Page 33 of Gay for Pray (Arport Sacred Sacrament University #1)

EXCERPT FROM A STANDALONE A.S.S. UNI. NOVEL

Zach

THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO be fun.

Sitting in a guidance counselor’s office so she can decide how to punish my sinful transgressions is definitely not fun.

The guy sitting next to me squirms and fidgets, his hands clasped between his knees and head down.

He won’t pick it up and look at me, hasn’t made eye contact since the second campus security caught us in those hedges.

I think his name is Mark. Or maybe Mike.

I didn’t bother learning it before dragging him into the bushes.

Names didn’t matter as much as the hungry gleam in my lab partner’s eyes while we allegedly learned about acids and bases.

The only bases I was worried about was the one Mark/Mike would let me get to as soon as I got him somewhere more private than a bio elective.

For the record, I’d solidly secured third and was rapidly heading for home when that pig yanked us apart and started yelling about “disciplinary action” and “student body code of conduct.”

The counselor sighs at her computer screen, which I can only presume displays a copy of an incident report.

Her cool eyes sweep over us next, and while Mark/Mike hunches in even more on himself like a wilting flower, I sit up straighter.

I’m not giving any of these bastards the satisfaction of breaking me.

I know I’m not their ideal student, this being a Catholic university and me being very, very obviously gay, but I had the grades to get in here, with a scholarship no less, so I’m going to make them treat me like any other student if it’s the last damn thing I do at Arpor Sacred Sacrament University.

“This is a serious infraction,” the counselor says. Her eyes focus singularly on me. “And not your first, Mr. Byrne.”

I cringe at that last part. Despite my bravado, she’s right about that.

I get good grades, but when it comes to the code of conduct, I’m not exactly a model student.

It’s a complication I wasn’t counting on when I accepted enrollment at a Catholic school.

I just assumed they’d be more…normal, whatever religious veneer they wanted to put on things.

Unfortunately, I was wrong, and students and faculty alike take their code of conduct way too seriously.

Despite that, this is still a college campus, with all the hormones and antics that implies.

Mark/Mike has been checking me out all semester in our biology class.

I’ve caught him looking more than once, to the point that it became my favorite little private game to wink at him or lick my lips and see how much of a reaction I could get out of him in the middle of class.

The teasing apparently worked because as soon as we got stuck being lab partners, he broke, his hands shaking when he tried to hand me a beaker.

I knew I had him then, and it took very little to get him to follow me after class.

I told him I had a question about our homework, as though we had homework and I needed this guy’s help with it.

We don’t and I didn’t, but Mark/Mike followed me anyway, so eager I could practically feel him panting on my neck.

The closeted types are always so pent up when they finally let go.

I intended to get him somewhere more private, at least my car if my roommate wasn’t gone, but Mark/Mike was too impatient for us to get that far.

And that’s how we ended up in some bushes at the edge of campus, which are, unfortunately, technically, “an open public space.”

“We simply cannot tolerate conduct like this from our students,” the counselor is saying when I bother to tune back into her ranting.

“This is a blatant violation of the code of conduct, a code of conduct every single student signs upon admission. It isn’t wasted paper, Mr. Byrne. We take that code seriously.”

“Why are you addressing that to me?” I say. “He was there too.”

Mark/Mike’s head finally pops up, a look of sheer terror in his eyes.

I can’t help smirking at him. Even as our doom looms above us, his eyes skitter over my face, then lower to the patch of skin exposed by my low V-neck.

Southern California hasn’t managed to give me much in the way of a tan, unfortunately, but at least my pale complexion makes my hazel eyes seem all the brighter.

It always works on guys like this, guys who are desperately thirsty but terrified to drink, especially when I scrub a hand through my messy brown waves.

“I am saying it to both of you,” the counselor says, calling our attention away from each other and back to her, “but only one of you is a habitual offender.”

I bristle, all the fun of teasing Mark/Mike evaporating in an instant.

She’s been dancing around the heart of the issue so far, but that right there just tipped her hand.

A “habitual offender,” as though I’m only here to smudge the university’s good name with my sinful presence.

I know exactly which “habits” she’s talking about.

We all know exactly which habits. It’s the same habits that Mark/Mike is trying desperately to pretend aren’t embedded deep in his bones.

This is the exact kind of shit that makes a guy like that stay in the closet until he’s jerking someone off in some bushes beside an academic building, and I’m really tired of it.

If you’re going to punish me for actually breaking the rules, fine.

I certainly earned that. But if you’re going to punish me simply for being gay, we’re going to have words.

The counselor can see that she’s messed up. My face has always been an open book, and I’m sure the anger boiling in my gut is also shining in my eyes right now. She rushes to cut me off before I can explode in her office.

“This isn’t about—”

“Oh, I think we all know exactly what this is about,” I jump in. “How many straight couples have you caught making out on a bench on campus? I saw two this morning. There weren’t any campus police dragging them in for disciplinary action.”

“Those students were not—”

“That’s still a violation of your precious code of conduct!”

I’m yelling, potentially loudly enough that someone can hear me out in the rest of the office, but I don’t care.

This has turned from a personal failing to a societal one, and the injustice of it burns.

I saw enough injustice growing up where and how I did.

I’m not taking it from this puffed up university bureaucrat.

“You can say they weren’t doing what we were doing,” I say, “but where’s the line? Does the guy have to grab the girl’s boob? Is that when you’ll stop it? Or maybe it’s more like when she reaches in his pants, huh? That’s where the real sinning starts.”

“Mr. Byrne!”

“Tell me. Tell me where the line is. When do those straight kids on the benches get dragged in here like us?”

“You and Mr. Roberts were engaged in an act of manual stimulation in full view of anyone who happened to be walking into the student services building. That kind of behavior is a flagrant violation of the code of conduct you signed as an incoming freshman.”

“So is the behavior of the hets on the benches,” I shoot back.

I know I’m not entirely in the right here, but I’m too angry to care.

I’d bet anything that if a straight couple was doing exactly what we were doing, they’d get a slap on the wrist and be sent on their way.

They’d never get dragged in and lectured like this.

The university is right that we violated the code of conduct, but they’re wrong about the punishment, they’re wrong about the severity of our case compared to the shit that everyone knows goes on on campus every single day.

“I was coerced!”

The counselor and I pause in our shouting when Mark/Mike finally speaks up. His eyes are frantic now, like a corned rabbit who just spotted an opening between the legs of the wolves.

“Mr. Roberts?”

“I…I was coerced. He coerced me. He led me on. He said we were going to work on homework. I didn’t know.”

I blink, gaping at the guy beside me. I shouldn’t have expected loyalty; I can’t even remember the dude’s name, so it’s not like he owes me anything. I suppose I just figured he’d be a little better than a complete and utter coward.

“Are you serious?” I say.

“He…he was saying all kinds of crazy things. Threats. Promises. I think…I think the devil possessed him!”

Not even the counselor seems convinced by this bullshit, but she merely purses her lips into a hard, thin line. Which only goes to prove my earlier point.

“When that cop caught us, you were the one with your hand on my—”

“That’s not true!” Mark/Mike cuts in desperately. “He’s making it up. It’s all a lie. I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

I grind my teeth. I could argue, but he’s going to get away with this.

I know he is. The police report likely doesn’t include a detailed sketch of whose hand was on whom.

Cops aren’t exactly known for their mastery of the written word, and I’ve appeared in more than my share of their incident reports, so I doubt I can enjoy any leniency there.

If Mark/Mike presses it, whichever campus security pig caught us will likely back him up just to screw me.

So will the counselor. I can see it all over her face. Every single person involved in this knows Mark is lying, and none of them are going to do a damn thing about it.

Because I’m the problem.

I’ve always been the problem.

The counselor doesn’t shout at Mark/Mike the way she shouted at me. She simply leans back in her creaky desk chair and lets out a long, aggrieved sigh. Oh, this must be so hard for her. I barely manage not to roll my eyes at her plight.

“Mr. Roberts,” she says, focusing on my accomplice, “this infraction will be noted on your record, but as it’s your first offense, consider this a warning.”

“A warning!” I yelp. “You can’t be serious.”

The counselor holds up her hand.

“A serious warning,” she says, as though that makes it any better. “Any similar violation will result in more severe punishment. Public indecency is no laughing matter at Arpor Sacred Sacrament.”

I snort at the phrase “public indecency” before I can stop myself, and the counselor turns her narrowed eyes on me, her mouth hardening until it all but disappears.

“As for you, Mr. ,” she says, “as this is far from your first infraction, I cannot let you go with a mere warning.”

I scoff, folding my arms over my chest as I lean back in my chair at a final attempt at indifferent defiance. “Yeah, of course.”

A strange little smile settles on the counselor’s mouth, a smile I distinctly don’t like.

If this was a suspension or something, she wouldn’t smile like that.

That means she has something even worse in store for me.

My blood goes cold. I don’t mind taking my beats, but I need this degree, and I’ve been busting my ass for it.

“You, Mr. Byrne,” she says, “are going to help with A.S.S. Uni.’s very own Christmas Committee.”

“What?” The word bursts free before I can stop it. I’m blinking too fast, but I don’t know whether to be angry or scared or relieved.

“It’s almost the holiday season, Mr. Byrne,” the counselor says.

“Show us your holiday spirit by helping to put up a beautiful—and appropriate—Christmas display for the whole campus. If you can’t, or won’t, this institution is prepared to impose far harsher penalties.

Consider this the grace of God affording you one last chance. ”

She dismisses us then, but I’m numb as I trudge back to my dorm. The grace of God. Yeah, sure. If by “grace” you mean a month of pure Christmas hell.

Get more in “The Christmas Committee,”

coming in 2025.