lot of food.”

“And the feeding of souls,” he replies.

“Theirs?” I ask.

“Theirs, and mine,” he answers. “My calling was to attend to their spiritual needs, as much as attending to my own. And yes, I was the handsome American in their eyes, but in my eyes, they were the blessed ones.”

“Why?”

“Because their faith was so unyielding. Because they had been tested, tempted by misadventure and misfortune, and yet they kept their beliefs.”

“Is that why you left the Church?” I ask. “Did you lose your faith?”

“Never,” he says. “Never lost my faith.” He will not, however, tell me why he left the Church.

* * *

And then there were the pictures. We exchanged email addresses, and exchanged photos of each others. I had of course seen his face, the picture of his smile posted on RomanceGayMan.com, but I had not seen his full body. Slowly, Microsoft Office Pictures opened up Marcus JPEG, to reveal, from head to toe, an Adonis, a muscular Marcus not imagined by me when we had conversed by phone. Suddenly, the picture I sent, the one of me sitting between my two children at a playground, seemed pointless. I have no revealing muscles to show, not like the ones exposed by Marcus’ tee shirt. Now there is doubt in my mind.

“I got your pictures, Marcus,” I write back to him by email. “Very handsome.”

He quickly replies, “Thank you.”

And then hesitantly, expecting the worst, I ask him again by email. “Did you get my pictures?”

”Charming,” he replies. “Absolutely charming.”

* * *

For our first date, Marcus and I agreed to meet in front of “Local,” a restaurant on the “U Street Corridor”. It’s a neighborhood somewhere north of Dupont Circle and south of Adams Morgan. It used to be no-man’s land, where prostitutes and derelicts ruled. Now it’s very trendy and attracts both gay men and young professionals Actually, the prostitutes and derelicts are still there but they are outnumbered by the near-do-wells.

I arrived at the restaurant quite early, giving me more than enough time to obsess. I was wondering whether Marcus would actually show up, because God know s I‘ve had more than my fair share of guys who stood me up. There’s something about gay men and punctuality or gay men and commitments that simply don’t mix. I’ve had “dates” show up more than an hour after we had agreed to meet (and it’s sad to say I waited the full hour), and I had other dates simply cancel with a cell-phone call at the last minute. “Sorry, something came up. I can’t make it.” Promises and illusions.

Marcus is a catch, so I was particularly concerned that he wouldn’t show up. In everyday gay parlance, a “catch” is someone not over the hill and who acts halfway normal. But Marcus was even beyond the half-way normal mark; you might even say he is within the realm of the exceptional. Exceptional good looks, exceptional intelligence, exceptional kindness.

* * *

I am anxiously waiting for Marcus to show up. I adjust my pants, tie my shoes, button and unbutton my coat as I intermittently get hot and cold. I’m self conscious and wonder if anyone is watching me, but the reality is that there’s no one here. There’s no one looking. There’s only the traffic (Virginia and Maryland license plates), the brisk Washingtonians walking in the street, the weather-beaten restaurant door, and me. I listen to the passersby, battling the cold wind as they try to wrap their coats more closely with one hand, while still hanging on to their cell phones with the other hand.

“Later at 10 Dude. Geeze it’s freezing!”
“Marty? It’s John. I’ll be late. Don’t wait up for me.”
“Did you finish that brief yet?”
“Mother fucker, it’s cold.”

I can see their breath. Men with knotted up faces, yakking on the phone, some screaming adamantly as they negotiate one more deal before dinner time.

“No reps., no warranties; no price adjustment. I’ve spoken to my client and we are firm on this.”
“WARN Act notices must be given and we want full indemnification.”
“Take it or leave it; that’s our final offer.”

A woman seems lost. She’s searching the crowd, looking for a friendly face, someone who will giver her directions back to her hotel. She doesn’t dare approach anyone. Everyone looks either too dangerous or too preoccupied. I’m about to offer her help, but she walks away from me. I must look dangerous too. She clutches her purse tight. Finally, she jumps into a cab.

I’m about to leave, about to do my walk of shame (gay man, stood up on a blind internet date), when I finally spot him. He’s coming my way. He doesn’t look quite the same as his picture. He seems older, taller, more distanced. I can see him half a block away. He’s chatting on his cell phone. I rub my hands. I hadn’t expected him to wear his workout out clothes. He’s come straight from the gym, and he hasn’t had time to change; he is wearing a skin tight shirt, revealing every ripple in his abdomens and beautifully exposing his enormous biceps. I’m wearing my office garb of Ralph Lauren pants, Kenneth Cole shoes, Banana Republic Shirt, Tommy Hilfiger jacket; all I need to complete my outfit are bottle cap eye glasses and we would make the perfect match -- he Superman; me Clark Kent.

He notices me as he gets closer to the restaurant. He hangs up his cell phone (“We’ll talk later”) and flashes me a warm smile. It’s the same smile that he uses on his on-line ad on RomanceGayMan. It’s a wide smile; the cat that ate the canary smile.

We check each other out, like dogs. It’s a quick glance up and down, to determine height and weight, and a furtive glance to the box. He looks satisfied; he seems pleased

“So, is this ok?” I ask. It’s a cue; I’m ok with him, I want to know if he’s ok with me.

“Of course!” he says graciously.

I’ve passed the test. Eagerly, I lead him inside the restaurant. It’s official; I’m on a date with a Muscle Boy!

* * *

Before the first date, before the pictures, before I knew he was a Muscle Boy, there was only the words, the ones I fell in love with.

“Like whom,” I challenge Marcus. “Who from El Salvador did you admire?”

“Elena, the meekest amongst them,” says Marcus in that gurgly voice that is an aphrodisiac to my ears. I get a semi-erection listening to him. “She had her face disfigured,” he continues.

”How disfigured?” I ask, always intrigued by the macabre or the grotesque.

“In El Salvador, she worked at a farm picking fruits, to be frozen and sold in the United States. All the fruit pickers were taken from the shanty towns to the farms, in an open truck provided by el estanciero (the farm owner). The roads were rough and poorly paved. There was not enough room in the open part of truck for all the fruit pickers to sit down, so many of them traveled standing up, holding on one to the other so as not to fall out.”

The truck slammed on the brakes in order to avoid hitting chickens crossing the road. Livestock are worth more than humans. The truck stopped with a violent jerk, and several of the workers fell out. Elena was the first one propelled out of the truck. Her face hit squarely against the pavement. To add injury to injury, several other workers landed on top of her, further grinding her open mouth against the rough pavement.

Elena lost all her front teeth, and her nose caved in. Both her lips busted open, making her mouth unrecognizable as that of a human being. El estanciero and the truck driver refused to pay Elena’s medical bills, and she had no money for doctors, much less for the type of surgery that would be required to repair her broken face. The other farm workers undertook a collection for Elena, and raised enough money to at least seal the broken seems of her nose and lips. She still appeared grotesque after these surgeries, as if she had been physically tortured (which is what most people assumed happened when they saw her).

Both before and after the accident, Elena was loved by all. She is a social creature, happy to be around others, always inquiring and providing for their want and needs. “¿Como está Padre Marcus?” “Do you need help Señora Sanchez?” “Let me help you fix that broken door, Juan.” Whenever another parishioner needed help, Elena was the first to offer. In spite of the disfigurement, she remained a jovial and engaging person.

Shortly before the accident, Elena was impregnated by a young man, Roberto, a computer engineer. Both before and after the accident, Roberto wanted nothing to do with Elena and her child, Josefina. He left to complete his studies in the United States, hoping to stay there after earning his degree.

In El Salvador, though not rich, Roberto was comfortably middle class He was known to sleep with beautiful young farm workers, both male and females, but he would of course never consider marrying or befriending any of them. His parents were anxious to get him to los Estados Unidos, to take him away from Elena’s grasp.

Elena abided her time, quietly, believing that Roberto would send child support to assist with their child, Josefina. In the U.S., Roberto found life to be harder and harsher than his existence in El Salvador. He did not have the benefits of sporting the life of a middle class educated man. Instead, he was forced to wash dishes, sweep floors, paint houses whenever possible, working in a factory when necessary to make ends meet. But as much as he worked, non-stop, there was never enough money to send back home or to even purchase an airplane ticket to return to El Salvador. He felt trapped, living in the slums of Miami. He started drinking, heavily, and started practicing violence upon women. He favored the prostitutes that would allow themselves to be slapped around, sometimes even take a true beating. The more he hurt them, the more money they demanded, and he was glad to pay it.

After two years of waiting and abiding, Elena made a decision to move to the U.S. “Two can live as cheaply as one in los Estados Unidos,” she told Roberto’s parents, assuring them that once she got a job in America, she and Roberto would be able to send them money. In the meantime, Elena’s parents would take care of the child, Josefina, and eventually Josefina could come to America to join her mother and father. Roberto’s parents agreed, lured by the prospects of a steady stream of dollars being sent to them from overseas, and instructed their son, Roberto, to take Elena as if she were his wife. Reluctantly, he agreed. Elena’s entire family chipped in to buy her airplane tickets.

Within a week of moving to los Estados Unidos, using a false passport and false visa, Elena had obtained a job taking care of a newborn child, Alexander. His parents were both lawyers, and they were initially hesitant to hire an illegal alien. However, in Miami it is difficult to find U.S. citizens to take such jobs and, besides, they knew instinctively that Elena was good with children. Other women they had interviewed for the job held baby Alexander at arm’s length, as if he were a smelly sweater they had picked up from the floor. Eleven, even though she spoke no English at first, was able to convey to them that she adored children From the moment Elena first met Alexander, she held him close to her heart, as if he were her own child; and in many ways Alexander indeed belonged to Elena, he was the American reincarnation of her little Josefina who was left behind to be raised by elderly grandparents in El Salvador.

In addition to taking care of Alexander during the days, Elena worked as a maid at a hotel on weeknights. On Saturdays, she cleaned houses, and on Sundays she went to Church where Father Marcus charmed her every week. His weekly sermons, given in Spanish, and his angelic smile were the biggest pleasure she experienced each week. Soon, from the many jobs and long hours Elena worked, she was able to repay her family for the airline tickets, as well as having enough earnings to send some cash to Roberto’s parents and a small amount of cash to her own family. Practically an entire village in El Salvador benefited from Elena’s U.S. earnings. If they did not receive cash directly from her, then at least they would receive a pair of trousers, somewhat faded still good; or a patched sweater with a designer label; or shoes, used and old but still functional. Elena had convinced all her employers that they should never throw anything out, and that instead the should give it to her to ship to El Salvador. Father Marcus’ Holy Cross football jersey, which he had worn for twenty years, was now walking in the streets of El Salvador, used by a brown skin young man who never heard of Holy Cross and has never seen a football game.

Elena was a unifying soul. She gave far more to others than she received from them, but always gladly and without expectations. She befriended Americans and Hispanics alike, all despite her disfigured face. In many ways, she was Father Marcus’ favorite parishioner, and they sat silently many times, side by side, enjoying pupusas she had made for him. He adored her beautiful spirit, if not her disfigured face. Under Father Marcus’ guidance and insistence, the parish raised sufficient funds to pay for corrective surgery for Elena’s face. Father Marcus convinced a medical school professor to do the surgery for free, so all that was required was the cost of the hospital, anesthesiologist and other incidentals. It took a year of operations and follow ups, including full dental work, to correct Elena’s disfigurement. She was never a beauty again, but her face now passed as normal, though homely.

“So everything turned out OK for Elena?” I ask Marcus.

“Not quite,” he replies with an inaudible sigh. “Roberto continued to beat and humiliate Elena. Against my vows to respect matrimony, I urged Elena to leave him; but she would not, as she believed that Roberto would cause harm to himself if she left him.”

“So how does this story end?” I ask.

“It has no ending,” says Marcus. “It continues, I suppose, though I’ve lost touch with Elena since I left the parish in Miami.”

The last mass that Father Marcus officiated at his church was Maundy Thursday It is a very theatrical ceremony in which the priest washes the feet of twelve parishioners, symbolic of Christ’s washing of the feet before the last supper. Before mass, Father Marcus anxiously waited outside, hoping to ask Elena to act as one of the twelve apostles. Elena was embarrassed to be asked, and resisted the invitation. “Dale,” said Roberto. “Te lo mereces.” (Go on, you deserve it.) At the ceremony, Father Marcus kissed Elena’s feet as he washed them, and said softly to her, “You are my Beloved Disciple.”

Elena wept incessantly, but quietly, too meek to make a scene.