Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash
The night an EF2-level tornado ripped through downtown Atlanta, we had both been completely unaware of the danger – surprisingly for Eli since his apartment sat far closer to the tornado’s path. The next day, oblivious to the tornado watch still in effect, Eli and I went on a futon-buying errand. That day and not the day a tornado actually touched down is the one that sticks in my mind.
“You know, this is really the best place to be during a tornado,” I said as we wound our way through the levels of the Ikea. “You’re hardly ever near windows.”
Eli politely laughed, and the date sank into a nervous silence. We’d been seeing each other for a month, but this initial awkwardness persisted.
#
On our first date, after wandering around the maze-like East Atlanta Book Exchange and eating at the Majestic Diner, we saw Juno together at Atlantic Station. As he drove us to the theater, he asked if I were religious. I said yes, and that I actually took it more seriously than I had growing up.
“What about you?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m a member of the LDS Church.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he said. “So when I said in my profile that I was ‘Drama Free’ that might have been a slight exaggeration. I’ll have to take things slow.”
In the dark of the theater, his warning echoed in my head. I agonized over whether to hold his hand. Was that too fast? Finally, I decided to risk it rather than have him think I wasn’t interested. Before I could make a move, however, I must have angled myself toward him because Eli, wide-eyed, immediately turned to face me, and, in the flickering light of Juno, mouthed, “is everything okay? Oh! Do you — do you need to go?” He made room for me to slip past him.
I shook my head, a dopey smile plastered on my face as I realized that he was nervous, too. I opened my mouth to silently reassure him but a better idea came to me.
I grabbed his hand.
Eli grinned and leaned into me for the rest of the movie.
After that first date, though, he would let me hold his hand, but it would elicit a longer speech about needing to take things slow.
I took the hint and stopped reaching for him.
Regardless of how physical we could be, I enjoyed hanging out with Eli. We had the same sense of nerdy humor liberally sprinkled with Biblical allusions as often as it was to geeky properties like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Like all Mormon men, he exuded wholesomeness and looked like your typical boy-next-door. In fact, he resembled the actor Adam Scott.
#
That Saturday, amid awkward jokes and our respective Moms calling to check in post-tornado, we spiraled through the Ikea showroom, selecting a futon and then fishing it out from their warehouse. While we waited in line, Eli turned to me. “Do you want to come over to my place and help me put it together?”
Moses’ face couldn’t have shone brighter after Mount Sinai than mine did that day.
I had never been to his place before.
I managed a restrained “yes.”
Back at his studio apartment, we quickly assembled the futon. I didn’t know what to expect with the errand finished so soon. Would he just drop me off now? But Eli suggested we watch television. That meant we’d spend the afternoon together – alone – in his studio apartment. After grabbing the remote and cueing up some cartoons, though, … Eli sat on the opposite end of the futon.
Apparently, he only wanted to watch cartoons and hang out.
Letting me into his place was a good sign, though. We’d move further when he felt ready – if I could refrain from screwing things up in the meantime.
I also wondered if I should say something. Like, a religious something. Should I witness to this poor Mormon? Is that what God really wanted me to do? Not sit on my hands on his new futon while we watched cartoons. Was this some sort of test? I thought I knew what my family would say in this situation.
The wind whipped about outside. Eli and I watched Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends while I waited for inspiration from God.
“Eduardo is a comedic genius,” Eli said.
I smiled at him. “Yeah.” With that silly comment, he reminded me that being Mormon didn’t exclusively define Eli any more than being Presbyterian wholly defined me. “I know what you mean.”
I felt like I could share every side of me with Eli, both silly and religious sides included, and I wanted him to feel the same way. So how could I say anything bad about Mormons? How could I ruin this magical space we created for each other?
Then, without taking his eyes off the television, Eli darted his hand across the length of the futon and grabbed mine, gently squeezing it.
I squeezed his hand back.
He grinned and scooted over next to me.
At the end of the episode, he handed me the remote. “Okay. You have to pick something now.”
I said I was fine watching more cartoons, but Eli didn’t seem convinced. I scrolled through the channels, but it was a Saturday afternoon. Nothing was on. I finally decided on the lesser of multiple evils. “I— I guess… Wayne’s World?”
“Sure,” Eli said, good-naturedly.
We struggled through dated references and jokes, or I struggled. Having picked it, I felt oddly responsible for the movie. It didn’t help when I looked over and saw Eli smile teasingly at me because of my selection – or so I thought. As wide-eyed as he had been at the theater the night of our first date, I opened my mouth to protest. Saturday afternoon! Nothing on!
Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me.
And I kissed him back.
And we did it again.
And again.
Suddenly Eli stopped, an appalled look on his face. “I can’t believe my first kiss is during Wayne’s World!”
Which was clearly my cue to say, “SCHWING!”
But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to scare him.
#
Eli believed that he had to experience gay life outside the Mormon Church before he could honestly say that living the LDS way — celibate, forbidden from acting on his sexuality — was better. He called this maddening situation his “experiment.” First, he came out to exactly two people whom he asked to hold him accountable during the experiment: his mom and his best friend Ashley. Out of the two, Ashley took it the best.
His mom said that he would go to hell.
“Don’t tell me that!” he said. “I love you, but don’t ever say that again!”
Later, once passions had cooled, he literally told his mom and Ashley, only half-jokingly, that he would be going on a date with a man – me -- and to watch him closely for track marks on his arms in case I led him into a heroin-filled gay demimonde.
With those safety measures enacted, the experiment could proceed. He created a profile on the now-defunct gay dating site Connexion and selected an intense, frowny photo of himself seated backwards in a chair in a very Cool Youth Pastor pose. ‘Sup? My name’s Eli. Let me rap at ya.
Meanwhile, I was the grandson of an ordained minister, and the son of a de facto minister. Our church, while nominally Presbyterian, was culturally Southern Baptist – albeit one that believed in ordaining women, baptizing babies, and something about predestination although we never really talk about that because predestination is the time travel of theology.
Every few years, our pamphlet-like Sunday School material would feature a lesson on cults that always listed such seemingly nice and innocuous institutions as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and the Holy Roman Catholic Church.
My Presbyterian grandfather once preached a sermon against homosexuality. In response, he received an anonymous note: “Be careful, Preacher. You just might know one.” It would be an embarrassing number of years before I would realize the note referred to me.
Someone else constantly used as an example of good Christian witnessing, the time she, in tears, broke up with her best friend because the friend was Jewish and, therefore, wouldn’t go to heaven.
The more Southern Baptist traits made it difficult to ever really come out. I admired Eli’s courage in coming out so explicitly to his family especially given the additional religious pressures. I felt lucky and grateful that no one – especially not my own Mom -- had ever condemned me to hell.
In Atlanta, I had a new church home that behaved more theologically consistent with Presbyterianism. I took my faith more seriously, but only a few months before Eli and I met, I had caused some mild church drama when my blog was discovered. I had vented about a fellow parishioner who, for an arbitrary reason, had rubbed me the wrong way.
This was not the first time something like that had happened.
In fact, I had basically spent my life as a church Mean Girl until shortly before I met Eli.
On top of that, I was the weird — secretly gay — super religious preacher’s (grand)kid. That was my identity. Unfortunately, whenever I met anyone like Eli, who marked off some of those same boxes, I grew hostile, worried that a person like me would only highlight my own differences and make my sexuality all the more obvious. Even after I came out, I instinctively pushed away guys like me -- cutting myself off from potential friends and partners.
Now, with Eli, God had seemingly issued a challenge, a test. If I could resist my worse instincts — if I could not be a self-righteous asshole — perhaps Eli and I would have a chance, or, to phrase it Biblically, maybe all these things would be added unto me.
#
When I kissed his neck, Eli seized up.
“Not on the neck,” he announced firmly in his faux-butch voice, stressing his resolve by pointing at me. Hey, buster, watch it!
“Okay,” I said, holding up my hands.
He hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m still not ready for a lot of stuff,” he said. “But I’m working on it.”
“That’s fine.” As soon as I said it, I heard how insincere it sounded — magnanimous at best like agreeing to Mexican for dinner when I’d secretly already had it for lunch.
I tried again, but even putting forth all my effort, I only managed a slight improvement. “That’s perfectly fine,” I said softly.
Nevertheless, Eli leaned over and hugged me tightly around the waist, his right cheek pressed against my side. “This would be easier if you were a big jerk.”
I realized then that the experiment was never supposed to get this far.
Eli didn’t think there would be anyone who would understand. He’d date a couple times; the dates would go horribly — especially once he revealed he was Mormon -- and that would be it. He had tried and being gay didn’t work for him.
He would remain celibate in the Mormon Church.
That afternoon, while he clung to my waist, I leaned over him and awkwardly hugged him, a modified version of what I remembered doing in tornado drills.
Finally, I said, “I like that your faith is important to you. I … I don’t know what I would do if I had to choose between my faith and… and my church. I’m glad that I don’t have to.” I meant to reassure him and also plant the seed that, you know, maybe, he could convert, that he had other options. Bargain with the man!
I hoped my half-hearted witnessing attempt would spur God into delivering clearer instructions. Did He want me to witness to Eli? That seemed contrary to what I took as my test, but lessons from my church growing up made me unsure. I didn’t want to risk anything more pointed. Whenever I grew religiously assertive, it always backfired.
If Eli detected any attempt at witnessing, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he gave me another squeeze.
We stayed that way for several moments.
#
Eli wanted us to do something apart from make out all afternoon. “What do you want to do?”
I’d noticed a kite in his apartment and, not remembering the tornado watch, suggested we take it to Piedmont Park. Eli signed off on that plan and grabbed his shoes. I knew he’d never publically display with me, so I dawdled. I untied Eli’s shoes as fast as he could tie them and coaxed lingering kisses from him.
“Listen: we’re going to the park,” he said in his faux butch voice, wagging his finger at me.
As we walked through Midtown, strong winds buffeted us about, shoving us against each other. Atlanta had suffered a major tornado, the barometer and clashing air systems creating the perfect environment for such a freak occurrence. The massive atmospheric shifts also seemed responsible for the pressure being lifted from Eli. Everything that kept him from holding my hand, from kissing me had been sucked up into the stratosphere. His religious burden had grown light, and I wanted to trust God and Eli, but I feared that this step had come sooner than Eli could handle.
I worried about what might be in store for us if we moved too fast.
Or maybe this situation amounted to God forcing the moment to its crisis? Forcing me to up my witnessing game?
In Piedmont, we found a clear spot and began assembling the kite when Eli heard a noise.
“Was that thunder?”
I thought about it a moment. “That was a car backfiring.”
The sky rumbled in response.
“Now that was thunder,” I said.
Eli raised an eyebrow. “Shall we Benjamin Franklin it?”
“Uh… let’s not.”
Instead, we walked until we’d reached the pavilion at the north end of the park where we sat on a bench and traded family stories.
Soon, unflown kite in hand, we went to a Souper Salad for dinner. I didn’t want to waste time on something as frivolous as eating when we could be back at Eli’s place. At any minute, whatever atmospheric miracle had created the tornado and lifted Eli’s religious burden … might reverse.
Any minute, I might accidentally do something to screw everything up. That seemed less likely if we were making out.
As we ate, he told me stories about his boss flying him out to L.A. to work as a Production Assistant on Free Radio, a VH1 program. They had him lean against the wall for the end credits of one of the episodes — his fifteen minutes.
He said that his boss generally understood about being Mormon.
“He’s cool,” Eli said. “He’ll talk clients out of thanking me with a bottle of wine without making it a thing. Sometimes, people are like, ‘Do you mind if I drink?’ And not even liquor or a beer. Like, a coke. Or ‘Is it okay if I curse?’ I’m like, yeah. It’s okay. Because I don’t. Care. I just want to tell them, ‘Hey, I went to film school, you know! They let me watch R-rated movies and everything!’” I didn’t ever want him to feel like that, like something alien, with me.
Back at his place, we found ourselves making out on his futon again. This time his television played a TBN broadcast in the background.
“We always make-out during the weirdest things,” Eli said as if this were going to become our inside joke.
The next thing I knew, it was after midnight.
Sunday.
“You have to take me home,” I said.
Eli reluctantly agreed, but that time, I was the one insisting while he goofed off and tied my shoelaces together, giggling and stealing kisses while I pulled at my shoes.
“Stop it!” I said, laughing at him. I didn’t want to leave, but we both had church in the morning, and I had a policy: I never did anything to frame his situation as me versus his church. If he overslept and missed the service because of me, well, wouldn’t that make Eli feel guilty and make him associate me with something bad like skipping church?
“Hey,” I said, “You have to take me home.”
We held hands for the entire drive to my apartment, and for the first time, when he dropped me off, he kissed me goodnight.
#
Perilous and interminable, that Sunday dragged more than any other, as if it were the last day before a holiday weekend.
In my gut, in my soul, I knew the test would finally be graded, the experiment’s results weighed and measured. We’d each face our last temptations. Alone.
I never called him on Sunday. His descriptions made it sound like a full-day affair. His ward’s services started at noon, and after, he normally went over to a friend’s place, or there was a scheduled singles’ activity or an informal dinner party. Calling him on Sunday seemed needy or passive-aggressive, like a nagging reminder of his life with me. I’d have to trust him to be strong on his own.
We had only chastely kissed and held hands, but for the LDS Church, he might as well have spent all day shooting up heroin!
If we could just make it through Sunday, if Eli could hold on, we’d be okay.
As the day wore on, and I didn’t hear from him — not a tear-filled breakup call but not a reassuring, I-had-fun call, either — I wondered if I had horribly misinterpreted my test.
Maybe my test came in two parts. Yes, God had wanted me to repent from my earlier self-righteousness, and I had done that. In this second, short answer section, God meant for me to discern when some situations called for me to act. He wanted me to gain the wisdom to know when to push Eli. For his own good. Maybe God’s will included my saying something against Eli’s religion — when the time was right?
Whenever I considered calling or texting him (innocently, but if God willed me to say something, if the Holy Spirit moved me…), before I could send anything, my phone would ring.
Once, it was my own church calling about a committee meeting.
And then, Mom called.
I even spoke to a telemarketer when I answered too quickly, thinking the unknown number could be a friend’s phone Eli borrowed.
My phone blew up that afternoon.
And the calls cleared my head.
Could God really want me to add to Eli’s pressure? Could He want me to join the chorus of people in his life telling him he was wrong, that he had to change, had to be different?
I imagined telling Eli that he wasn’t good enough for me, too, that he would go to hell for being different.
When I looked into my heart, that didn’t sound like holiness to me.
I couldn’t ever imagine God wanting that.
Also, the constant calls on that Sunday struck me as God teasing me. Of course, everything would be all right if I would be still and patient.
These are the tea leaves the faithful forever find themselves peering at.
Finally, an eternity later, I checked my phone, and the screen read 12:01. Monday.
We’d made it.
We had done it!
God had done it!
I gave a prayer of thanks and asked for God’s continued help. Because, obviously, declaring “Mission Accomplished” was a bit premature. I didn’t delude myself into thinking his religion would never again be a source of contention.
I knew that there would be more trials — fights even.
Like, should we get a dog? And if so, do we raise him Presbyterian or Mormon?
But what that night had proven was that together, we could overcome these comedic obstacles. We could even overcome the LDS Church.
#
My anxiety crept back up as the following day, too, passed without any word from Eli. But sometimes his schedule didn’t allow him to text at work.
I had nearly made it home when he called.
See? I told myself. Everything was fine.
“Can I come over?” he said. Not until he added softly, “We need to talk,” did I suspect anything might be amiss.
I must have done something.
I cast about in my memory and recalled a blog entry that included what I thought had been an innocuous joke about magic underwear.
Who let me on the Internet unsupervised? Who decided that was okay? Who let me have a blog?
I spent the last few blocks home frantically composing an apology. I practiced it back at the apartment, pacing about as I edited it. Eli didn’t leave me much time, and before I felt ready, he was knocking at my door.
I adopted an innocent, nonchalant air, the finishing touch for my apology and let him in. He kept his head down as he stepped inside, not looking at me until I’d shut the door. Instantly, he began to sob, saying over and over, “I can’t do it! I just can’t.” He shook his head. “You’re a great guy, and you deserve someone who’s not so messed up!”
Only then, did I see clearly. This talk Eli wanted wasn’t about recriminations; it was a goodbye. I should have known. Why would a talk over his failed experiment literally have to happen on Sunday anyway? Although I suppose I’d been right after all about Sunday being our day of judgment for the relationship.
“Since I’m never gonna kiss anyone else ever again, can I have one last one? Please?” This time, no television blared in the background, and we kissed in silence as he cried.
#
Our lives diverged long ago. We haven’t been anything – not even friends – to each other in years.
Until I finally lost my faith, I spent too much time, straining at the “tea leaves” of that situation, wondering how I had failed god.
And failed Eli.
I had to have failed somehow, right? Otherwise, things would have worked out.
But I hadn’t.
I hadn’t failed god any more than Eli would several years later when he discovered he could date men after all.
Sometimes, I grow preoccupied with this story again. Like when I lost my faith. I wondered if I would have done anything differently if I had gone through my apostasy before Eli and I dated.
Maybe.
I’ve come back to this story again recently. In December 2020, I received an autism diagnosis. Since the diagnosis, I’ve poured over past relationships for any sign of my autism that I overlooked in the moment.
Had I unwittingly done something to make it easy for Eli to leave? To make coming back impossible?
Probably.
Then I remember that if there were a reason, something I did wrong, or would have done differently, what can I do about it now?
I remember Eli’s reasons are his own.
And regardless of what ultimately happened with Eli and whether I was a part of that journey, I still feel proud. Even in my apostasy.
After years of always succumbing to my self-righteousness and letting that ruin relationships, when it came to Eli, I fought against that part of me. I did it.
I could finally change.
Whether the experiment succeeded that day or not, I passed my test.
E. Wilson Young graduated from UGA with an English degree and, after receiving more MFA rejection letters than schools he applied to, wound up in Atlanta where he has become a fixture of the live lit/storytelling scene there. He's had creative non-fiction pieces published in Gutwrench Journal ("Worn Thin") and Emrys Journal ("Happy Anniversary") as well as short shorts published at Opium Magazine ("Dear God, It's Your-Name-Here"), The Higgs Weldon ("Comment Card for My Dealer"), and Defenestration Magazine ("Form Apology"). Time permitting, he has adventures and throws parties. Two endeavors that usually end well.