The Second Coming

Last night, I went out for dinner with one of my oldest and dearest friends, Kristen. Together, we laughed and commiserated about romantic foibles of the past, (mostly mine). I came to the conclusion, as I looked back through the halcyon years of my serial dating adventures, that a lot of the time, I became involved with dubious men, or accepted invitations for dates with them, purely because I knew that the situation was bound to end either in disaster or hilarity, and thus, would make for an amazing story in years to come.

One such story, which we recounted last night at some length, has to do with a brief and wholly-regrettable romance that occurred betwixt myself and a born-again Christian named Nathan.

It was late in the year 2009, a year which proved to be the hardest one of my life. Following the collapse of the closest thing to a marriage that I'm likely to ever experience, I suffered a phenomenal emotional breakdown, culminating in the loss of my job and apartment, various hospitalizations and myriad meetings with therapists and counselors of all stripes. I was, in a word, fragile. Enter: Nathan, a Bible-thumping, Dudley-Do-Right sort of guy with whom I had been casually acquainted for several years.

 His story was an intriguing one: A tall, affable and handsome lad, Nathan grew up in Nelson, B.C. Like most of his peers, he was a hippie wild child who drank to excess, partied all night at outdoor raves and regularly indulged in psychedelic drugs. He was clever, charming and popular, and never suffered from a shortage of friends or female admirers. One day, presumably in the thick of some sort of acid trip, Nathan was out wandering in a field, when he claims that a light beamed down from the heavens, and that he heard the voice of God, commanding him to renounce his promiscuous, partying ways and seek instead the straight and narrow path of Christ. From that day on, he did just that. He took a vow of celibacy, stopped imbibing in substances of any kind, and joined the church.

Nathan was a good pal of a close family friend, who happened to bring him by my parents house over that Christmas holiday of 2009. During that visit, my woeful nervous condition was apparent to all. I was frail, having had lost almost 30 pounds that year, withdrawn, anxious and ashen. Nathan, Good Samaritan that he was, instantly took pity on me, and we had a brief, private discussion about the challenges I had faced that year.

A prolific and extremely-talented musician, he also asked if I might bring out my guitar. He played a few songs for all of us and then took it upon himself to restring the instrument. I appreciated this kind gesture and Nathan's willingness to lend an ear in a time of darkness.

The next thing I knew, Nathan and I were hanging out a lot. He would call me to see how I was doing; he would offer to pick me up from parties, after I had drank in excess, despite the directives of my psychiatrist to avoid the consumption of all alcohol. This worked out well for me, since he worked graveyard shifts as an orderly at the hospital, and was usually finishing up work at the time I was winding down for the night. I didn't even so much mind his occasional religious diatribes, (although they sometimes strayed dangerously into right-wing propagandistic territory), since the rest of the time, he was incredibly witty and kind.



One January night, after he had collected me from the bar, we went back to his modest apartment to watch a movie. We joked and laughed, and kissed a little bit. Suddenly, I found myself passed out and snuggled under the covers of his bed.

Nathan hadn't had sex in eleven years. Several girls had tried and failed miserably to convince him to break his vow of chastity, so I felt extremely confident that nothing would transpire in that bed, aside from a drunken slumber. How wrong I was.

 Suddenly, and without warning, a completely naked Nathan was in bed beside me, touching and caressing me with an abandon most unfitting for a man of God. Naturally, I went with it, and although not necessarily satisfied by the event, I was at least impressed with the eagerness with which His Holiness approached a performance eleven years in the making.

The Second Coming, indeed.

Immediately after the enthusiastic flailing came to an end, Nathan rolled over onto his side and looked at me with large, brown, limpid eyes. I figured some sort of sweet, post-coital pillow talk was about to ensue.

 "Stef?" he whispered. "Do you mind if I pray?"

My first reaction to this horrifying proposition was laughter. Surely he was just being funny, attempting to break the mildly-uncomfortable silence with levity. However, the stone-cold seriousness in his eyes told me that this was anything but a joke.

The prayer commenced. Nathan sat up in bed, clasped his hands together like St. Francis of Assisi, rolled his eyes heavenward, in beatific adoration, and began thus:

"Dear God. Thank you so much for this beautiful experience that Stephanie and I have just shared..."

Several thoughts flashed through my mind as I lay there, covers drawn up tightly under my chin, petrified and motionless. How far was it to the front door? How quickly could I get there? Would it be worth the humiliation of running naked through his apartment building, if only to escape what seemed to be some sort of impending Baptismal ritual?

As the pontiff droned on, I rolled over, eyes wide as saucers, and caught sight of a large tome on the nightstand, open to a page titled, "The Age of the Antichrist". Indeed, young Nathan. Indeed.

The next day at work, I received a text message:

"Hello, Stephanie. How are you today? Do you think you might be pregnant? If so, I want you to know that I will take full responsibility. There are not enough children in the world who are being raised in God's Holy Way. We must raise our children to walk the Pathway of Christ!"

"Umm.. I think we should see other people?", I responded.

Heartbroken and troubled by his overriding conscience, Nathan immediately sought the sanctuary of his place of worship. He confessed the hideous sins of the flesh I had forced him to commit to his horrified pastor. The holy man told him that I was, without question, a wanton woman, more than likely some sort of succubus from one of the seven layers of Hell, and at the very least, a True Jezebel of the sort that had led unsuspecting men to their fiery and torturous deaths, ever since Eve offered Adam the apple.

A few days later, a small plastic bag appeared in my mailbox. It contained some of my personal effects: Earrings left on Nathan's nightstand; a lighter; a tube of lipstick. The bag was neatly and hermetically-sealed, presumably to avoid any contact with or contamination from my Original Sin. Included along with these items was a small, handwritten note:

"I should have never listened to you. This is what happens when you trust other people, instead of the Word of the Lord. May God bless you."

Ah, men.