Rock Island, November 1977
I began taking Spanish in fifth grade, and by high school I was relatively fluent. During my senior year at Rocky High, I took AP Spanish with Mr. Blomberg, who assigned the novel Nada menos que todo un hombre and the poems of Garcia Lorca (La luna viene a la fragua con un bolison de nardos: I can still remember that line without having to look it up).
But I had never heard Spanish spoken outside of the classroom Today 6% of the population of Rock Island is Hispanic, but in 1977, none that I knew of. I had never met a native speaker, not even one of my Spanish teachers.
I knew, intellectually, that millions of people spoke Spanish every day, in Spain and Latin America, but it might as well have been the language of a long-dead civilization, or one of the invented languages in The Lord of the Rings.
Then, on November 13th, the Sunday before my birthday, I was was walking down the hallway from the Sunday school rooms with the other high schoolers, on our way to sit in back rows during church (God forbid any teenagers sit in the middle section with their parents!). As we approached the foyer, I saw a Hispanic guy standing uncomfortably by the rack of tracts.
Incredible! He was in his 20s, tall and broad-shouldered, with very dark skin and shaggy black hair, thick square hands jutting uncomfortably from his blue leisure suit. An Adonis! A dark-skinned Erik Estrada, a muscular Freddie Prinze!
And a visitor to the church. That meant he was fair game for soul-winning!
As Nazarenes, we were judged on how many souls we brought to Christ by importuning friends, starting conversations on the bus, knocking on strangers' doors. A visitor was an easy target. I was surprised that the Hispanic guy hadn't been mobbed already.
I hadn't figured "it" out yet, so I just thought of him as a soulwinning target. I would explain the Gospel to him -- in Spanish -- lead him to the altar -- wrap my arm around his shoulders while he prayed through to victory -- embrace him in a warm, sweaty hug -- feel his hard chest against mine, his dark, uncut cock....
"He's mine!" I told the others, breaking away from the group and rushing toward him.
"You mean Juan?" a voice called behind me. It was Sarah, an 12th grader. Her father was Brother Geoge, the Sunday School superintendent, which made her church royalty, holier than Jesus and more stuck-up than a French poodle. She had never spoken to me before. .
"You know him?"
She swished past me. "Dad invited him. He just started working at the auto shop." Brother George also owned his own business and had employees, a rarity in a working class church.
"Well, I don't see Brother George anywhere around, so.." I started walking faster, trying to pass her, but we both reached the tract rack at the same time. Juan turned and smiled at us.
Sarah took his arm and said "I'm so glad you could make to the Lord's House today." Then, giving me an evil glare, "Oh...and this is Boomer. He's one of the children in my Sunday school class."
"We're the same age," I shot back. Sarah might be the boss's daughter, but I had an ace in the whole (whatever that is -- Nazarenes don't play cards): "Que tal, Juan? Bienvenidos a nuestra iglesia!"
"Tu hablas Espanol?" he said, taking my hand. "No he encontrado nadie in America con que puedo hablar!"
He spoke so fast that I could barely understand him, and his grammar was awful, but I was speaking to a real Hispanic guy in Spanish. "Yo lo estudio en mi escuela, pero nunca hay encontrado a una persona que lo habla in actualidad."
"That's not necessary!" Sarah exclaimed. "Juan speaks English perfectly. Now if you'll excuse us, the service is about to start" She grabbed his arm and led him into the sanctuary, toward her parents' pew, away from the teenagers' section. But I wouldn't be dissuaded. I planted myself next to Juan and spent the service whispering to him in Spanish, explaining when to pick up his hymnal and when to bow his head to pray, and what an altar call was for.He didn't get saved at the altar call. He said that the service was "Very cool. Like pentecostal. Maybe I come again sometime."
Uh-oh. That meant he wouldn't come back. I had lost my chances of soulwinning -- and getting with -- the Hispanic hunk. Meanwhile, Sarah drop by after school every day...invite him to Thanksgiving dinner next week...ask him out on a date...hug and kiss him in a darkened car parked at the levee...feel his hard chest beneath her hand...feel his....
I had only one hope. Mom was letting me drive her car, as long as I chauffeured her to and from work...
The full story, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood