As my hand had got caught behind you when I reached for the wall when the people behind us pushed I gave you a little friendly squeeze at your bum to call upon my need to be set free. My smile to you is met by a glance and your lips parted and closed invisible to all but me standing closest to you. And a short wiggle of your hips makes me not searching to be set free any more but instead come to peace with my position; I formed my hand as a cushion for you to the wall. Your husband were discussing with a woman if the weather would still be raining when we got out after the movie. Someone suggested we all should have dinner together at a restaurant two blocks down the street. Me myself I listen, but my mind has been taken away from both cinema and food, what is real for me now is the fabric around my finger that has now slid in between your cheeks. How can I get passed it without anyone noticing and will you be upset and scream to your husband to hit me in the face? Your face is not. Or not. I don't know. I mean, this place probably fucked me up worse, but it's not like I really wanted to be cured. I guess if I were going to choose one, I'd want "ineffective but harmless" somewhere in the ad.My parents wanted the cure though. Not for their sake. No. Of course not. For my sake. So I can be happy again (like it was ever picture postcard in my family) and be loved by God. Who, by the way, loves me anyhow. He just requires that I feel guilty about how he made me.You mentioned you had a writer friend who was a lesbian, BTW. Did she ever have to deal with the religion thing? Just wondering.So they drove me there, across three states. I'm not going to say which ones, just in case you do post this out there. Holy crap was that a road trip. Imagine being trapped in a car with your parents for hours on the road, just after they tell you that they're bringing you to a camp that'll fix you right up from being gay.Yep, I was gonna be cured. Hallelujah. Is that even how you.
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