Beautiful Sinners

Quiet and as still as the woods around us, we made no sound but the dirt and leaves rustling underneath our feet as we moved across the ground. We tried to be quiet anyway, but occasionally we couldn’t help but let escape from our mouths that suckling, sloppy smack sound as a head bobbed up down, back and forth and all around. We were cautious, turning our heads to every blow of the wind or every crackle of a leaf; out here in nature we couldn’t be too careful of what we had dared to do.

Now having arrived at the end, we felt shivers run down our spines and lift every hair on our cold, bare skin, but it was a feeling as strong and as pleasurable as the feelings of guilt that immediately followed. It was finished, our sin, and now silently the clothes came back on—underwear and wifebeater, shorts and shirts. Feeling hollow, I found no words to speak, nothing more than a nod, a shy smile, a shrug of the shoulders, all meant to say one thing: Thanks stranger.



I couldn’t quite tell the difference—the paneled stained glass windows depicted ocean waves under purple and white skies that were either apocalyptic or heaven. These smaller windows were spread out across the walls, while a bigger stained glass window over the altar depicted white birds flying over green rolling fields, across a deep blue sky, and toward a fiery ball of orange and red flames, presumably the sun. The walls themselves were simply plastered, beige walls. The ceiling hung low, with wooden support beans running across it. It was as if someone turned a daycare center to a church...Church.

First time here.

I wanted to be able to call out or turn to Ranier because I couldn’t keep up with everyone saying in near-perfect unison “Amen” or “Praise the lord” or some really long sentence, but I refrained from moving too much in my seat. Following everyone, I sat back down, and I tried to maintain my posture and kept my hands in my lap. I listened attentively as the priest, who dawned a vibrant green robe, began to speak.



No one would want to buy these jeans if they knew what the two of us accidentally got on them. I poked my head outside my dressing room and peered around the corner. “All Clear,” I whispered. He tipped-toed our from behind me, carrying the pair of jeans to put back in the rack.

As I drove him back to our place, the car was filled with an awkward silence that we occasionally tried to mask with a question. “What are you doing after this?” he asked.

“I got a paper to write for English class, and some studying for a psychology final. You?” I answered.

“Studying, homework.”

“Yeah, same here!” I said. Silence. Finally, we arrived at his place and I dropped him off.

As I drove home, I thought briefly to myself, what the fuck was I doing? I let go of someone I really cared about. I couldn’t have him back, so now, this was me, hooking up like a skank.



The songs were festive and uplifting, and I found myself clapping along to assurances that the Lord loved me no matter what and that all sins, past, present, and future, could be atoned for. I actually liked this priest too. He was eccentric. The green robe probably already said it. Everyone laughed, including me, at his subtle jokes, and his sermons had a relatable, universal message, even underneath all the God talk.

“We can’t blame others for our misfortunes,” the priest said as he began to conclude one of his sermons. “We can’t blame the weather, we can’t blame the frikkin’ traffic that always seems to be there at 7 AM every morning. Take responsibility...Responsibility goes to the bone! God gave us minds so we could think, evaluate our past and present and plan our future, and God gave us limbs so we could take action!”

At the end, he pulled out the wine and the communion bread. I was hungry. But no, Ranier said no, I never went through communion. I didn’t even practice in any shape or form. But I continued to stare at that flat disk of bread that the priest waved in the air underneath the feet of a hanging crucifix. It’s like he was taunting me with it.



This time, we sat on a log overlooking the creek. He zipped his jeans back up and I did the same with mine. As we walked back to my car, I felt something different this time, something so much worse. I could hardly look at him, and most of all I could not look at myself. I felt shame, something that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Once I dropped him off, once he was gone, I knew, there’d be no more of this.

I had been going through a few rough months, but this was no excuse to hook up with random guys. I am never doing this again, I declared to myself. I was done, and now it was time to take some responsibility. I let go of someone I really cared about, and now it was time to get him back.

I went home, logged onto Myspace, and sent this message to him: “This is probably old news, but did you get into UC Davis yet? If so, CONGRATULAAAASHUNS.”

I got this reply: “What happened? Almost 6 months ago at the end of 2006 you were avoiding my calls and trying as hard as you could to avoid contact with me. I was completely willing to talk to you and find out what the problem was. Unfortunately you didn’t want to talk to me at all so I just gave up and stopped caring. I found it hella random that you commented me the other day. I am still completely willing to rebuild the friendship so call me sometime and let’s talk or whatever.

Black John wasn’t as oblivious as I thought he was. I messaged him back, saying no more than a location and time: “Wednesday, 3:00 PM. Oakridge.”

John would be graduating from the high school in less than three weeks, leaving me behind next year to finish my senior year in high school without the support I had from him, Peter, and Miranda, the latter two having already gone off to college. I had to make my last few moments with John last.



“God loves us all, so even if you have not gone through communion,” the priest said, “or if you share different beliefs or don’t even practice anything at all, I invite you to come up here anyway and take a piece of our brea—”

I was sold. Time to get me a taste of that communion bread.

I got up, stood in line, got my tiny paper-thin wafer of communion bread, and skipped on the wine—everyone was drinking from the same cup, but maybe God had some kind of anti-mono force field over the church. I didn’t wanna check. As I walked back to my seat, I let the little chip of bread soak around in my mouth. It tasted kinda like an unsweetened ice cream cone; this was something I could see myself snacking on if I was really, really hungry.

When I was back in my seat, I noticed in the corner of my eye someone shuffling down my row. She was coming toward me. I turned and looked at her, and I was surprised to see a familiar face.

“Oh wow, Brandy, it’s good to see you again!” I said. Brandy was a black girl in my French class back in high school. She used to have a crush on me when I was a freshman and she was a sophomore.

“It’s good to see you too, Brian! How are you doing? What are you doing here? What school are you going to now?”

“I’m going to UC Irvine. I just finished my second year, so I’m back up here in San Jose for the summer.”

“Did you come alone?”

“Yeah, I did.” I shrugged, because I still didn’t fully understand why I came. Brandy and I continued to catch up, but the question of why I came lingered in my mind all throughout our conversation and all throughout my drive home. I came up with a partial answer:

I wanted to take responsibility, but I couldn’t find within me the strength that I needed.