Date: Fri, 15 Feb 2002 11:39:26 -0700 From: L Subject: The Interview (no-sex) ------------------------------------------------------ NOTE: While this story is fictional, it draws on my actual experience as a former LDS missionary. (There's a story there, of course, but it's not the story you're about to read.) For conscience's sake, I should say that my decision to submit this story to the Nifty Archive does not necessarily mean that I approve of the content of other stories in the archive. Nevertheless, I applaud the archive's goal of collecting "the diverse hopes, dreams, aspirations, fantasies, and experiences of the Queer Community." Gay Mormon experience--and fantasy-- is one piece of that diversity. ------------------------------------------------------ THE INTERVIEW This is my second Sunday in the Missionary Training Center. I am sitting with my companion, Elder Daley, outside the branch president's office. President MacIntyre serves as our priesthood leader during our stay in the MTC--the equivalent of a bishop, back in our home wards. I have requested an interview with him. (I haven't told Elder Daley why I need to talk with President MacIntyre. But the very fact that I haven't told him must make Elder Daley suspect that I'm here to do more than simply ask President MacIntyre's permission to make a phone call home. On our district's first evening here in the MTC, President MacIntyre warned us that missionaries who enter the MTC with unconfessed transgressions offend the Spirit and therefore have no protection against the buffetings of Satan. "If there's anything you should have talked about with your bishop and stake president before you came here, come see me immediately. For your own sake, get your life in order.") President MacIntyre's assistants are sitting with us. They, too, are missionaries in training, but they've already been in the MTC for nearly two months. They are eager to leave for the mission field. One is going to Ecuador, the other to Bolivia. Elder Daley and I have been called to Colombia. The assistants and Elder Daley talk excitedly amongst themselves, swapping horror stories they've heard about daily life in South America: dysentery, supersized cockroaches, hospitable church members who serve cow's hooves for dinner. They can hardly wait for the adventure to begin. (My attention drifts in and out of their conversation. I feel slightly sick. It's like hunger pangs, but with a sharper edge. In my mind's eye, I see ulcers bursting open like roses along the inside of my stomach lining. What's taking President MacIntyre so long?) Elder Daley laments that he has so much time left in the MTC. Six weeks, he says; I'm gonna go crazy. The assistants are empathetic. They've been where we are now, they know how we feel. The time'll fly, they assure Elder Daley. By the time you get your travel papers, you'll won't be able to believe it's been two months already. (Time passes differently in the MTC. Everyone says it. The days are like weeks, and the weeks are like days. How else could things have developed so quickly between Elder Braithwaite and me? Sometimes it feels like we met just yesterday, yet at other times it feels like we've known each other for weeks. In fact, we met a week and a half ago. Elder Braithwaite doesn't know I'm seeing President MacIntyre. We haven't talked since--) President MacIntyre steps out of his office, apologizes for the delay. Instinctively, we all stand. President MacIntyre is as old as our fathers. He served in the military for most of his adult life, and it shows; his mere presence commands respect. He shakes Elder Daley's hand, claps his other hand on Elder Daley's shoulder, asks how he's adjusting to missionary life. Fine, President, I'm doing great; the language is tough, but I'm working on it. The President nods approvingly. Keep up the good work, Elder Daley. My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them off on my pants leg before shaking hands with President MacIntyre. He acknowledges me in a solemn voice-- "Elder Mitchell"--and then pins me with a piercing look, as if reading my soul. I try to meet his gaze, but after a couple seconds, I fold. (He already knows, I'm sure of it. He probably had me pegged from the first evening we met. Who do I think I've been kidding? Probably every missionary in my district knows.) President MacIntyre guides me towards the office, a hand on my shoulder. "Wait here, Elder Daley," he tells my companion. "Sure thing, President." (And now it begins. I'm going to be sent home from my mission early--before it really even got started. I'm going to have to explain to my parents. I'll probably be excommunicated. They won't let me back into BYU.) President MacIntyre closes the office door behind us. This looks like the office of every other priesthood leader I've ever interviewed with throughout my life: a large wooden desk, bare except for a desk calendar and a set of scriptures; a high-backed swivel chair behind the desk for President MacIntyre; a lower, harder chair in front of the desk for me; a painting of the Savior and a photo of the First Presidency on the wall. (I'm already regretting having asked for this interview. But this has to be done. It's the only way out of the mess I've gotten myself into.) "Let's kneel for a word of prayer, Elder Mitchell." This is a touch I've never encountered before in an interview with an priesthood leader. We kneel together on the floor. President MacIntyre prays. "Our gracious, eternal Father in Heaven, we thank thee for the weighty privilege and responsibility you have placed upon us in calling us to thy holy work. We pray thy Spirit to be with us during this interview, that Elder Mitchell will be able to open his soul, and that I will be able to know how best to guide and assist him. In the name of our beloved Lord and Master, thy Son, Jesus Christ, amen." (I add a silent prayer of my own: I need you, Heavenly Father. My life is about to fall to pieces. But I'm doing this because I want to be right with you. I'm doing what I should have done long before now. I want to get help. I want to put these urges behind me for once and for all.) President MacIntyre sits behind his desk, facing me-- the usual position. Like every other Latter-day Saint, I've been having regular interviews with my bishop since I turned twelve. The interviews became more frequent as I approached my mission. In the space of a year, I had to be cleared for ordination to the Melchizedek priesthood, then for missionary service, then for my first temple recommend. Each interview has been basically the same: small talk about how things are going in my life, then a list of probing questions to test my faith and moral worthiness. The interview is an opportunity for me to confess my sins--or to lie, as the case may be. (I should definitely have come clean long ago. If I had, things wouldn't have gotten so far out of control.) President MacIntyre's expression is solemn. He gets straight to the point, no small talk. "What's on your mind, Elder Mitchell?" (Here we go. Just spit it out. Get it into the air.) I can't bring myself to look President MacIntyre directly in the eyes, so I focus on the wall beyond his shoulder. The First Presidency return my gaze, three elderly men in business suits. "I have something I need to confess to you." (You're stalling. You know what you need to say, you've worked it over in your mind a hundred times. Just say it.) "Yesterday I had inappropriate relations with a missionary in my district." His expression undergoes no change whatsoever. "You mean sexual relations?" (The moment he says "sexual relations," I go cold inside. I need to make him realize that things didn't go that far--that I'm still clean, at least in that sense. At the same time, though, I have no illusions about how far things might have gone if we hadn't been interrupted, or if I'd agreed to meet Elder Braithwaite that night the way he wanted. Did Elder Braithwaite and I have sexual relations? Not exactly. Did I want to have sexual relations with Elder Braithwaite? Oh yes. Oh yes.) "It wasn't actually sex," I say. I try to sound contrite as I say this. I don't want to seem like I'm making excuses or trying to minimize my guilt. But I can tell that's exactly how it's coming out. I trail off helplessly. President MacIntyre leans forward, clasps his hands on the desktop. "Elder Mitchell, as branch president, I'm both a judge in Israel and a shepherd of the Lord's flock. I need to know exactly what happened so I can decide what judgment needs to be applied, and so I can know how to help you." He pauses to let me soak this in. "Who did you have relations with?" (I had harbored a hope--a miniscule hope--that he might not ask that. But of course he has to ask it.) "Elder Braithwaite," I tell him. (Elder Braithwaite and I became friends on our second day in the MTC. He was the elder in our district most like me: studious, pensive, a little shy, a perfectionist, high-stressed. He laughed a lot to release his nervous energy. He had a sharp mind--he'd worked as a computer technician before his mission-- but languages were not his forte, and he lagged behind everyone else in our fast-paced Spanish class. His frustration at falling behind paralyzed him, causing him to lag even further behind. I coached him outside class, usually while we were standing in line at the cafeteria with the rest of our district. Together we'd go over the vocabulary or verb forms from our last class session; I'd calm him down when he began to get high-strung. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here," he told me once. His words embarrassed me but also sent a thrill up my scalp.) "Where did it happen?" President MacIntyre asked. "In my room." (I share my dorm room with Elders Daley, Gundersen, and Holt. Elder Braithwaite and his companion, Elder Saunders, have the next room over to themselves.) "When?" "Two days ago. Friday." "When, Friday?" My short answers are irritating him. He wants more information. "How did it happen?" (Our district has gym from 1:00 to 2:00, four days a week. I hate gym. As soon as warm-up exercises are over and everyone breaks up to run, or lift weights, or play basketball or volleyball, I and a handful of other chess club types hide out on the stairs, where the instructor can't see us, killing time. On Friday, Elder Braithwaite came to the stairs looking for me. "This is lame," he said, with his usual nervous laugh. "Let's sneak out and go back to the dorm. I want to write some letters." I hesitated. What about our companions? No problem. Elder Braithwaite had already gotten Elder Saunders to agree to a split: Elder Saunders would temporarily be companions with my companion, Elder Daley. Exchanging companions like this was against MTC rules. But we knew it was done in the mission field, which is how I rationalized that surely it would be all right.) "We came back early from gym class--we did an unauthorized split." (Sneaking out of gym was remarkably easy; the instructor was nowhere in sight. If I'd known it could be so easily done, I would have done it before.) "Who suggested that you do a split? You or Elder Braithwaite?" "He did." (Does that sound like I'm evading responsibility?) "Why did you go to your room?" From the way he emphasizes "your," I can tell President MacIntyre means: Why did you go to your room and not Elder Braithwaite's? (Mission rules require us always to be in the same room with our companion, unless one of us is in the bathroom. Elder Braithwaite suggested we go to his room. This was only natural, given that we had returned to the dorms so he could write letters. But going into his room with him, alone, felt unsafe to me. I had the idea I'd be better able to resist temptation if we were in my room. That makes no sense, of course, in retrospect. Perhaps I was trying to fool myself into believing that I wanted to resist temptation.) "He was going to write letters, and I was going to read, so I suggested we go to my room. That way I could lie down on my own bed to read." "And then?" (I was propped up in bed, pretending to read, listening to Elder Braithwaite's pen scratching away behind me, where he sat at my desk. Scratch. Pause. Scratch. Pause. The pauses became longer. Then the scratching stopped altogether. The sound of air hissing out of the radiator seemed very loud.) "After a few minutes, he came over and sat on the bed. He said he couldn't keep his mind on his writing. He asked what I was reading, so I showed him. And then he lay down on the bed next to me to read, too." "What were you reading?" "A book about Colombia my parents gave me." (Elder Braithwaite had asked the same question. "Contraband," I told him. Missionaries weren't supposed to have books aside from the scriptures and other Church publications. He laughed. I passed him the book. He started flipping through it. When he came to a part he wanted to read more thoroughly, he kicked off his shoes and moved around into the same half- lying, half-sitting position I was in. I had to scoot over towards the wall to make room for him. We had never been so physically close to one another before.) President MacIntyre nods to himself a little, as if he finds my answer satisfactory. It occurs to me to wonder what he imagined I might have been reading. "What happened next?" (Elder Braithwaite leafed through the book. Occasionally he'd say something--"Amazing," or "I didn't know this"--and I would have to lean up close to him in order to see what he was responding to. I could smell his deodorant, the conditioner in his hair. I remembered the rule from the Missionary Handbook that said missionaries should sleep in the same room but not in the same bed. In my mind, different voices clamored for attention. This is dangerous. Don't be silly, Elder Braithwaite's just being friendly. Nothing can go wrong as long as you keep your own abnormal feelings under control. Just enjoy the moment. See where it might go. Not that it's going to go anywhere. You'd better hope it doesn't go anywhere. But wouldn't it be wild if...And then it happened.) I steel myself to continue. "We were lying next to each other on the bed, looking at the book together. And then he pushed his leg up close against mine." (He did it slowly, casually, as if he wasn't thinking about it. But there was no mistaking what he was doing. I looked at him, surprised, thrilled, frightened. He locked eyes with me. I resisted the impulse to turn away. My heart was racing. Without breaking eye contact, Elder Braithwaite closed the book and laid it aside. He put one hand on my shoulder, close to the neck, so that his thumb brushed my bare skin. I took a deep, shivering breath. He brought his face towards mine.) "And then we kissed--" "Who initiated the kiss?" "Um--" I don't see what difference that makes. "He did." (I have kissed one girl in my entire life, and the experience left me wondering what all the fuss is about. Elder Braithwaite's kiss was something from another world altogther. Instincts I never knew I had erupted from somewhere deep inside me. I found myself trying to devour Elder Braithwaite's lips, then breaking free to work my mouth along the side of his face, up to his ear, and down his neck until the fabric of his t-shirt kept me from going any farther. We clasped each other tightly. Elder Braithwaite pulled his neck free of my lips so we could resume kissing. After a while he put his tongue cautiously into my mouth. The idea of french-kissing had always repulsed me, so I was surprised to find how much the act excited me.) President MacIntyre's face is stone. "What else did you do besides kiss?" "We...stroked each other." "Where?" "All over. Hair...face...arms...chest...back..." "On top of your clothes, or underneath?" "On top, at first. Then later, he put his hand under my shirt, and after that, I put my hands on his back." (The flesh-on-flesh contact when he touched my stomach made the muscles contract involuntarily. Elder Braithwaite slid his hand slowly up my torso to the center of my chest. I wished he would touch my nipples, but after pressing against my breastbone for a few seconds, he retreated, pulling his hand out from under my shirt. He embraced me tightly again, rolled over on top of me. I could feel his erection pushing against my own. I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, whimpering a little. Elder Braithwaite buried his face in my neck. I reached up under his shirt, dragged my hands up the length of his back. We moved our bodies back and forth, struggling to find the same rhythm.) "Did either of you touch the other below the waist?" "No. I mean, well, not with our hands. He lay down on top of me, and so we were touching below the waist, you know, that way." "So at no point did either of you directly touch or handle the other's genitals?" I shake my head. "Did either of you ejaculate?" "Things didn't go that far," I mumble, humilliated. "The other elders came back." (Loud voices came down the hall towards the bedroom, one of them clearly Elder Gundersen's. I panicked, but Elder Braithwaite kept his cool. Swiftly but calmly, he returned to his seat at the desk. He got there just as someone's key rattled in the doorknob. I grabbed my book, opened to a page at random, and set the book on my lap to conceal my erection. My heart thundered. It hit me what an extraordinarily dangerous, foolhardy thing Elder Braithwaite and I had done.) "Did the other elders see you and Elder Braithwaite?" "No. Elder Braithwaite got up before they opened the door. And then he left..." (The elders burst into the room, high on adrenaline. Elder Braithwaite gathered up his things and accompanied Elder Saunders back to their room. Elder Daley laughed good-naturedly when he saw me with the book. "Don't you get enough of that in class?" I couldn't think of a rejoinder, just smiled. When the elders stripped down to hit the showers, I made a point of focusing on the book so I wouldn't see them naked, even out of the corner of my eye. Soon I could hear the elders bantering loudly with each other in the showers down the hall. Still lying on my bed, I closed my eyes and offered a silent but fervent prayer of thanks that Elder Braithwaite and I hadn't been caught. Never again, I vowed. I swear it.) "But then he came back a few minutes later, while the others were showering, and told me to meet him that night, after everyone was asleep." "Meet him where?" "In one of the private showers in the bathroom." (The bathroom on our dorm floor has both communal and private showers. I would prefer to use a private shower, to avoid being surrounded by naked male bodies. But I've never seen anyone else using the private showers, and I don't want to be conspicuous. Instead I get up a half hour early, so I can use the communal showers, but alone. Elder Braithwaite, too, had noticed that no one uses the private showers. That's why he thought to have us meet there. It would be dry, and with the curtain drawn, someone getting up late at night to use the toilet wouldn't see us.) "Did you meet him?" "No." (I promised to meet him, but only so he would leave the room before the other elders came back from the shower. I had no intention of keeping that promise. It wasn't even a temptation now. He planted a quick kiss on my lips before he left. He was beaming. "I never imagined this would happen in the MTC," he told me.) "Why didn't you meet him?" "I knew that what we'd done was wrong." (Lights out was 10:30; Elder Braithwaite had told me to meet him at 11:30. At 11:26, by Elder Holt's digital alarm clock, I heard a door shut quietly somewhere nearby. I lay in bed, my hands clasped chastely across my chest, on top of the blanket. At 11:44, someone came and stood outside our door. I was afraid he would knock, or whisper my name. But he just stood there for a while. Then he went away.) "Did he say anything to you the next day?" "He asked me what happened." "What did you say?" "I told him I'd fallen asleep." (He managed to separate me from the others as our district was walking from our dorm to the cafeteria for breakfast. He was troubled. I acted sheepish, laughed it off: Couldn't stay awake, zonked right out, feel so stupid. Tonight. Same time. I'll be there, I promise. I hurried to catch up with the others. I steered clear of Elder Braithwaite for the rest of the day, and he didn't try to pull me aside again. We didn't study together like we always did. He laughed as usual with the other elders, but every now and then he shot me a worried glance--"anxious" would be a better description. That night, I waited to hear if Elder Braithwaite would go to the bathroom to wait for me. He didn't.) "Does Elder Braithwaite know you're confessing this to me?" "No." (Surely he must be afraid of that, though.) "Why are you confessing this to me, Elder Mitchell?" "Because...I know that what we did was a serious sin. And I need to get right with the Lord." President MacIntyre regards me somberly. "Elder Mitchell, have you ever had homosexual relations? Before this, I mean?" "Not before this. Never." (My physical development had always lagged behind my peers', so at first I didn't think anything of the fact that I wasn't interested in girls in the way other boys my age were. It took me a while to realize that I was, in fact, experiencing the same new feelings my peers were. I just wasn't having those feelings for the right sex.) "Have you associated in the past with homosexual individuals?" "No. Not that I know of, anyway." "Have you ever used pornography?" "No." (I've had to answer this question in past interviews. My answer's an honest one, assuming that clothing catalogues, National Geographic magazine, and classical art don't count as pornography even when used as such.) "Do you now or have you in the past had problems with masturbation?" "No." (This is a bald-faced lie, one I've told in every interview I've had with a priesthood leader since I was fifteen. I tell the lie to President MacIntyre instinctively. Immediately I consider backtracking and coming clean, but he pushes on before I have time.) "Did you date before your mission?" "Yes." (I dated only because my parents pressured me to. I've always assumed that they insisted so much because they thought I was shy. Now it occurs to me to wonder if they had a different worry.) "Were you sexually attracted to the young women you dated?" "Yes." (At BYU, the year before my mission, I dated a girl from one of my classes. She was my first girlfriend, and the only girl I've ever kissed. That distinction is due to her being the most aggressive girl I've dated. She asked me out, not the other way around. It was she who put her hand in mine, who put my arm around her shoulders, who initiated the first kiss. Crossing these borders for the first time excited me sexually, and that in turn gave me hope that I could put homosexual temptation safely behind me. The summer before my mission, she moved back home to Washington state and become engaged to a returned missionary there.) "Did thinking about young women cause you to become sexually aroused--to have an erection?" "Yes." (I suddenly understand why he's pursuing this line of questioning.) President MacIntyre settles back in his chair; I can tell the questions are over. His demeanor is more sympathetic now. "Elder Mitchell, a mission is a very stressful time. You're separated from your family and your friends. You're cut off from romantic contact with the opposite sex. It's natural to feel lonely. And when people are in a same-sex environment, that can do...strange things to their emotions. It happens in the military, during wartime, for instance. Perfectly normal men will experience a certain... inclination to seek sexual solace from other men. It's wrong to act on that inclination, of course. The prophets teach us that homosexual acts are a grievous sin, because they pervert the sacred powers of procreation. But the inclination to...perform such acts is normal under the kind of circumstances that you find yourself in right now." (This isn't going to be as bad as I thought. My life may not be ruined after all.) "What I'm saying is this, Elder Mitchell. What you and Elder Braithwaite did was wrong, and you know that. The fact that you came to confess so promptly indicates a repentant spirit on your part. And you are to be commended for that." He pauses. "But actually, Elder Mitchell, it doesn't seem to me that you have anything to repent of. Things between you and Elder Braithwaite went farther than they should have, but not as far as they might have. And more importantly, I don't see that you're really responsible for what's happened here. You were taken advantage of by a predator. From what you've described to me, it sounds like Elder Braithwaite has experience in setting up this kind of situation. He poses an extremely serious danger to others, and he should never have been cleared for missionary service. He needs to be shipped home immediately." (My face is hot with relief, but my stomach sinks. President MacIntyre is blind. I am not the innocent I have apparently convined him I am. Elder Braithwaite is no predator.) "I want you to put this behind you, Elder Mitchell. Don't think about it. Don't dwell on it. Never talk to anyone about it. It's over. You're going to stay in the MTC, you're going to learn to teach the gospel, and you're going to serve an honorable mission for the Lord." (I have no doubt what the truly honorable thing to do at this moment is. But I also have no doubt what will happen to me if I fail to take advantage of the out President MacIntyre is holding open for me.) I say nothing. I nod and look appropriately humble. "One more thing, Elder Mitchell. It's something I heard one of the Twelve preach in general priesthood conference some years ago." (I am a model of rapt attention.) "If someone ever tries to take advantage of you like that again, you floor him if you have to. Understood?" (I understand.) The interview is over. As President MacIntyre escorts me out the door, he makes a point of squeezing my shoulder and affectionately slapping my back. "Elder Daley," he booms--the elders waiting outside leap to their feet--"you take good care of your companion. He's a fine man." "Yes, President." (I can tell from the surprised glance Elder Daley gives me that he indeed believed I was here to confess a pre-mission transgression. He expected I'd be sent home. If I were really the fine man President MacIntyre declares me to be, I would be going home.) "Remember what I said to you, Elder Mitchell," President MacIntyre tells me. I nod, unable to speak. (Maybe President MacIntyre's right. It was Elder Braithwaite who suggested we go back to the dorm. It was Elder Braithwaite who came and sat down on the bed. He was the one who put his leg up against mine. He was the one who initiated the kiss. Not me.) As Elder Daley and I turn to go, President MacIntyre says in a low voice to the assistants, "Find Elder Braithwaite and his companion, and have them come see me immediately." (I know better than to believe my own rationalizations. This is my last chance to do the right thing instead of the safe thing.) I keep walking. Behind me, I hear President MacIntyre return to his office and shut the door. Elder Daley and I will return to our room. We'll go to gospel study class, dinner, tonight's devotional. While we do that, Elder Braithwaite will be packing. By the time we return from the devotional, he will be gone. I will never see him again. (Which is the greater sin? What I did with Elder Braithwaite? Or what I did to Elder Braithwaite? I have two years of missionary service--and a whole lifetime after that--to wonder.) This is my second Sunday in the Missionary Training Center.