Restoration, The Complete Series

By Bayla Dornon

The novels in the RESTORATION Series follow the struggles of three characters brought together in their escape from homes and lives that don't accept them — Chris, a young gay man; George a disinherited rich boy; and Mary, a victim of patriarchal domestic violence, strive to reach the freedom and happiness of a world free from religious hegemony. Filled with the passions and pathos of the young, the series examines in depth the inherent conflict between all religion and democracy in a pluralistic society. For the tortured victims of patriarchal religions in America, running away is only the beginning of an arduous journey away from mental and emotional slavery to ancient thinking, and towards self-discovery and the principles of the Enlightenment.

Restoration, Book One. "The Only True Religion" and "Liberation"
Fleeing his hyper-religious family when they threaten him with anti-gay conversion therapy, Chris Brenner finds both refuge and first love within the humanist Center for Restoration. But now, caught in the turmoil and social unrest of the Trump age, the San Francisco-based Center for Restoration faces a new threat, and Chris and his friends must fight for its very existence

Restoration, Book Two. “Autrefois”
Stunned by a tragic loss, young Chris Brenner and the friends he made at the Center for Restoration struggle to make sense of a world suddenly filled with pain. As Chris, George and Mary all cope in their own ways, Chris receives a precious gift from the past, which leads him on a voyage of discovery, deepening his knowledge of both the Center and the life of the man he loves.

Restoration, Book Three: "The Masters"
Chris Brenner has a hard choice to make: stay with his friends in San Francisco, surrounded by the memories of his dead boyfriend; or move to a city thousands of miles away? His friends, Mary and George have already relocated to Manhattan, for family reasons. But life in New York turns out to be quite different from that they expected— and Chris soon finds himself on a path he never imagined.

Restoration, Book Four: "The Book Of The Dead"
Since he fled from his religious fundamentalist family over a year ago, young Chris Brenner has completed his first year as an initiate at the Center for Restoration, and become a student of Theresa Smith, one of the founders of the organization. Now, alone in his former teacher’s apartment in Manhattan, delving into the deceased Master's past through her writings, Chris begins to find the purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayla Dornon
• Release date: Nov 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005596927

Bayla Dornon

Bayla Dornon’s first book is “Gay Testaments, Old & New” an edited compilation of texts from both famous and obscure literature that paint a vivid and exciting portrait of men loving men.In 2020 and 2021, Dornon published the four-book RESTORATION series, the story of twenty-year old Chris Brenner, a gay man fleeing from his ultra-religious parents and their efforts to 'torture him straight' through religious conversion therapy. Escaping to the Center in San Francisco, Chris meets and befriends fellow initiates George and Mary — and falls head over heels in love with Tom Griffin, a charismatic Priest at the San Francisco Center for Restoration. The four novels follow these young adults as they struggle for independence and restoration from indoctrination and abuses of religious and patriarchal families and society.In 2022, Dornon has released the new series of “Jake Bennett Adventures”, the stories of sexy bisexual rookie LA cop Jake Bennett, trying desperately to make his way in the asphalt jungle of Los Angeles.Married to one man since late 1988, Bayla Dornon is an author, critic, playwright, former teacher, silly pagan, photographer, cat-lover and videographer. A third generation Californian, Dornon and his husband recently escaped the absurd desert of San Diego and now live happily ever after in Seattle.

Book preview

RESTORATION, BOOK ONE:

The Only True Religion and Liberation

by Bayla Dornon

Copyright ©2020 Béla Dornon. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781005989392

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Photos © 2016 Béla Dornon. Used by permission. All models are over eighteen years of age at the time they were photographed.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact [e-mail]

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Restoration, Book One

Introduction to Book One

Part One: The Only True Religion

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Two: Liberation

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Acknowledgements

INTRODUCTION to Book One

Growing up is always difficult, and never more than when one belongs to an oppressed group. In America, the dominant culture is exclusively reserved for Straight (in public, anyway) White Males. If you are not a part of this small ruling minority, you are a second-class citizen. This unnatural patriarchal racist system is propped up and perpetuated by many institutions, and no defenders are more zealous than the many different cults that constitute the Christian church.

I struggled desperately to fit into my parents’ Straight White Republican Christian world. I failed spectacularly, and when I crashed and burned it took me decades to recover. In the course of counseling with my truly heroic IFS guru, James, one of the many life-altering insights he gave me was this: You’re a writer; why not re-write your history?

This story grew from that simple challenge. RESTORATION is the story of a group of Americans, almost all of whom belong to the second-class citizen group, and all of whom have run afoul, in one way or another, of the wide-spread patriarchal imperialism and racism of the American church.

Growing up in the church, I internalized and reproduced the constant messages I received as a gay child, that I was unlovable, unacceptable, and doomed to be an outcast and a lonely miserable failure. In time I found other outcasts, and we formed our own broken society. It wasn’t until I left the church completely that my life improved. That’s when I found my husband, completed my college education, and began to live a good and healthy life, free of faith.

My goal in this series is to present the development of a young gay man who faced the same sort of faith-based abuse I faced; but who, through the actions of an (unfortunately imaginary) group of humanists dedicated to improving the world, is saved from the life-destroying behaviors I fell into.

Because I started this story in December 2019, when COVID-19 was still confined to the population of a single Chinese city, I had to make a difficult choice in March, when the virus invaded a totally unprepared America: change my entire story line to accommodate the enforced isolations, or ignore the evitable epidemic all together. I did what we all wish we could do.

The other complicating factor in my story-telling involves The Rise Of Social Media. In my day, we had no cell phones, and yet I have set my story in the current age. I had to decide how to deal with the disease of social media addiction. I decided to create an enclave in which social media is shunned and largely ignored. In the meantime, a fascinating and timely documentary, The Social Dilemma, has revealed the dire predicament social media users now find themselves in. Without intending to, I created a world largely free of social media, and now it seems like my world will be the only viable future for humanity. Just as petroleum use destroys all life, social media addiction destroys all human social fabric.

While facing the threats of climate catastrophe, social media addiction and Christo-fascism, Americans also face an election under unprecedented circumstances of insecurity both for vote integrity, and freedom from foreign and domestic meddling on a grand scale. Our democracy is at risk, yet most Americans feel paralyzed, powerless.

What can we do?

First, disconnect from the illusory digital realm, and go outside. Sit on the grass, look at the sky, listen to the trees. Swim, run, walk or lie in Nature. Reconnect to the natural world which created and formed our minds and bodies.

Second, reject all irrational faith, and root out the beliefs and dogma left in our minds. Connect to other humans and animals in meaningful and positive ways, instead of to an imaginary deity. There is one (and only one) truth in the Bible: Love One Another. Do that.

We can save this country and our world, but we must consciously begin the process of RESTORATION.

Bayla Dornon

San Diego, September 2020

Part One: The Only True Religion

"The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.…

Till a system was formed, which some took advantage of & enslav’d the vulgar by attempting to realize or abstract the mental deities from their objects: thus began Priesthood;

Choosing forms of worship from poetic tales.

And at length they pronounc’d that the Gods had order’d such things.

Thus men forgot that All deities reside in the human breast."

William Blake, Proverbs of Hell, from The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell

CHAPTER ONE

The tall Priest beckoned to me through the rain, and then turned and walked quickly up the left side of the street toward a large old stone building; I followed him as best as I could, but I was nearly exhausted and weighed down by my guitar and my little backpack, and I slowly fell behind. Just when I thought I would have to put down the guitar, he ducked into an alley, waited at the side entrance until I came around the corner, then disappeared into a small doorway.

As I came to the entrance, I saw the word RESTORATION newly carved into the old stone above the thick wooden door. A faintly golden glow streamed through the doorway as the Priest held the door open and smiled, stepping aside so I could walk in. I came in and set my guitar down.

I found myself looking into a huge room with an old elevator on the left, gently lit by indirect golden lights scattered around. The tall Priest stood before me, his smile drawing me magnetically, just as it had on the street, and in the Starbucks when I first saw him.

I’m Tom, he breathed.

I took a step toward him, and he placed one hand on my arm and kissed me long and hard on the mouth.

My name is Chris, I answered. I came to The City in hopes I would find….

The Priest held up a hand and smiled again, his eyes bright. There’s time for your story later, but first I have one question: Do you have a place to stay tonight?

I looked down at the floor and shook my head, noticing again how dirty my old sneakers were. It was muddy outside, and I’d been forced to sleep outdoors. I was cold and very hungry, and I was afraid. I’d thought surely I could find a bed to sleep in on a Saturday night in San Francisco, but I’d struck out all night. That is, until I went to the Starbucks.

I looked up and shook my head, as Tom nodded and picked up my guitar. He took my arm and walked me back to the door.

Tonight you’ll stay with me, he said.

Together we went back into the cold night, and Tom slipped his hand into mine as we hurried down the wet street.

The next day dawned cool and clear, and my eyes wandered around Tom’s small bedroom in the bright morning sunshine. There were very few possessions, mostly just a few books, a framed black and white nude, and various black clothes. Tom lay snuggled up behind me, his cock firmly wedged between my buns. I flexed a few times, squeezing his cock between my hard glutes. Tom’s cock started to get hard, and he woke up, wrapped his arms around me, and slid both hands up to my nipples.

By ten o’clock I’d eaten a good breakfast that Tom made for us, showered, and gotten my clothing into a more presentable condition. The night before, after I’d had a bagel and some cream cheese, Tom had insisted with half a smile that I needed to take a shower before we went to bed. Even though the weather was cold, I guess I’d grown pretty ripe hitch-hiking and sleeping outside for three days. For the moment, I didn’t want to think any further back than that.

All set? he smiled at me, carrying my guitar case again.

I picked up my little backpack. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I said with bravery I didn’t feel.

After days of trying, and weeks of hoping, the big day was here. This will decide the course of the rest of my life, I thought.

Thank you for—

The hot Priest stopped me with a long, deep kiss. Then he gently swatted my ass and we left his tiny apartment.

By daylight it was plain the Center had once been a church or synagogue of some type, judging from the arched windows and doors. The stone showed brighter and newer where the old symbols from some previous religion had been carefully carved and chipped away, leaving small holes and clean empty walls to face the morning light.

We came to the side door under the word RESTORATION, which Tom opened with a key on a ring. This time he stood outside and let me enter first.

The Priest had explained to me what would happen today, but my heart raced when he took me through the Great Hall, two stories tall and lit by high windows, into the hallway behind the eastern stairs.

I undressed and put my clothes, shoes, the guitar case and my backpack into a tall locker. There were big thick cotton robes hanging on pegs, and Tom tossed one to me. Then I followed him down the hall, past a door on the left where there was a shower room. A middle-aged man and two women were showering together there. I looked down, blushing furiously. Tom stopped outside a door painted bright red, and knocked twice.

Coming, said a voice inside. Tom leaned toward me, kissing me lightly and quickly.

I’ll see you in an hour, he said, then turned and walked back along the way we had come. I watched him for a minute, relishing the sight of his high round ass in the tight black pants, and the breadth of his shoulders tapering sharply to his waist. Then I turned back to the door.

A kind-faced female Priest of about fifty, dressed in all black with a ring on a chain around her neck, held the door open with a smile and said, Come on in, please. I’m Grace. When she smiled, she reminded me of a movie star, getting older, but still extremely beautiful.

Grace had me sit on the exam table, and I was terrified. I’d never been examined by a woman doctor. I’d never been naked in front of any woman, except my mother when I was little.

I stammered a bit at first, as she asked me for my various life history. High school grad, one semester of junior college. No military service. No convictions or prison time. No debt accumulated; I informed her with a deadpan stare that I also had no money left. Grace just smiled and continued down her checklist. No marriages or divorces, no known STDs, no children. The robe came off.

I had once had type A hepatitis, when I was seventeen. Grace briefly inspected me for fleas, ticks, lice and other hitchhikers, as she called them. Then she pulled out various collection equipment. We’ll need to draw some blood, a urine sample, and also I’d like a semen sample. She nodded at two small cups with tight-fitting lids next to the door. My face darkened to a dull crimson, and she chuckled.

It’s OK, I’ll leave the room, she whispered in a friendly way. Relax. You’re safe now. Just let me get the blood sample out of the way, and I’ll leave you to your work.

After Grace had left the room, I tried to think of something sexy.

I thought of last night with Tom, of the way his hands and mouth explored my body, teasing and exciting as he aroused and satisfied me. Tom had exactly the kind of body that turned me on: long strong muscles covered in thick dark body hair. His voice was higher, in the lower tenor range. I loved how his balls jumped and bounced when I was sucking his fat cock.

We’d bounced around plenty in his double bed last night, exploring each other’s bodies, until he’d rolled over onto his back and pulled me to him, positioning me so that I was kneeling over his waist. I could feel his cock pulsing against my asshole, and a long string of pre-cum had oozed from my foreskin. Tom had pulled a condom out of the side table, tearing off a corner of the packet with his gleaming white teeth…

My cock was rising rapidly, and I reached for the little specimen cup. I thought I could milk a load out pretty quickly.

But then suddenly my mind back flipped backwards to the days before I heard of the Center for Restoration: to nights filled with shame and fear, and the panic that made me leave home— and my erection abruptly wilted.

The urine sample was a lot easier, since Tom had made me two cups of tea. I got up and went to the door and knocked, and Grace came back in.

I’m sorry, I muttered, looking at the wall. I couldn’t…

Don’t give it a second thought. I’m sure Tom can help with this later. Let’s get you to your room so you can relax.

I followed the Priest back to the Great Hall, across its dappled hard wood expanse, then into another hallway, past a dining room, a kitchen, and a laundry room.

Grace stopped in front of a faded green door and knocked, then opened it. There were two other young people in white bath robes and a Priest already in the room as Grace stood aside to let me enter. Two pairs of bunk beds stood on opposite sides of the room, with a bathroom door between. On the wall beside the door was a desk and a chair.

Introductions were performed. Mary and George looked at me and nodded as Grace said, It was a pleasure to meet you. Everyone, this is Chris. I’ll leave you now. Grace nodded to the Priest sitting on the chair, smiled once at me, and left, leaving the door open.

Sunday morning, and I’m not going to church, I thought with fear and worry. This is the first Sunday I can remember that I was not heading to church.

Good morning, said the man in black, looking at each of us in turn. I’m Jason, the counselor and also the Director here at the Center. I’m going to explain a bit about what you can expect in the next two weeks, during your Probationary period here at Restoration. He paused and looked at his hands. "You have all come to us from different cities, and under different circumstances; but you three have one thing in common: you were extremely unhappy, and you sought out the Center for Restoration because you decided to change your life. You are safe here.

Over the next two weeks, we will give you some aptitude tests; we will have group counseling sessions every day; and we will have daily exercises and time for reading.

I found myself staring at the large shining ring dangling from a black thong around his neck. It glittered and shone in a hypnotic dance as he spoke.

Jason paused and smiled at us. You will also find pencils, pens and three blank notebooks in the desk; we encourage you to journal during this two weeks. It will help you to cope with and understand your feelings during this transition period.

Mary was nodding, but George looked like he’d just smelled a fart.

There are a few things you will not be doing in this fortnight, the Priest slowly intoned. You will refrain from sex with anyone except yourself.

My brain suddenly roared like an echo chamber and I missed some of what Jason said—NO SEX WITH TOM?? I glanced at Mary and George, who looked by turns surprised and puzzled.

You will eat regular meals, and will help in the preparation of those meals, Jason was saying. There will be no use of screens, drugs, or alcohol during your Probation. We encourage you to sleep eight hours per night.

Screens? asked Mary in a worried voice.

Phones, TVs, movies, computers, answered the Priest.

I sighed loudly, and Jason glanced at me. Chris?

I’ve had a lot of trouble sleeping, I admitted. Especially since I… started out from home. Do you have something…?

Jason shook his head. Grace in the infirmary can give you a tablet of Melatonin, if you need it, but nothing stronger. All other substances beyond normal food and non-alcoholic drink are prohibited during this two-week period.

What’s with all the restrictions? asked George.

We want your minds to be as clear as possible for the decisions you will make at the end of your Probationary period. Jason stood up. Are there any other questions?

Mary raised her hand slowly. My cell phone is in the locker…

Where it will stay for the next two weeks. No screens, ended Jason firmly but pleasantly.

Mary looked slightly panicky.

We will try hard to make sure you don’t miss it. The Priest looked around at us for a moment. Please, relax for a bit. In the dresser you’ll find tunics and pants that will fit you well enough. Get dressed, and I’ll be right back with your aptitude tests. He stood and stretched a bit, and for a moment his black Polo shirt raised up over his taut, furry stomach.

My cock twitched. I suddenly realized that I had never gone for two weeks without sex or jacking off since I was at junior high camp, at the age of thirteen. As the door closed behind Jason, Mary went into the bathroom to put on her outfit, and George hopped into the top bunk. I sprawled on the bottom bunk, and saw that some other Probationer before me had scrawled on the underside of the top bunk, ‘Welcome to the lion’s den.’

It was going to be a long Probationary period.

CHAPTER TWO

What did you think of the aptitude test? Mary tossed me a dishtowel from the drawer under the counter.

We were helping to serve dinner in the main dining room again.

Did some of the questions seem strange to you?

I dried the large salad spinner as George carefully quartered tomatoes.

I mean, ‘Have you ever experienced visions?’ Who’s going to answer ‘Yes’ to that? Mary shook her head.

Or the one about, ‘Have you ever had sex with more than two other people at the same time?’ added George. That doesn’t actually happen— does it? I mean, outside of porno movies?

I thought of the swim team camp my senior year, and said nothing.

Mary was watching my face intently. Maybe it does, she smiled softly. Again, I blushed. I couldn’t help it. Maybe we’ll hear some things in group counseling.

I mean, yeah, you could have two girls for one guy, I’ve heard of that, but what would three girls do? George pondered.

Mary gave me an elegant eye roll.

Who knows? I coyly answered.

George goggled at us for a moment, looking alarmed and confused before picking up the salad. Mary and I picked up trays. Come on, said George, and walked through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room.

We three Probationers were wearing all white, while the Priests, about six tonight, wore all black. There were also fifteen people in street clothes tonight.

At the head of the first table, Jason stood with his hands raised. He waited until we had set our offerings down on the tables, and our asses in chairs.

Just outside the dining room was the Great Hall, which I had explored this morning. On the southern wall, over the big double doors to the street, was a painted mural featuring an abstract of the word ‘RESTORATION,’ and beneath that in neat lettering, ‘Restoring a world damaged by racism, sexism, greed and religion,’ with beautiful paintings of hopeful faces all around it. On the northern wall were a series of sliding glass doors, and beyond them was a beautiful Garden, lit by paper lanterns hung from a covered walkway.

I looked back at Jason. God Is Within You, he said.

And also within you, answered most of the people in the room. Jason sat down.

I thought how oddly similar the words were to the Apostolic greeting I had grown up with.

Tom came in, and made his way to a seat beside me. I kissed him as he sat down, thrilled but not ashamed that others saw me kissing a man.

I asked Tom about the people in street clothes. They’re mainly Initiates, and a few benefactors who fund our work, he answered.

I looked confused. Initiates wear street clothes. Pass me the rolls, please.

I was looking forward to becoming an Initiate. Who wouldn’t want to join the Center, I wondered?

I remembered my first contact with a Priest.

It was in the park, and I was tired and wanted to go home, but the sex hunger that drove me so hard in those days wouldn’t let me leave. Always I told myself, there might be one more guy who wants to get sucked off today. Just wait.

Then I saw Billy; he was wearing the all-black I’ve since come to identify with the Priests, and a large silver ring on a black thong around his neck. I sauntered over to him, and asked in a joking voice if it were a cock ring. He smiled, and answered that it was, in a way. I asked if I could suck him off, and he kissed me on the mouth. I looked quickly around, afraid, ashamed, and very turned on.

It’s not safe, I hissed. Cops come here.

Are you a cop?

No. Are you??

No. I’m actually a Scout. Besides, he smiled, kissing is not considered lewd behavior, and the police can’t bust us for kissing in public.

I thought about this for a moment. Billy had watched me with dancing black eyes, and a gleaming smile was starting to show through his full, dark lips. Then I kissed him again, and he kissed me back.

What’s your name? he asked me.

I could have made up a fake name, but his smile seemed to demand the truth, somehow. Chris, I’d said, and smiled back.

We’d walked back to his van. When I took my shirt off, he drew his fingertips gently across the crudely tattooed little cross on my shoulder. My eyes dropped, and my face reddened. I was humiliated by the tattoo I’d stupidly gotten my freshman year in High school. The peer pressure in the church’s youth group was intense and powerful for me that year.

Billy kissed me again, and then he told me all about himself, and how he was a Scout for the San Francisco Center for Restoration. That afternoon we had sex in his van.

Why can’t you just give me the address? I asked again, before he dropped me off, a block from my house.

I can give you my name and number, he replied.

I don’t have a phone, I said miserably. This was one of the most annoying and distressing facts of my life.

Billy handed me a cinnamon raisin bagel as he shut off the van motor.

Over the past forty years, we have learned the hard way to be very cautious. Besides, he grinned, it’s much nicer to meet a person and go in together, than to arrive alone at a huge anonymous stone building and ring the doorbell.

I had nodded as I munched on the bagel. OK. Give me your name and number, I’ll try to find a way to contact you. I finished the bagel.

I had watched Billy drive away in his van, wishing suddenly that I was going back to The City with him, instead of home to my family’s house in the ‘burbs, and my barista job where they kept cutting my hours, and my boring junior college classes.

That was last summer. I’d thought a lot about that time with Billy through fall, and I’d even seen his van again, but I wasn’t alone so I couldn’t go talk to him. Then, right before Thanksgiving, the shit had hit the fan…

A week later, when no one was home, I’d packed my little backpack with all I owned, and on impulse I grabbed the beat-up old guitar from the hall closet and left for The City.

Tom squeezed my leg under the table. You seem preoccupied, he observed. Hardly surprising!

I do have a lot to think about, I said, But I was thinking about Billy, who said he was a Scout. You’re a Scout, too, aren’t you?

Tom looked at me a little sideways and smiled. Yes, I am.

Jason told us most of the Scouts are bisexual… I looked down.

Most of us are, Tom answered, his eyes twinkling. He took a big bite of salad and chewed with a grin. I thought about that as I stuffed my mouth full of steamed baby red potatoes sautéed in butter and dill.

Helen, a beautiful slim Black Priest sitting on Tom’s other side asked him if he were going to the big convention in Los Angeles, and he excitedly turned away from me to answer her.

I realized that I hadn’t thought of Tom being with anyone else, let alone a woman. I suddenly realized that, although we had shared a night and a morning of wonderful sex and intimacy, I didn’t really know anything about him. Was he bisexual? Had he been with a lot of people— more than I had? I was sure he had been with lots of people— he was over thirty! Would any of that make a big difference to me, to the way I felt about him?

None of the boys I’d had sex with on the swim team, which were the only sexual contacts (besides Billy) I’d had that I actually spoke with, had been in relationships, exclusive or not.

When I pictured relationships, they were always mixed couples— a man and a woman. That was really all I had ever seen, apart from a few fleeting matched couples on TV shows, who showed up as the punch line of a joke, or as patients in the E.R. of Grey’s Anatomy.

Did matched couples really exist, I wondered? Did I want to be a half of a matched couple? If it were with a man like Tom, I thought, the answer is probably yes.

It felt daring and dangerous and thrillingly forbidden to imagine myself keeping house with Tom, sharing his days and nights. The fantasy started to build in my mind, and my cock woke and twitched.

But then I remembered again the night my dad told us we wouldn’t be watching Grey’s Anatomy anymore; it was the episode where Callie Torres talked back to her father when he condemned her with Bible verses.

Watching the TV, Dad had scoffed, and Mom had frowned and said, ‘That is just sick.’ And Dad reached for the remote, and issued an edict banning Grey’s Anatomy from our lives. I hadn’t watched an episode since.

Tom turned back to me and said, Only eleven more days of your Probation. He squeezed my thigh under the table, and his eyes crinkled as he grinned. I was grateful for the tunic that hung below my crotch, and would cover the big spreading puddle of pre-cum that oozed from my cock. My head felt a little light, and I grinned back, hoping.

CHAPTER THREE

I just don’t see why we have to wait to have sex for two whole weeks, George groused. I mean, it’s not like we’re here to recover from sex addiction or anything.

I think it makes a lot of sense, I said. You heard what Jason said: they want our heads clear before we make a final decision about becoming Initiates. I went back to addressing envelopes.

Sure, easy for you to say: you have that super-hot Priest waiting for you. I got no one!

That’s not Chris’s fault, though, observed Mary, catching my eye. He just got lucky. VERY lucky.

I smiled back at her. Mary and I had grown a lot closer in the past two days, partly because she came from the same part of the East Bay as I did, and partly because we both found George’s glaring sense of entitlement rather irritating.

Mary told us she had run away from home when her father found birth control pills in her purse and beat her up. Because an old friend of hers from school had a brother in the Center for Restoration, Mary knew right where to go.

She was lucky that she was over eighteen; Tom had told me about a sixteen year old pregnant girl who came to the Center, begging them to take her in, only to be told that, unless she could prove that she was in great danger, she couldn’t join the Center without her parent’s consent until she was legally of age.

And speaking of lucky, George, it’s your turn to clean the bathroom, I said.

George glared.

Mary and I had privately hypothesized that George must have come from a home where he never had to do chores, because he resented doing them so much.

Here, Chris, give me the last batch to stuff. Mary was particularly good at this sort of office work, but my handwriting was better, so we had worked out a system to deal with our assigned chores. George stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Did your blood test come out OK? she asked me. There had been a hold up in my HIV results, and Grace decided to redo the test using the more reliable blood test. Tom had told me the results when I saw him at breakfast.

Yeah, it’s fine. Some people’s saliva test doesn’t give a clear result, is all.

Mary nodded. I’m glad. She sat back on her bed and picked up the Creeds. As she read them over again, her hands efficiently stuffed the addressed envelopes.

It’s only two weeks, I thought, and then we can boink as much as we like. It seemed like a small price to pay for the security of a place to stay and a job, and the prospect of a real and happy future. Which was a lot more than I had left behind me.

I thought again of the endless hours I used to spend in youth group, praying silently that God would turn me into a heterosexual. I was ashamed at how I groveled, begging the unspeaking, invisible God to change the person he made into someone else. But that’s what I’d been taught, by thought, word and deed of my family and church friends: that as a gay boy, I was hateful to God, and that loving men was a sin that would cost me everything— home, family, and my Salvation.

No one knew I was gay back then, except me, and the three guys on the swim team I’d had sex with. I was a complete phony to my Church and my family, a fraud. It wasn’t until Ralph Meeker, our Reverend for the past ten years, was chased out of the Church after screwing half of his counseling patients, as well as his own daughter, that I first began to suspect the Church’s rejection of my own sexuality was, in fact, total hypocrisy.

If he hadn’t been caught, if the whole Church hadn’t exploded from the scandal, would I still be there? Would I have married, as my mother used to beg me almost daily to do, and settled down to a life of deceit and self-loathing?

Mom used to point out all the prospects I had at church, on a regular basis. I might have chosen Mary Beth, with her sweet smile and bouncy brown curly hair. Or Lucy, whose only flaw was that her breasts were too large for her tiny frame, making her look top-heavy in most of her outfits. Both of these girls had essentially offered themselves to me before our junior year in High school, and I’d shamelessly used them both as protective camouflage, pretending they were more than friends. And they’d tried to be more: Mary Beth had once put her hand on my cock when we were kissing, squeezing it with a jerky clumsy motion. How I’d hoped I would get a hard-on and turn straight!

But of course, I didn’t. My cock would get half hard just thinking about showering with the swim team, but no amount of abuse or enticement could get me hard thinking of girls. And so I was firmly convinced, from the tender age of thirteen, that I was damned forever. And every moment I spent in the Church after that I was a fake, a fraud, an imposter.

Chris?

I looked up blankly at Mary’s amused face. Huh?

You stopped writing. You’re just sitting there holding the pen. She looked closely at me. You OK?

Yeah, sure, just thinking about something. I scribbled the correct address under the name I’d already written.

Cory, who gave us this chore, had explained that people were far more likely to open a business correspondence if it were addressed by hand. Otherwise, I couldn’t really see the point.

The newsletter was filled with news about lectures, activities, and a tiny blurb about the three new Probationers— us.

We’d been to a few of the lectures, offered by Priests and Initiates. Some were held in the social room on the first floor, but the one by Janie, on Overcoming Petroleum Addiction, had drawn a larger crowd, and they held it on the third floor in the formal lecture hall next to the main library. Janie was a third-year Initiate, a small Black woman who reminded me a little of the Miranda Bailey character from Grey’s Anatomy. Behind Janie as she lectured was a large window looking south-east over The City. I stared out at the endless rows of buildings receding into the mist as I listened to her talk for half an hour about plastic products, electric cars, and other carbon footprint issues.

There were lists of classes for yoga, meditation, sexual health talks, and other practical self-improvement information.

One little seminar that really turned me on was given by a young Priest name Bruce, and it was about creating art.

I had played the guitar and sung for years, mostly in the choir at church; but Bruce told us that drawing and painting were important modes of expression, and that it didn’t matter if you thought the work was any good or not; just going through the process was good for your brain.

I talked to Bruce for a little while after the seminar, and found out that his story was similar to mine, but even worse — his fundamentalist Christian parents literally threw all his stuff out of their house, because they found out he was gay. Then they shoved him out the front door and locked it behind him. And he was only eighteen years old when they chucked him out on the street.

Bruce told me how Tom had found him, brought him in to the Center, and basically saved his life, just as he saved mine. I wanted to tell him about my drama with my own parents, but we ran out of time. So I promised to come to Bruce’s next talk and share any drawings or paintings I made.

There, I said as I handed Mary the last envelope.

Just then, George popped his head out of the bathroom and said, Hey, I’m done. In case you need to use it or something.

Nope, I think it’s time for lunch, said Mary.

We left our room and migrated en masse to the dining room, which was just down the hall from the Probationer’s room. The laundry wasn’t going right now, but during the day the wall next to my bunk shook and thrummed from the powerful motor in the washing machine. The dryers didn’t seem to make as much noise. Each of us had a rotation of chores, and the list was in the plastic holder mounted on the inside of our door. Laundry, Groundskeeping, Housekeeping, or Kitchen. We each had to work one of those every day.

I liked groundskeeping by far the best. Mary seemed to gravitate toward the laundry, but I think it’s because she enjoyed being alone so she could think. The smell of bleach made me feel a little sick, so I usually put in the wash, then came back to the room to wait until it was done.

George complained about all four of the chores. He was also a slob. I had mentioned several times that he needed to wash his white tunic, because he tended to get it dirty doing chores, and then didn’t notice it for days. My own white tunic and white drawstring pants had seemed very comfortable to me from the start, sort of like hospital scrubs. Mary’s didn’t fit her very well, a little too baggy in the seat and legs, and a little too tight across the shoulders.

Today lunch was in the Great Hall, because it was Soup Thursday. As we came into the kitchen, Ryan, an older Initiate with shaggy brown hair and a perpetual grin, was just getting ready to bring the soup out.

Good, you’re here! We have a lot of people today, and I don’t want to form a line, so we’re going to serve at table. Chris, grab the bread. Mary, George, take a tureen each and start at the tables farthest from the kitchen.

We snapped into action like little soldiers. Ryan had an easy way of giving orders, always smiling, that made it feel OK that he never said ‘please.’ I carried the tray with the three large bread baskets out into the Great Hall, and headed for the large table closest to the western stairway.

It didn’t seem to me like there were that many visitors today for soup; maybe twenty-five of the locals, ranging from homeless people to lower income people who enjoyed the society of others, and four elderly people I recognized from the retirement talk. The Great Hall could easily hold twice that many.

One of them was a funny older queen with a shaved head and dancing green eyes named Frank. He’d cruised me hard the first time I saw him, and made me blush with the directness of his visual inspection of my face and body.

Hey Chris, you hot young stud puppy! he called. When’s your Probation over so we can have some fun?

I set down a bread basket by him, and he took a piece and passed it to the homeless woman two seats down.

I’ve already got a date, I sang out, hoping it was still true. I hadn’t talked to Tom about anything that mattered since I started my Probation.

I hear it’s Tom, that tall hot Priest! he growled. That bitch! I’d get it in writing before you waste your time waiting for that one, he added in a sing song voice. I winked at Frank and moved around the room distributing fresh bread. On my way back to the kitchen I passed by Frank again.

Did you read that piece in the paper, about the non-stop orgies and sin that go on in this place?

No! I said in surprise.

I mean—is the Center REALLY just a ‘godless fuck palace??’ called Frank cheerily as he made quote marks with his fingers. Because I’m missing OUT!

Who said THAT? I laughed.

I’m wishfully paraphrasing. Some reporter— Cole-something-or-other— writing awful things, like he wants to shut you guys down! I waved happily at Frank and his drama as I moved down the room.

When everyone was served, we sat down where we could, and Ryan said, though not many people were waiting, God Is Within You. That was the official signal, and the rest of us started to eat.

I turned to Ryan two seats away. Is someone crusading to shut us down?

Usually, he drawled casually. There’s always some moralist or other— Minister, reporter, politician—whatever. I wouldn’t worry. Comes with the territory. He scraped his spoon on the bowl. This barley beef is delicious, he added. Tawny made it. Tawney was a transgender Initiate who bunked in the women’s eastern wing.

The soup was delicious. Obviously there were people working here at the Center who had some culinary talent, but I had quickly discovered I wasn’t one of them. When it came to the kitchen, I was good at doing dishes, and that was about it.

A woman across from me looked into my eyes with milky, old, faded blue eyes. She had the guarded look I’d come to associate with street people, but when she saw me smiling, she smiled back.

God Is Within You, she whispered, and I nodded back at her.

It was good to speak easily and freely to strangers, to feel a bit of shared sense of community, even if it was only with desperate souls who needed a hot bowl of soup. Of all the things I’d missed since I ran away from home, the camaraderie of our congregation was perhaps the one I felt most deeply. It’s hard to be cast out, to go it alone. Ostracism hurts more and more every day.

I would make sure I didn’t have to leave this place.

CHAPTER FOUR

I just wanna get laid, grumped George. Why do we have to learn all this crap, just for some pussy?

"That attitude is just so attractive to women," needled Mary.

The counseling session had not gone well, and George had been reprimanded for his failure to read and understand the assigned Creed that day.

I’m not a religious Jew, and I never was. I don’t care if these people think the Jewish tradition is full of crap, he complained. Half the time I think that myself.

It’s important to deconstruct the tradition you learned as a child, explained Mary again, So that you can make adult choices about what you believe, instead of being controlled by the subconscious notions you formed as a child.

Fine! Whatever! It’s a load of crap. Especially circumcision, he added.

I’d seen George’s cock in the bathroom. Whoever cut off his foreskin had done a particularly shitty job. George said the guy was called a mohel; the amateur surgery had left deeply uneven scars all around George’s fat cock head.

I’ve always loved sucking cock, and seen a fair number of guys hard, both cut and uncut. A lot of the cut guys feel an ache in their cock when it gets hard. I hadn’t asked George then, but I wondered if his erections were painful because of his scar tissue.

Your circumcision does look pretty rough, I offered. Mary glanced at me in surprise. What? I saw it in the bathroom last week. Does it bother you? I asked George.

Not really. It pulls a little to the right, that’s all. Why, do most guys’ cocks look different than mine? he asked with a rising note of panic in his voice.

Well, I’m not an expert, but yours isn’t much different from the guys I saw on the swim team.

Right, I forgot about your swim team orgies, he smirked.

I was glad the panic was gone. Most American men are really sensitive about their cocks. Tom had explained it’s because of the Penis Taboo, combined with the tons of free Internet porn. These straight guys get the wrong idea about everyone else having a ten-inch dick. No wonder so many of them, like George, are extremely insecure!

One orgy, singular, I corrected. And a few guys here and there, in the john. I remembered making love with Billy in his van. And the park.

Gross. But it beats my one time with the maid.

Mary and I looked at each other, our suspicions confirmed: he’d had a maid. George definitely came from money.

George flung himself down on the unused bed, which always annoyed Mary, who used it as a drying rack for her lingerie. There wasn’t any there at the moment, but she still frowned. Then she decided to dig a little.

One time with the maid? she prompted. George smiled smugly.

Sarah. Last summer. She blew me, then we did it.

Even I found George’s sex talk rather irritating. I could only imagine how it must sound to women.

I asked her when we could do it again, but she left not long after that.

Is that it? I asked, slightly surprised. George talked a lot about sex, but now I realized he never mentioned lovers or partners by name. No one else?

Well obviously Lulu, the Scout who brought me in—we did it twice! Let’s see: I got a hand job from two different girls senior year, he recited, looking off into the distance. And I came in my pants once while me and Mindy were making out.

Lucky Mindy, murmured Mary, poorly suppressing a grin. That’s a pretty extensive history of sex, George, she said drolly.

Hey, I’m a good Jewish boy. We’re supposed to save ourselves for the mother of our children, and then take a mistress.

I snorted. And what if your mistress gets pregnant, like Schwarzenegger’s maid did?

Then you picked a dumb one, didn’t you? retorted George. Mary stood up, and for a second I thought she would express an opinion about George’s Mediterranean sexual ethics, but she simply said, I have to go to the laundry. You guys need anything? Mary was a helpful person, a logical thinker, and generous. I liked her a lot.

I’ve got both my outfits already, I joked. George just shook his head. We all wore the same plain white tunics and white drawstring pants. We wore our street shoes and socks when we needed them. Mary also wore her own underwear, but I was always more comfortable without. George had horrible old tightie whities. Mary left quietly, and George swiveled around on the bed.

Chris?

Yeah?

Would you say my cock is big?

This was a delicate question. I didn’t like to lie, and I was mindful of the fragility of the male ego surrounding the cock. I dodged. I haven’t seen him hard, I said honestly.

It gets a lot bigger when it’s hard, he nodded. But I’ve never seen another guy naked. I mean I never looked.

I thought he would be more shamed about this, but George seemed to have very little shame about sex. I wished that were true for me.

It looks better than average, from what I’ve seen, I hedged. You’ve got a nice fat head. On your cock, I mean, I added.

George giggled. "You’re a mensch, Chris."

What’s that?

It just means you’re a nice guy. That you’re kind. George smiled. I know my cock’s no monster, but Sarah really enjoyed it. Of course, she could have been faking, but she seemed to really like it.

Do YOU enjoy it? That’s the important thing, right?

I like masturbating, George said casually.

I hated that word, it sounded so clinical and nasty.

Is that what you mean?

Yeah. You know, jacking off. I heard him sometimes, and it seemed to take him a long time to cum. I didn’t want to get in trouble, though, so I had refrained from playing with my cock, with great difficulty. I mentioned that little fact.

You dope! He said nothing BUT self-love!

He did?!

Yeah! George grinned. Go wild. Wish I had some lotion, he added. It takes forever with soap or spit. You wouldn’t know, you’re uncut. It’s easy for you guys."

This was certainly true. I had discovered early on that I could cum faster than any of the circumcised guys, and I didn’t need lube to jack off.

I’ll ask Mary if she can get us some. I gave him the eye. My hands have been soooo dry lately…

George laughed. "Mensch, he said. Hey. You know what my real name is?"

It’s not George Goldbaum?

It’s Gideon. I hate it, it sounds so Jewey. So I always say George. Don’t tell Mary.

Sure, I said. If you want.

It means ‘warrior,’ added George. So my name is literally, ‘warrior of the golden tree.’ How corny is that? Is Chris short for Christopher?

I blushed again and stared at my foot. No; Christian.

Bummer, said George, and picked up one of the Creeds. I’m gonna study.

I thought about George’s admission. I actively disliked the name Christian, and wished I had been named Christopher, which seemed much more masculine to me. George sat on the bed against the wall, his legs casually spread. I was now thinking of his cock hard, which I had managed not to do up to this point. I wrenched my gaze away from George’s crotch, and stared out of the open door. The Probationer’s room had no windows, so we normally left the door open to reduce the feeling of claustrophobia. I stared at the old paint on the wall in the hall outside, with its many years of scrapes and scuffs showing on the old paint job.

The Center had been built in the early twentieth century, and extensively remodeled when it was converted, but this area, like most utilitarian zones in a big building, had seldom been refurbished. The gleaming polished wood and sparkling glass dividers in the public areas, along with the beautiful patio Garden, were not matched by similar rooms here, in our little back area.

My mind wandered.

For some reason, I suddenly remembered the dream I’d had that morning. Most of it had faded away, but I recalled that I was in a house I’d never seen before. But somehow, in the dream, I knew I had bought it, even though it had none of my things in it. In fact, it had no furniture or belongings at all, but I felt sure I lived there.

Then I was suddenly on the patio, kneeling on the red tiles, cradling my sister in my arms. She seemed to be in great pain, and suddenly she burst into flames, but the flames didn’t burn me, only her. She writhed and screamed in my arms, and tears poured down my face. Her body completely collapsed into rapidly dispersing ashes, and then she was gone. I wiped the tears from my cheeks with sooty hands, leaving long dark grey streaks of wet ashes.

CHAPTER FIVE

I just don’t see why it’s so important that Israel isn’t THE Holy Land, argued Mary doggedly, rubbing at the bandage over her wrist.

Isn’t the ONLY Holy Land, I added.

We were discussing the Creeds in Counseling. Four days left of our Probation period, and Mary and George and I were all still resolved to go on. Mary had balked at the tattoo, growling that where she came from only trashy people got tattoos. Silently, I’d pulled my tunic sleeve up to show her my crude cross, and her face had fallen. But I explained how I couldn’t wait to make enough money to get it taken off, and she perked up again. But she’d said she didn’t want the required inner wrist tattoo.

The Creed says ‘All Lands Are Holy Lands, And All People Are Chosen Peoples.’ That means Israel is a Holy Land, too. I ended.

But it’s been called THE Holy Land for millennia, she answered. Absently she peeled a corner of the bandage over her wrist where the fresh tattoo was covered. If a majority of peoples accept that a certain thing is true, doesn’t that make it true for humanity?

No, said George. There’s no majority rule with facts. Look at the morons in Alabama who tried to pass a law that Pi equals three. Facts are true, facts are real: Pi is twenty-two divided by seven. I really like the idea that All Lands Are Holy Lands; it means that no one, Jew, Christian or Muslim, can claim a monopoly on holiness, which is what a lot of the right-wing assholes say. This was more than George had said during counseling in the whole time we’d been together.

What do you think, Chris? asked our counselor. I had been staring at his crotch, filled with lust, and I had to think fast.

I get the rejection of Tribalism. In a single world, approaching a single society, like we are, it just makes sense. And having one place be THE Holy Land makes all the other places less. It also, I said carefully, looking at Mary, makes the people who just happen to live there, legally or not, special, and sets them apart. That’s the hallmark of Tribalism: everyone is either in the in-group with special privileges, or relegated to the out-group that gets shit on.

Crude, but true in principle, agreed Jason.

OK, I get that, she said.

Sometimes I was afraid Mary felt we three males ganged up against her, but she had no problem arguing her positions when they differed from ours. Today she was defending her training in the Church, which I knew from experience could be hard to set aside. There was a lot of fear attached to rejection of dogma, because we Christians had all been warned endlessly that Hell was a hidden pit, just waiting for the faithful to slip and fall in. Dogmatic training was the only thing saving us from Hell.

It just seems needlessly antagonistic to me, she added, and sat back in her chair.

I have to make a quick pit stop, said Jason, as he stood. I’ve got a fun five minute assignment for you while I’m gone: I want you to brainstorm every possible meaning you can write down in five minutes for this. He held up the shiny steel ring on its black thong. Go.

Mary reached for her journal, but George said, I’ve barely written anything in mine. Let’s use mine, so at least there will be something in it.

When Jason returned to our little circle, which was meeting today in the Great Hall, we showed him the list we’d made in George’s notebook. The Director slowly read the list out loud, a smile flickering over his features.

Circles have no beginning or end.

A circle is eternal.

A circle is a boundary.

Unlike rectangles, circles have no sides, no us or them.

The cock ring is useful to prop up erections.

The ring is unbreakable, like the earth, which will endure beyond our lives and indeed our species' life.

It is inclusive like the earth.

It represents value in the ring, and utility in the hole.

It represents one world.

It's beautiful.

It attracts the eye.

It is man-made.

It divides the world into inner and outer.

It can create discussions about sex and meaning.

It invites curious conversation.

It functions as an identifying symbol for Restoration, the broken made whole again.

It identifies a Priest.

Jason looked up at us, smiling and nodding. Good job, was all he said.

But which is the right answer? asked Mary urgently. She had pushed for the ‘divides the world into inner and outer’ idea.

These are all very good. You can see how many ideas people get when they see this ring.

Mary was about to explode.

For me, personally, Jason continued, the ring represents the greatest ideas in the Creeds: One World, One People, One Origin, One Destiny. Jason held up his ring. One. The actual history of our rings is rather prosaic: in the seventies, leather-men used to wear their cock rings on a leather thong like this, and two of them became the first Priests at this Center.

And that’s it? I asked.

We kept the practice when we discovered how much interest and speculation the rings aroused. Also, added the Director, being originally a penis appliance, the cock ring gets across the idea that we Priests are sex-positive— and penis-friendly! added Jason.

George guffawed. I just grinned; even Mary smiled at that one.

Jason stood up. Great work today, guys. See you tomorrow.

And then he was gone, and Mary and George got up and went back to our room.

I sat thinking, looking out through the big sliding glass door toward the Garden courtyard, whose partially covered walkways felt like an extension of the Great Hall.

The Garden in the courtyard of the old building was my favorite place at the Center. On my first day, I asked the old