Not a lot of sex content in this one today (although a tiny bit). But due to building sexual frustration, I think this blog may get steamier.

I have been having a bit of a dialog with a friend about religion (thanks Johnr, for making me think!), and thought perhaps it was just as pertinent here. It's about religion. And the fact that I have none of it (unless you count my devotion and worship of curry, which I don't think is what we're talking about here).

Religion and I just don't get each other. I will believe in something, if you show me proof. Which defies the whole point of faith (and this has indeed been a complaint amongst a number of ex-boyfriends. But then, this BBC finding explains several of those in the parade of idiots I dated).

As I said in an earlier post, I went to Catholics Anonymous. Now, CA is a 24-step program, since 12 steps is just not enough to get over the guilt. And we feel bad about everything. A car bomb goes off in a small country, very far away? I feel bad. My karma must have contributed. Someone lose their life savings due to a swindler? Catholic guilt kicks in.

Of course, I don't feel bad about the stuff I do, really. Get drunk and make an ass of myself? Oh well. Feel tempted to go for some adultery? Shit happens. Seems I just feel bad about other people's lives. This is both a benefit and a curse-it means I am very sympathetic but that I am definitely bound for purgatory. But that's ok-if I go there, I imagine I will be seeing lots of other people there that I know. I just hppe they put me on the entry gates and I can make them queue up for hours.

Catholics and Hell are a strange combination. I remember the church I went to-the Priest went on and on about how we were all damned. There was no choice between Hell or High Water, there was just Hell. And we were all going there, get your Heavenly Passports out and ready, cause that stamp will be a long time coming. I even went to First Communion, although I remember absolutely nothing about it other than cutting out puffy letters for some banner and then being dressed up as a real-life My First Bride Barbie.

When I was twelve, I confronted the Priest. I asked for proof of God. He gently tried to explain this whole concept of "faith". You just have to believe. Again, I asked for proof. If he, as an adult, could invest his life in a concept, then why must I also "just believe" when I would get told off for being a believer of the boogey man under the bed? I left the church and did not go back.

Later as a teenager stuck in the Deep South, I went to this baptist church camp for a week once. To say it was a very bizarre experience is like saying Dr. Phil is a megalomaniac. In other words, an understatement. I was still not religious (still am not and never will be) but a friend coerced me, so I went. It was weird-they searched all your stuff when you arrived. Every last item. And they had a mountain of cigarettes and alcohol on the campers before the thing even kicked off. And that's not even mentioning the towering inferno of condoms, the glistening foil wrappers alight like a Christmas tree in June.

Then we had to attend all these classes-why God didn't want us to have pre-marital sex (even though my friend and I were about the only virgins in a 100 mile radius), why God wanted us to pray together on our dates, to prove that we had a common faith (can we say: LOSER!) and God obviously wanted us to attend endless sermons and rampant singing sessions until late hours of the night. I guess God thought that 500 teenagers screaming themselves hoarse would be just what He needed for a little bedtime sleep. They kept trying to get me "saved". This was unusual to me, since I had not realized I was ever lost. Clearly, the Stepfords thought I was. being saved was going to involve dunking in the only human-sized fishtank I had ever seen, but since the whole thing didn't mean anything to me, I felt it best to simply avoid having to get my hair wet. They kept asking me if I had found God. To be truthful, I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for Him. Seems like a milk carton ad, running a spot on "America's Most Wanted" or something like that would be more effective than asking me. After all, I couldn't even figure out how to:

- orgasm
- get my hair to do that cool bouffy thing
- open up nail clippers in one fluid movement
- drive

And so on.

In college, I dated a guy for a while that was a born-again Christian. He was also a stutterer, which was amazing on my part since I am about the most impatient person in the world. Waiting for an average person to get through a sentence is sometimes difficult. Add a really serious stutter, and it was effort on my part to not finish his sentences. He was a nice guy, but to be honest, I didn't really like him that much. And it got to me-I didn't want any kind of permanent commitment (at all!) but one evening at dinner, I asked him some things.

"B, do you desire me?"
"Why yes." (which is, of course, what he should answer). "Of course I do. In fact, I was wondering if tonight is the night where we can take our relationship to the next level."
"We're buying a cat together?"
"What?"
"Pardon?"
"I meant, maybe tonight is the night we can physically consummate our mutual respect and admiration for each other." (or some other weird, thesaurus-like proposition for "Wanna' fuck tonight?")
"Um, OK. Sure." I grabbed my bag and we headed out to the cars.
"Say B," I asked, stopping and turning to him. "You want to sleep with me, right?"
"Well, yes, but in a more respectful way, as a way of nurturing and respecting our relationship."
"Yeah, whatever. But what do you think of me as a partner?"
"Well, I think you are a lovely and incredibly brilliant and gorgeous woman" (my memory may be allowing for embellishment here) "but you have not chosen Christ as your Mentor and Savior. So I cannot marry you."
Something clicks in my brain. "OK, I see. So...you'll fuck me but wouldn't marry me?"
He turns red. "Not perhaps with those words, but the sentiment is correct, yes."

I drove away, left him in the parking lot, and went home and made a booty call to my fuck buddy. It's not like I wanted to marry the guy, but although I want to be the whore in the bedroom, I don't want to be only that.

I gave up on religion. And religion gave up on me. I dabbled a bit with Buddhism (but can't get my head around the whole "just accept it" facet) and Wicca (a bit overwhelming with the whole worship of nature thing. Plus, I can't really explain why I am waving around a lavender twig, burning an orange candle, and chanting at 2 am under the full moon with any satisfactory result that will keep me out of the loony bin). So I gave up.

God is for the masses. I guess I am a maverick.

-H.

PS-feel free to sound off about your religious run-ins in the comments section.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:43 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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