THE PRIESTHOOD OF DECEPTION

 

For a long time I tried to find out from whom I inherited the severity. It is a visible feature of my physiognomy that has alienated many. It's not that I cared that much, but I've looked at the close relatives. There was promiscuity in my father, but he was severe in the education of his children, when he was present, and of all my brothers the youngest is certainly the most authentic and the least austere.  And he has a beautiful smile when life goes well for him. After having witnessed so many fluctuations in his life, alcohol, drugs, disappointments and unemployment, I look at him now that his father is gone, this time not at the double life he had, here on this earth, with my mother or in the other, far away, at the air base, where other brothers of mine were born. I didn't go looking for it. I don't even want to know. My father is already asleep in the eternal house and my mother is almost blind. From the sum of the natural pains of a woman who had to learn to raise her children on her own, while her husband made children in other lands. My younger brother's name is Herculaneum. I never thought that I would find a life, that I would be able to overcome the many heartbreaks and vices, but here it is, father of two boys and my sister-in-law carries another one in her womb. And although severity is a trait in him too, there, with his family, I never saw him serious, on the contrary, always smiling, happy. Who knew!? I changed him so many times that he would not straighten up, my own father prayed the same, that he was weak and that vices and sadness would eat him early. I have this trait inherited from my father, and other isolated characteristics. I can well remember that I once dared a more serious life. I wanted to study to be a priest. And because he's the oldest of the boys, I know very well that I didn't do it and it wasn't because of a lack of resources, because my father would go out of his way for me to study, because he was popular, because everyone said he was smart, that he had a look, that he would be whatever I wanted to be. So when I joined the army, I took this idea with me, that I would become the first priest in the family. My mother appreciated my ambition. My father, when he appeared, from far away, assured me that I would be whatever I wanted, study, of course, whatever you wanted, my son! But help your mother! You know you're the man of the family in my absence. And it was. 

With her, I cultivated fields and crops, I made potatoes and all the vegetables that satisfied our hunger sprout from the gravel. I tore ditches in the middle of the sand and manure everything, sweat was a great companion and what was worth me, me and my family was my strength and tenacity. My four sisters were lazy, pushing each other to take care of clothes, clean and clean the rooms in the house. Meals were always rushed, as if one of us was going to catch a train or a boat, and the kitchen was tidied up at the same speed.They stumbled over each other to see who could hurry up the fastest, to go on a date, to parties, to end the night on the pier or on the beach, and I saw them, in all these years, crying with dreams, because they carried in their souls the misrule of other lives. Mine was neat and well planned. He was going to be a priest. In some parish, he might become a bishop or something. Don't underestimate me. Few did.  In the army, I was fascinated, it was there that I got my driver's license and that I became a man. It was also there that I saw my immaculate certainties tainted with doubts. And in the support, today, of all that, I was left with only one certainty. And if no man was made of iron, one with a vocation to Jesus Christ would have to be. Of iron. I looked at my roommates and barracks and tried to guess their dreams and ambitions. I never said that my ambition was to be a priest. Never. Only my family knew. It was a vocation. In the army, I discovered that my possible vocation would have to aspire to the theater, I don't mean the stages where the artists simulate characters, but the stages of life themselves. I often thought about why I hid, even from myself. A snotty, with no ability to play or hitch and I had never been interested in girls. He told myself many times that maybe it was because the house was full of women, who were my sisters, my mother, my sisters' friends, who came in without asking permission, and to whom I had to say so many times no, no, I wasn't interested in girls. I just wanted to be a priest. 

That day, I was cleaning in the canteen. There were new corporations and it was up to me to help clean the mess, the toilets, the kitchen. With the arrival of these young men, it did not escape my notice that one of the colonels had sat in conversation with the blowtorches. He had a serious air, a majestic bearing, he even reminded me of my father's mannerisms. Someone shouted my name. - Brook, are you going to stay there, man? Look, there's a lot to do. -Agreed. I wasn't a graduate yet. I unwillingly cleaned the kitchen floor full of grease, the smell of the mixture used for these services broke my reasoning and made the fountains throb. And I went with the mops and buckets to the damn toilets. I can't say how it happened or if it would be written to happen and in that way, which became the bucket of cold water, much later. But not at that time. I slid into the corridor of the toilet, I clearly heard a noise that tortured me for years on end. But I embodied the character well. 

Foot by foot, I got in line for the lavatories, and saw the half-open toilet doors. There were twelve. All ajar. The noise came from one of them and I soon saw the image that disturbed me for a long time. Even today is the day that I get stiff and understand that it was there that my life clicked. The colonel was standing without his coat, his trousers pulled down to his thighs, and one of the new soldiers, kneeling between the wall and the toilet, swallowed the colonel's sex, clinging to his legs, while the colonel pushed his head against his body. She was red with excitement and, looking at me, smiled and continued to rub Magala's head against her sex. I felt bewitched. I stood there, listening to that mouth swallow and the colonel moan and my own wet, hard sex, I could feel it, and obviously that day, just at that time, the priest in me was gone. Only lust and pleasure remained with me, enchanted by those noises, disturbed by the real images, And if I walked three paces, I could touch the colonel, wipe away the sweat that ran down his forehead, or interrupt the magala. And this went on for about five minutes. The harvest was empty. There were three of us in there. Why didn't he close the door? When I got a reason, I pushed myself into a toilet and waited until I heard any more noise. I heard the sink faucet turn on and off, footsteps walk, and a short, circumstantial conversation. The soldier hadn't seen me, of course. The colonel, yes. But even that hadn't extinguished his pleasure, on the contrary, I swore that my presence there had increased his pleasure because the scene didn't shorten, he continued, it took them a while, until he heard them leave. My breathing was labored and labored, panting. My head was spinning, as if I had drunk too much alcohol and my hands only stopped rubbing my sex, when I cum all over, I too sweating like a pig, I too doubting everything, who I was, after all, where had that animal in me come from, that,  Faced with a patent, will he be like the rabbit before the serpent, bewitched and feverish? I was possessed and for about a fortnight I wanted to go back to the toilets, but I only did it when the harvest was full, or when I felt like to go and clean up, and I always tried to make sure that I wouldn't find either of them there. 

When I was allowed to leave and return home, I did so, but it was no longer the same. They asked me a lot of questions, if the food was good, if I liked it, if I was forced to get up at night to exercise, in short.  Talking about what lived there bored me. They noticed me farther away, but I didn't care. I looked for Johnny, with the excuse of a few beers. I needed to talk, even though I knew I would never dare to say anything to him. And he was an open mind, a true playboy, always looking for immediate pleasure, surrounded by many women. After a few beers and a few games of pool, my friend wanted to go fuck. And I knew that very well. He must have realized that I was not well because he forced me to go with him, to pick up his girlfriend and a friend of hers. I remember we were in the car, me in the back with his girlfriend's friend and him in the front, her breasts bared and sneaked out of the car, and I saw them go towards the curved lawn, right in front of the river. The night was full of stars and her friend started kissing and groping me and I didn't want to be weak, Nor to tell him that my vocation was that of a priest, because I had already discovered that no, this staging no longer allowed me. And I accepted her thrusts and my deflated penis and her taut breasts. When I saw her looking for our friends, through the car window, I was possessed by the image of the colonel, and I kissed her on the mouth and dragged her mouth to my cock which straightened and closing her eyes, my head spun again, her mouth wanting to go back to mine and me and push her into my sex. That's all I wanted from her. Nothing else. And before she came out again, I inside her mouth, flooding her with. I apologized to him, but I didn't feel guilty about anything. She wanted pleasure. I went to get mine. My days as a priest were over. 

I returned to the barracks, anxious, inside me the image of the colonel nourished my soul. Few could talk about Ribeiro, saying that he was fearful, or that he was too serious, too arrogant, he was a new Ribeiro and I didn't know myself. I spent some leaves without going home. One Wednesday, when winter had already set in, I was called to the commander, who needed me to lead the colonel to the place where other ranks were training. The military training never ended, and neither did the campaigns. It was cold, but inside me, it was summer again. I was afraid to look him in the eye, I always avoided his presence, but deep down, it was what I wanted most. I didn't ask why. I didn't even want to know. 

It was three o'clock in the afternoon and the journey would take a maximum of an hour and a half. I drove a good part of the trip tense, until the colonel asked me to make a small detour, that he knew a shortcut and that he wanted to pick up a bottle from a friend and soon we would be at our destination. I didn't want to share that moment with anyone else, nor meet his friends, but I thought that to a certain extent, that was good, because I would be traveling longer and when I returned to the barracks I would only have to rest for the next day, no cleaning and no putting up with the drunkenness of the NCOs. 

The natural park was dirt, but in very good condition and we quickly arrived at the desired place. He asked me to wait for him, that he would not be long. I saw, through the window of that house, a thin man of sixty or more and a cat look in my direction. Soon after, the colonel came out with a bottle in his hand, getting into the jeep. He asked me to stop a few meters ahead and enter a clearing, obviously known to him. So I did. He jumped out of the jeep and went to urinate behind the bushes and when he came back he said to me:- Ribeiro, today you hit the jackpot. Let's drink a vintage the way. He opened the bottle and took a few brave drags, pushing the bottle towards me. I didn't hesitate. I drank two sips. And my heart raced. My sex pushed my pants as if it were the biggest obstacle. He smiled, lascivious, and handed the bottle back to me. It started to open the fly and I swear I did the rest. I pulled his pants down to his knees. I started drinking again and he unbuttoned my pants and ripped off my boxers. The bottle in my hand and his cock gleamed in my mouth, but it was his mouth that dug into my sex, drawing a scream of pleasure from me. 

"Colonel, this is my first time. - I stammered, saliva grew in my mouth and all I knew was that my name was Ribeiro and that I was a virgin. His mouth dropped my sex and gave me a kiss with the flavor of my cock and moaned, too, and told me oh Ribeiro fuck the magalas! And he started sucking me again and I wanted that moment to last forever, that there was no rush and no troops, no nothing. We went to the back seat, I swallowed his cock and he asked me if I liked anal sex. I told him that I didn't know how to answer him, that it had never happened to me like that and we curled up on the bench, his mouth on my cock and mine on his cock. And the world could end there. It didn't make any difference. He knew how to open the way. I stopped being a virgin. And I was sure, in the midst of the village of doubts, that I was in love. By that colonel. We walked for three months, we met everywhere, we became good friends. Until the day of my accident. I didn't know if it was a bomb, if that object was in the way. That open field was good for speed and I liked to give it gas. And he whetted my appetite for the accelerator. With the Smiths' music through the roof, zás. It blew me all over.  I woke up in the military hospital all in shambles, a broken arm, two crushed ribs that caught my lower back, my face all torn up and told me I was lucky. Those who went with me hadn't been so lucky. 

Since then, I've tried to drag myself through life. I don't know if it's God or the Devil that I bring with me, maybe I carry both. I know I've been married and divorced. I have a fourteen-year-old daughter, with whom I keep in touch from far and wide. I got married again. I like everything organized. My mother has been quieter since then, although blind. I don't even know if I'll ever see her alive again. I found a way around the difficulty I have in loving a woman.  I go on missions abroad. I've buried more friends than I should. And, contrary to what you might think, I'm a tough guy to change my mind about. I never was happy again, I could never be happy again. I've been angry with God ever since he saved me from the accident, which I'd rather have died. It would be more decent with me.

I believe in fate. Mine has been cruel. I live a play I wrote, I chose the worst fate for the protagonist. I. Don't give me the freedom to be myself. I exist in a man's world, where the vast majority of them who like dick, pretend they like it, are women, because society still marginalizes those who are different. As if me being homosexual is a disease. My father would say yes and even my friends. And I find myself thinking that the priesthood would have been a better choice, because it would allow me other things, other freedoms, but the thing, as far as pleasure is concerned, and who I really am, would not change. That a man is born to live what is his own and not that of others. Seriousness became the most marked trait in me. And when I need sex, like an animal and I can't find anything to console me, I close my eyes and see the colonel, in that woods, it's just a few minutes of real pleasure and then it's all over! And I do like the others, like everyone else, I hide in this garment of shame and fear and breathe another identity that is not my own. But until when?