Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

"What if there's no people left?"

"From the original crowd?" I ask, and he nods, looking round-eyed. "If there's no one left, we'll find more. More people who think like you and I do. Okay, maybe just you." I smile, feeling like a fraud myself. The way I think doesn’t matter here; I’m not the figurehead. "We'll find people who are gay, or who are open-minded, who believe that love is love and God is love, like you said. And our church will be their place. Well...your church."

His lips twitch a little. "I like that you called it ours."

I smile and ruffle his hair, giving it a tug. "You know what I think?"

He shakes his head.

"I think you got this. I think you're the best person in the whole damn world to do this. I think if you believe in God, you gotta ask yourself why did He make it so you’re born into this family, why did he give you all these...followers, knowing you bat for the rainbow team, if this isn't what you're really meant to do?"

He nods. For a long moment, I’m pretty sure he’s holding his breath. Then he blows it out and gives a small shake of his head. "Maybe you're right."

He kisses my lips, and things go from there. He falls asleep with his dick out and my saliva drying on the inside of his thighs. I slather weed rub on my shoulder and lie close by him. And finally, the day is over.

7

Luke

Yesterday, I got two calls from sister churches who do outreach with us. Both wanted to discontinue that work. The first thing that happens when I get to work this morning—a peaceful Wednesday when Vance and I dropped by a bakery for breakfast and didn't even get a second glance—is my phone rings again.

The first ‘cancel’ call is from a small church, so it doesn't bother me; they benefitted more from the connection than we did. But the second one's more dicey. It's a massive ministry headquartered in the Southeastern U.S., and it's run by some people who are known for their homophobic views.

I've known for years and always felt uncomfortable about our association with them. Still, the partnership was mostly charity-based—overseas aid work—so I thought the good outweighed the bad. Every so often, a gay church member would reach out and ask why we worked with them, and I'd get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I try to think about that when I answer the phone and one of the group's executives—a man named Mitch—says, "Hello, Luke."

It's not the normal way he greets me. I'm Pastor McDowell, to almost everyone.

"Mitch."

"You know what this call is about,” he says.

I answer bluntly. "I do."

"So I won't say it."

"That’s where we disagree. I think you should. There's value in being honest, wouldn’t you say?"

He laughs, and it's as fake as it could be. "Well, it's about the homosexual issue."

"Ahh. The homosexual issue."

"We can't be doing business with a gay preacher. Not even if his name is Luke McDowell."

"I think that works out fine, Mitch. We can't be doing business with a group of thinly veiled bigots. Not when we're about to be the site of a whole new charity and outreach center for inclusivity and diverse membership."

"You're...I'm sorry, what did you say?"

I grin against the phone. "You heard me. This is the new wave, Mitch. We both know the numbers on millennials and downward in birth-year progression. Leaving church faster than a bunch of lemmings off a cliff. That's a demographic that we can't afford to neglect. Nor would we wish to. I bet you also know the numbers on youth homelessness. And you know that association—don’t even try to tell me you don’t. It's kids of religious people. Like ourselves. I know it took a while, but I'd say it's about time we put an end to that hogwash. So that's what we'll be doing here at Evermore. Along with all the usual endeavors. So that's what you were saying, yeah? You're finished with the partnership? Unwilling to work with us on international aid endeavors because of where I like to put my dick?"

He sputters, and my heart rate surges, even as I grip the phone and suck air in through my nose.

"That's…mmm I believe about 20 million dollars we can re-direct and funnel through some other middle-man. So thank you, Mitch. It's been a pleasure working with you, and we wish you not over much success in sticking with that older and more dated model."

"Well, I'm not saying—"

"No. I think we agree, our philosophies no longer align. No hard feelings."

He sputters again. "No hard feelings, sir."

It takes some work to suppress a chuckle at him calling me sir. Mitch is a good twenty-five years older than me.

"Have a lovely hump day."