Crossdressing (Patreon)

This is by far my least favorite part of the week, Sunday mass. The love of Jesus is everywhere and eternal, and I firmly believe he can be celebrated throughout the week, but still I didn’t really mind giving up a few hours to worship. The hymns are stuffy and father Jones only has his set of 50 sermons to rotate through, but it gives a sense of community, purpose, coming together. And therein lies the problem.

I glance at my watch, 9:52. I feel like I probably had too much tea at breakfast. The seats closest to the aisle in the pew right opposite are empty. Perhaps he is sick. I feel a quick sense of relief, until it hits me what a shameful thought it was, wishing him bad fortune. Or supporting it at least. Right then, as on cue, I heard them. I didn’t even have to turn my head to know it was them. The entire Johnson family filed in, and at the end was Christian. One year older than me, but almost looking younger with his odd hair cut, long on top and buzzed on the sides, his thin, leather necklace, his sparkling ear studs.

The church bells snapped me out of it, and I looked around. Ten o’clock already!? Had I been staring all the time? People must have noticed. Shouldn’t a church of all places be safe, where you can devote yourself to God without… I don’t want to feel like this. I know his schedule by heart so I can avoid him at school, best I can. But the powers to be isn’t content with that, are they? No, every time I make a delivery for Old Joe to the motel there was a good chance Christian would be in the reception, signing the paper.

And here, in church, the Johnson family has been sitting across the aisle next to us for as long as I could remember. Through all the years I’ve barely said more than hi to him. For the longest time I hadn’t even given it thought. But during the last year, while doing deliveries, was the first time I really spoke to him, really noticed him. The dreams have just gotten worse ever since. In biology Mr. Anderson talked about how the body creates lots of new and different hormones while we grow. They are needed for us to grow, but it makes us feel things that aren’t our own feelings. Just like injecting sedatives makes you sleepy or injecting cannabis makes you violent. It’s just plain chemistry. Once you understand that, and that it is a natural part of the design, a test of faith before adulthood, then it is easy to do what is right.

Father Jones was doing his sermon on taking care of yourself so you can tend to others. If I ever were to number them, what number would I give this one? It’s certainly not number one. “In Mark 12:31 Jesus tells us to love your neighbor as yourself. That doesn’t mean anything if you don’t love yourself first.” How many times had I already heard this?

I glance towards Christian. He is paging through the Bible, also not paying much attention to father Jones either. He got the blue outfit on today. White shirt, as always, and a dark blue suit. He would look so much better with a tie. As I scan his body suddenly my gaze lands directly in his eyes. He is looking at me. In panic I just continue to stare, held in place like a cow beamed up to a flying saucer. Finally I break away, and embarrassed stare straight down at my shoes. I feel the heat in my face as it blushes. Oh, lord. He would see that too, if he’s still looking.

I keep my eyes off all of the Johnson’s for the entire rest of the sermon. What is best, to avoid him entirely after, or come up with some excuse for looking at him? “I really like your haircut” No, that would be even worse. It is time for prayer, and all around people close their eyes and the entire church falls silent. As I close my eyes I know what I must do. Something I’ve put off for far too long by not admitting it, by not calling it out by its true name.

“Dear Lord, it’s me. It’s about Christian Johnson again. I pray he has a happy and healthy life, but I would also like to pray for myself. God, please make me not love Christian anymore.”

I didn’t feel a thing and it really should have been more jarring than it was when I opened my eyes. I was staring down into a pair of blue trousers. As if in slow motion I raise my head and realize I’m on the other side of the aisle. Looking over it I can see myself, mouth open like a birdhouse. We just stared at each other.

As we gather outside I can hear Christian make the first move, talking to my mother.

“Mum, I’m sorry, but I completely forgot I promised to help Christian move furniture at the motel.”
“Now?”
“Yes, we said right after church.”
“But what about your clothes?”

I inched my way closer, desperate to play along so we can talk in private as soon as possible.
“You still have the old, torn clothes in the back, right?”
“Hello, Christian. I didn’t know you two knew each other that well.”
she turned back to Christian.
“You said you would donate all that rubbish last week? Oh, well. Don’t forget we eat at three.”
she turned back to me
“You are of course also welcome to join us, Christian.”

After Christian had taken out the clothes from my car, we took his car and he drove us to the motel less than 10 minutes away. I’m sure we both had scores of questions to ask, but somehow felt like it wasn’t the time for it. Not yet. Instead I flat out stared at my body, sitting next to me, driving Christian’s Ford faster than I would have ever dared. What did I feel? How did this happen?
“Do you think this is the work of Satan?”
“In church? On a Sunday? During mass? For God’s sake, it happened during prayer.”
“Don’t..” I bite my tongue. There was enough to deal with without adding more drama. We drove in silence the remaining few minutes. Thinking about it, he didn’t actually take God’s name in vain, did he?

As we were closing in on the motel he told me what to say to Mr. Richter in the lobby. Tell him we just need to rest for a few hours, and ask for keys to number eight.
“What if it is already taken?”
“Nah, it needs repairs. Only staff use it to rest or shower. Mr. Richter is the only one in at this hour on Sundays.”

It went quickly, in and out. Christian grabbed the keys from me and almost ran to door eight. I hurried after him. Once in the motel room he rushed to the toilet and locked the door. I could hear a torrent in there, and a muffled “What the fuck have you been drinking?” It was weird hearing my own voice use the f-word.

While he was busy in there I decided to swap clothes. I had taken off the suit and was just about to put on the jeans and T-shirt we got from his car when I froze. Standing in front of me, in the mirror, is Christian wearing only underwear. Or is this me now? My feelings had certainly not gone away. I pick up his T-shirt. I’ve seen it on him before, I recall. It smells citrusy. Suddenly the bathroom door unlocks, and I scramble to get the T-shirt on.

My body walks out, dressed in my old, torn jeans and T-shirt.
“No need to be shy. I’ve seen it all, more than you.” He stops, gets a quizzical look, and slowly moves around me.
“Actually, I have never seen me from behind.”
“I’m so sorry, Christian. This is all my fault.”
“It is?”
“I was praying to not love you anymore.”
“You love me?”
“I did. I guess I do. But I am you. I don’t know what I feel. Confused at least.”
“What about old you?”
He sits down on the bed.
“What about him?”
“Do you think you can love yourself too?”
I sit down next to him and look into my old eyes. I feel my face break out the biggest smile possible.
“Fuck yeah.”

 A few hours from now I will have my most bizarre and possibly awkward Sunday lunch ever. We really should talk things through properly before it, what to say, how to behave, what to do after. But for now I just want to sit on the bed in room eight and lean on Christian. Hear him breathe. Feel his warmth.

“In church today, what did you pray for?”
“This.”

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