ash, capitol; fin

cain

In the wooden pew of a Sunday church morning I kissed my first boy, our childhood group aging up and understand and learning who we are and the bodies we're in and in every way I tried clawning out of that skin, but that's not the point. He was a boy named Sampson, another boy from another bible story and it spit in my mouth and I remember it because I'm prrrretty sure I carved the date in the wood of my bedside table when I got home. After the church toll rang I ran to my mother as Sampson crawled to his and I told her about him and she told me how disgusting a mess like me was, and Cain held his hands in his pockets and thought of how Sampson's felt in his hands.

Wait, Samuel. Shit. 

His name was Samuel. 

Anyways next time I saw him apparently my mom told his mom how sickening I am and he called my voice ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggratting and spit on me, which I'm pretty sure I thought was a kink back then like, I straight swallowed his saliva a week before, how was I supposed to know? Besides, I was thirteenish and just now facing those hard times all the reality queens talk about over chardonnay; I was the gayest boy the world had ever known with my dorky brown hair and horse teeth and clear skin, I never knew there was something wrong with, well, my mother.

Honey was illiterate.

She attempted to read me for filth, to read the bible into my skin and purge that gayness outta me but I was stuck with it and something harder than holy soap would have to take it out of me. But of course, thirteen year old messy Cain never knew that, but after like six years or whatever I grew up and went to college and had mad sex.

I think I lost my train of thought here, but anyways my first drag name was Rim Jobs for, semi-obvious reasons.

But more importantly, I found what really mattered inside: eight inches of loving yourself and knowing who you are.