Welcome to DBZ Love Garden

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession.

I know that’s a little long, especially considering the way things used to be. I tried staying away – but it’s in my blood now…no, more like it’s in my spirit, my soul. His light guides each step I take, fills my lungs with each breath I draw. I…can’t believe…that I…

Well, you see Father…I used to be where you are now. I used to be a priest. Ten years ago, I found God. I can still smell the pressed scent of my first vestments, as though I were still new to the pulpit; the hint of rosemary that brings to mind images of the rectory and the little old woman that washed all our clothes for free. Our parish…didn’t have a lot in the way of finances…

I suppose I should start from the beginning, I’m just nervous, I think. I haven’t been in one of these for quite awhile and last time the circumstances were completely reversed. I was the blank, nondescript face and caring voice that could solve all your problems with verbal absolution. You know how it is…five Ave Marias, ten Our Fathers…

Somehow…I don’t think that’s going to cut it this time, Father. I really fucked up and now…

I’m not sure how to fix it.

But either way, I only have five hours…because after that…it’s either sink or swim.

And I can already feel the water rising.

***

A decade ago…I…I can’t even say it. Forgive me Father, but I did something awful, that I feel is best left between God and myself. No man on earth could possibly find the compassion in his heart to whisper away the guilt of what I’ve done, and I…

I’ve learned to live with my demons, with God’s merciful strength I have reached beyond the mortal scaffold upon which I took the initial step in ascension. Those matters lie in the heat of my palms each time I clasp them in prayer. I think…it’s best if they stay that way…maybe some day…

But that day is not today.

I was strong once, you know? Believe it or not, I was considered to possess more skill, speed, and might than even Satan himself. There’s a gross irony in that…because with my actions…penance can only come in the arms of the Morning Star but I need to stop thinking about that. My judgment for decisions I made will come only when I reach His holy gates; when the sunlit pearl shines opalescent on my unworthy eyes and He either takes pity…

Or punishment.

Now…I have…fi – no, four and a half hours before I have to make the greatest decision of my life and I…I don’t know what to do…

What a surprise. I can’t decide on something.

Gomen nasai Father…but it’s like I’ve got this knot in my stomach that tightens every time my watch ticks. It’s been like this for the last seven years, you know. I wake up in the middle of the night and stare, unseeing, into the moonlight caress on my bedroom carpet for hours imagining his face as it was when I saw him last…youthful…brilliant blue and virtuous violet…a visage crimson kissed…

And sometimes…the tears come before I can stop them. Usually when I smell the…the musky fragrance of the cologne I bought him for his baptism…on another…

God almighty…please lend me strength…

No…I’m ok. Really. I just…need to start from the beginning – that much I know. Where to start?

It’s how it all ends that I can only trust in God.

***

My father died when I was rather young…twice actually…

Nani? Oh…never mind…That’s something else that only God can understand. I mean, he did have a hand in it but this is all beside the point.

My mother and I didn’t get along well after my father left and…I said some things that I’d rather not repeat in God’s house. And…I…

I did something rather rash and unforgivable.

I can vividly remember holding my brother’s hand at her funeral and the periodic sniff as he wiped his running nose on the back of a sleeve too long for his small frame. It was warm – September…the leaves had just started turning all those colors that make me wish I knew how to paint with more than my fingers. I’ll never forget that day…the melodic, monotony of the priest’s last recited rites, the crumbling softness of newly dug earth between my fingers, and the tinkling splash it made as it hit the wood of the casket. Goten – my brother – he got the dirt all over his borrowed black suit and shiny new shoes. He never let go of my hand. Not even when the others came to take him away.

G…gomen…

He…his…eyes…so full of questions…and pain…and the pleading whines that eventually turned to screams – for me to stay, for me to make it all better…one of my father’s old friends actually had to restrain him, to bodily carry him to my grandfather’s…

Don’t leave me too Gohan, he said. I couldn’t give him that – after everything that I took away from him, I couldn’t give him that. That’s why I don’t visit him often although he’ll be turning twenty this spring…

I don’t want him to be anything like me.

God…forgive me…I say those words so often, I wonder if you still hear…

But after what I had done…I couldn’t go home, not back to that house, not after…

I did a lot of soul-searching before I found myself turning to the only person I thought could possibly understand, to reconcile…to make it all better…like I couldn’t do for my brother…

I finally found my solace in God.

Gomen…I think I’m avoiding the issue – as a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that I am. This isn’t what I came here for – absolution for this will come when my breath no longer obeys my mortal will but…this isn’t easy for me…I’ve never told anyone…about…any of this…

No, it’s ok. I need to do this. I only have…sugoi…four more hours…

If I got any more anxious, I think they’d put me on Ritalin or in a coffee ad.

Ok…breathing…I can do this. You sure…? You’re not too –

Got it, get to the point. Alright…

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession. Eight years ago I…slept with one of my parishioners. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem began when his parents found out.

***

I remember the way the liquid gold shone through the stained glass of the church windows. I liked the way it broke each meticulously crafted shape into its base components, shattering the images on the foot-worn carpet whose color was long lost to the pacing path of the priest and congregational communion.

Candle wax and incense; white pools that dripped down the immaculate engravings and onto the pristine purity of the cloth draping the altar. The collar of which I had just been blessed itched at my neck and it was all I could do not to fidget during the sermon.

But I hardly cared – I was doing what I loved most. There is no equivalent in life to leading devoted worshipers in prayer, to hearing their raised voices beseech and praise the Lord with mutual need and affection…And a need for His affection.

I suppose that’s why I enjoyed confessional as much as I did. I delighted in my self-assigned duty, my payment to humanity for all the destruction I’ve wrought…the simple task of listening…calming the fear people have, the awe they sense in His presence, and comforting those who cry in humility when exposed to His love for the first time…

That’s what makes this decision so difficult for me. If I…do what I…want to do…

Will God forgive me when I no longer keep His vigil?

I can finally appreciate the fraternal relationship between faith and hope…

…but I was happy then. It may have been eight in the morning, and our flock may have had one foot still in their beds but I had been up since the sky first blushed with day and it was all I could do to keep from smiling like an idiot as the daily lesson was read.

I think…of everything I remember about that day, one image will always dominate, my recollection.

The way the red of Joseph’s robe bled the perfect lavender of his hair into a darker mockery of fading magenta. That is to say, the sun through stained glass…cast such…such a magnificent array of rainbow hues on the soft, concentrated countenance…

He sat so straight in the uncompromising wood of his seat, such a gentleman. I never would have guessed…what with whom his father was…

But I get ahead of myself. You see, I knew – know – his family. His mother was an old, old friend of my family and his father…well…

The man made it his business to know.

But I hadn’t seen them since my mother’s funeral almost three years before, and the boy that had knelt so quietly in his flawless black; fingers interlaced so properly on the back of the pew before him, afraid to make even the smallest sound…the boy that had played with my baby brother; grown up with him, learned with him, trained with him, baked batch upon batch of botched cookies, and looked upon me as the older brother he would never have…

Had grown into a fine young man.

And Father…I do mean fine.

***

The church was perpetually stuffy the more morning progressed into afternoon but the presence – sudden presence I would like to add – increased the heat as my heart defied all my training and logic. It shocked me that his mother and he attended mass; I had never seen them before. I didn’t even think they were Catholic. I was to discover later she was there as a courtesy…I told you the parish was monetarily challenged…and well, she was quite the opposite.

But seeing him only made the atmosphere even warmer, and when those bright blue eyes I remember so vibrantly on the face of a child flickered over the priest as he spoke, to rest, unabashedly on me…

Father…I felt as though the collar would choke me. I think that was God’s way of warning me…and again, I failed…

I should have listened.

But…when he took the wafer from my hand with a lingering lick…the ruby of wine on his lips afterward when he tossed a careless wink over his shoulder, a gesture that almost made me spill the scarlet liquid on my robes…

I don’t know how he knew – I guess the attraction was instantaneous, undeniable. He played me like a puppeteer.

I was shaking when I bid the masses farewell, my sweaty palms grasping each hand in my own with attaching fervor, prolonging the inevitable – the lilac splash of color amidst the blacks and casually curled blondes. It was like all my life I’d walked in a world devoid of anything other than varying shades of grey…

He…he thrust me into Technicolor.

***

With him there was red and a lot of it. The faithful blush that sprang to my cheeks whenever his name was even mentioned in conversation, the crimson brush stroke of first blood…the rusty garnet of my broken nose as the police lead me handcuffed from the chapel…

But I jump ahead. I…I honestly don’t know where or even how the immediacy of our magnetism sparked into being, what bastard devil’s seed spawned our unholy acts.

All I really remember is the close quarters we held, the heat, friction, and always…the scent of his adolescent exuberance filling my nose with its perfume, my soul with need, and my body with lust…

He came by the church often after that first day. After he all but offered himself to me on the steps of the house of worship…a fleeting trace of slender fingertips on my forearm…a slanted look of insidious calculation that merged into a glittering glance of lascivious desire even as I watched…

And his confessions had me chanting Hail Marys…

‘Forgive me Father…I’ve had impure thoughts…’

And, God save me, when I asked him about who…

‘…about a man of God, Father…I can’t stop thinking about him.’

I swear Father, my heart accelerated; pulse defining the hitched uncertainty of my breath…Good God, and then…when he asked…in that sultry tone…there was no doubt, the boy knew he was sexy…

‘Father…is masturbation wrong?’

***

We played this ambiguous game of glances and innuendos for weeks. I never meant it to go further…he was a boy and I was his priest: the man he was supposed to be able to trust more than teachers, friends, or even parents…

But…I’ve never been able to deny anyone, ever. And he…

He was no exception.

I tried desperately to avoid him, to avoid being alone with him, but…he found a way…and when he did…

My vows became ashes in his hands.

He came to me after evening mass, the quiet click of the door my only indication of his arrival. I can still remember the clock in the hall chiming nine as I turned from my desk, placing aside the ceremonial white in favour of my comfortable black.

And there he stood; a boy to me, ten years my junior cast in the flattering shadows and amber lamplight of my ill-equipped office space, the tie on his neck loosened just enough, that had I desired…I could have propelled him forward like a dog on a leash.

‘Father…’

To this day, the force that drove me forward is an enigma to me.

‘Gohan…’

And the demonic push that saw me embrace the fourteen year old, to crush his muscled body to my own, to kiss the silken tendrils of his sunset hair…as my eager hands dispatched of his belt; an ardent harmony of euphoric purrs and growls as we sought the forbidden temple of our mouths…

But I wasn’t possessed, and it was no means of Satan that lifted that boy onto the cluttered mess of my desk, not his mouth that made love to the smooth, curving contours of youthful flesh as they were revealed to seeking, impatient hands…

It was I.

I that coaxed his velvet thighs to part with needy ministrations.

I that allowed his elegant digits to divest me of my own leather barrier.

I that moaned and licked and encouraged his hands to explore the area below my waist, a site virtually untouched…

And I that shed his innocence on the pressed fabric of my pants.

…I’m sorry…am I making you uncomfortable?

***

I…

God…Father…forgive me…he was just a boy…and I was weak…

Always weak.

And he robbed me of my strength as easily as any incubus.

Many times. Several of which where hurried, passionate tumbles in the hazardous realm of the public rectory right before Sunday morning mass. We weren’t careful…we should have been more careful…

And I should know my own strength.

There are so many things I shouldn’t have done…

I shouldn’t have let him entice me…kiss me…

I shouldn’t have found myself so many times between his thighs…his legs wrapped around my waist, hands in my hair as though I were the only way to God himself…

And I shouldn’t have left any marks.

His mother has always been perceptive and his father…

I can’t believe how stupid I was.

But I’ll tell you, Father…a fist in the face and a knee in the groin can make things so much clearer…put the whole picture in perspective.

Couple that with the public arrest, the stone faced cops that clapped the cuffs around my wrists, my young paramour’s pissed off father threatening to end my pedophiliac existence, and the wondering whispers of an entire chapel filled with people…

Yeah, perspective.

God…no matter how many times I seem to forsake you…you’ve shown me nothing but patience…

And how I’ve repaid you…

…they shipped him off to boarding school. I wasn’t allowed to see him before he left. The last time I did see him was in the police station when they brought me in for questioning.

But he had more bruises than I ever gave him. I know he never meant for it to happen…but one doesn’t contradict his father. Vegeta has ways of making people talk.

And ways of keeping one silent…he backhanded me for having the audacity to attempt communication with his boy…when he caused him greater harm than I ever did.

But you learn early on not to touch Vegeta’s toys.

***

I was never charged. The church settled out of court, and I was left with nothing but my old, battered Bible, and my shame.

I left the priesthood. My sin was apparent everywhere I went – I’m not very good at hiding my emotions. I think that may have been one of the reasons I was taken in so easily. The boy knew which buttons to push and a finger that itched to do it.

God knows I’m not guiltless. I should have known better, acted as more befitting my position…

But the boy was like chocolate. And my family’s not exactly known for showing the greatest self-control in the face of temptation. Hn. Man of God indeed…

I just wish it were easier…I wish I knew if I loved him…like he obviously loves me…

He wrote me every week we were apart in the beginning. They eventually tapered down to once a month. And as he got older…more months passed in between his missives…

But I got a letter postmarked last Wednesday only yesterday.

I hadn’t opened them. It’s been seven years and I hadn’t broken the seal on any of his letters. Well…not until last night…when, prompted by fate, or God, or whoever…

I drowned my pain, my loss, my inherent ache for him that is slowly driving me to insanity… in a thick glass bottle. Six of them, actually. Seems the devil has my number…

I tore into those letters, intent to wallow further into the swamps of my self-pity by reading the pages and pages of hatred I knew he must direct at me…

Only to have each letter end with ‘love you always, T-chan’.

He still loves me. After seven years, several other affairs he dubbed ‘practicing for perfection’, and a nightmare of parental chastisement, my little lover, my T-chan…

Still loves me.

I wanted…no, I needed to get this off my chest before I made my choice.

You see, Father…he’s getting out today. In about…

KUSO! I’ve got to go, Father! Domo arigato!