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It took him long enough, but he finally confessed to me that he was organizing a Church event and wanted me to be a part of it. Back in the closet, I would have ju

I knew John in high school only through the corner of my eye. I saw him every Sunday night at mass, and in passing at a smorgasbord of school events. Aside from awkward introductions and talk so small you could hardly knew it was there, I knew very little about him other than he wore a cross and had unforgiveable fashion sense. Listening to him fumble on the phone, he told me that he heard I was back in town and got my number from a friend (well ex-friend) at mass.

His voice was not how I remembered it, probably because I had barely spoken to him before. John Smith, a character who I shall provide you with few details other to say I knew him from Church, was a pear-shaped man in his mid to late fifties. Save a few brown hairs that clinged to the side of his head, John’s most distinguishing feature was his running shoes. No matter what formal clothes he happened to be wearing (typically a brown suit with a robin’s egg collar shirt and a thin red tie) he always sported the same pair of worn-out, stained-grey sneakers.

It was October 2005 when I received a call from Mr. John Smith. I hadn’t spoken to the man in question since graduating high school, so it was quite surprising that his voice should happen to turn up on the other end of my phone. At the time of our conversation, I was approximately nineteen straight years and one-point-two-five gay years old. I had just returned to Winnipeg after coming out in Ottawa, and was fresh off the gay boat.

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I am a twenty-something prairie boy who lives on the west coast. i love red wine, live jazz and spaghetti bolognese. i work full-time at an itailan restaurant and am in a part-time relationship with netflix. if you love to laugh and treat yourself to multiple night-caps this is the site for you.