Our teachers would convene in the back of the gym basement, drinking coffee and eyeing us suspiciously. But wait, before I go on, I have a secret: I went to Catholic school for 12 years. And now that the pope is dead, I'm not in mourning as much as I'm thinking about the cool black and white papal smoke they taught us about. I don't think that makes me sick. Making a Polish joke here would, though.
Before biology, the guys in my class -- not only was it a Catholic school, but it was a Catholic all-guys school -- would lounge around in the hallways, arms around each other, casually stroking each other's chests. Soon they'd venture to cupping one another's genitals. Or balls, now that I'm crass and not outside of Biology class. This isn't your typical WOTS exaggeration, either.
This happened, and I would stand there in shock, like I just saw someone shitting into my washing machine. And then we'd be at these dances, and the guys wouldn't be dancing together on the floor. Their love was kept in school, and I was fine with that. The teachers lurked at the dance, and we had to be on our best, most Catholic behavior.
"Would you like to engage in some pre-marital sex, miss?"
"Would you like to go out and receive the Body of Christ this weekend?"
"If I were the alphabet, I'd put J and C together. You know, for Christ. Want to go get some milkshakes?"
But wait, the pope just died. I was destined to be a pope one day. Well, not a pope, but a priest, and a priest is the first stepping stone to popehood, in case you didn't know. Our parish priest brought in a video tape of his Holy Orders (you know, when he became a priest), and I was watching because I loved watching videos. But I was watching a little too intently. Mrs. Spratt came up to me afterwards and said "I saw you watching." I immediately felt guilty -- that's another thing we were taught, feeling guilty -- and she told me that I'd be a priest. Only future priests watch priest videotapes that intently. She was wearing a cast from breaking her arm, an accident that happened while she tried to nuclear-proof her house, and I shouldn't have believed her, but I did.
So I spent the next few months wondering when I could get started, when my beard would grow in, when I'd find Jesus. Or become Jesus.
Then I dated that girl who dumped me in a note that her friend wrote me, and I realized that too was a sign. Jesus didn't have a girlfriend. He had Mary Magdalene, and the Jews try to tell us she's a whore, but Jesus Christ Superstar tells me that she was just a girl who liked to rub oil on Jesus, and honestly, I've had so many Jewish girls lie to me at Penn that I think I want to believe Jesus Christ Superstar. Plus, they sing.
So wait, the teachers would stand in the back corner of the dance. Don't get too close. Grind, but grind with separation. So we were really grinding the air in between us. I grinded her air, she grinded my air, and it was some really hot, sexual air. I wouldn't be surprised if that air was sick in the morning, that's how hot and passionate it was.
Mr. Ryan was the religion teacher who would actually patrol the dance floor. One time he found Dave, the guy who said he was a Ralph Lauren model, fingering a girl. That's what I was told. And Mr. Ryan said, "Don't get anything stuck." That's what Dave told us, anyways. This was too much for my freshman mind to comprehend, but now, I think it makes sense.
The pope is dead, I'm pretty sure I like girls, and I really like Jesus Christ Superstar (specifically "What's the Buzz"). Oh, and Dave had lots of acne.
