THE MEMOIRS OF ARMIN WALDERMAN 1969

Sunday morning, I get ready for the most sacred day of the week, the day the whole small town of Clarksville have been waiting for.

Even though I’m in my mid-twenties, no matter how early my alarm went off or if I had a bad night, it's time to start getting ready. The shower never felt as freezing as it did today. Mr. John Walderman and his honorable wife Mrs. Delilah Walderman left earlier as they always do to prepare the glorious mass.

“Children, obey your parents in the Lord, honor your father and mother, Ephesians 6 :1,” said Mr. John.

While Mr. John was preaching, my sisters and I stared at each other without blinking, raising our eyebrows upwards, and smiling as we were taught.

Dad motioned to me with his right hand, and as usual, it was time to keep smiling, walking upright and sticking out my chest, projecting the confidence and passion that characterizes us, the Walderman’s, the family chosen by God.

The long-awaited moment has arrived, to offer our riches to God as a symbol of obedience.

Growing up I remembered my dad being very tough on me, the day he caught me wearing my mom’s high heels.

“For God’s sake, Armin, what are you doing?” he yelled. “Take those off right now. God made you a man.”

“Daddy, I like playing with mom’s clothes. It is funny. I want to look pretty like her,” I said, sobbing.

Since that day my father was stricter with me. Every little thing I did bothered him. My mother wanted to intervene several times, but she was too scared of him. She believed the man was the head of the household. While I was growing up, I tried to act as masculine as possible, even though my father was a tough man, deep down I wanted to be more like him.

That’s why I started to date Elissa, a girl from our congregation. Our families have always been close, plus her family was happy with the idea of her marrying the preacher’s son.

I’ve never seen my dad as content as he was. When Elissa and I announced our engagement, the whole town was preparing the ceremony. I’ve always been good at pretending.

The day of the rehearsal wedding, while everyone was waiting for me to arrive, I ran into Mason, my best friend since we were six. We were sitting at the back of the church, like old times. He was also married to his wife Melinda, another girl from the congregation. His parents forced him to do it, because that was God’s will. We stared at each other, we didn’t say a word, we held hands and together remembered every encounter we had in that same spot, where hundreds of dusty bibles were kept. It felt like a breath of fresh air. His slender, strong and imposing figure, his charming eyes and muscular body, has been a poem to me since then, his hands massaging my back and between my legs felt warm, sweaty and trembling.

It was getting late and the whole town were questioning where I was. I had to get accustomed to the idea of pleasing my future wife in a way that I would probably never feel.

What if it was just easier to be who I really am, and to follow my instincts, after all that’s not what the lord would want for His children?

“It will be okay, Armin. You will make her pregnant, and the pressure will go away,” said Mason. “We will still have each other.”

“Why does it have to be this way for us, Mason?” I said.

***

I went to the rehearsal wedding. I remembered seeing my dad’s proud face as I never saw it before.

Later that night, after doing the best acting of my life, Mason and I heard about this hidden new clandestine club in the south of town, and we decided to finally go.

I wanted to know the feeling of having two big mountains on my chest, and the sensation of being sucked like the juicy cans of cherries that my father and I used to love.

I wanted to be able to hide my virtues under a skirt and catching Mason’s attention.

It was midnight. Everyone was asleep. I went into my sister Brianna's old room. I took a pair of the flowered stiletto heels that she used to wear. I took one of her tight fit red sequined dresses, with the plunging neckline. I put on one of the blonde wigs that someone had once donated to the church and stole some of my mother’s makeup.

I felt a flame welling up from my insides. My hands were sweating a little, but I had never felt so comfortable before. Mason was Enlighted to see me. We walked three blocks to a gay bar.

When we arrived, we saw rainbows of wigs and stilettos. I felt the glory of being transformed. I never felt more at ease. There was rock and roll playing in the back, people poll dancing and having shots. They looked at us and smiled.

While I was taking off my Coat, a subtle hand touched my shoulder, and I heard a whisper in my ear.

“Mmm, that hat,” someone said.

When I turned around, it was Mr. John Walderman, my father.

Maryjo Romero is a creative mind, a free spirit and a storyteller. Writing is her passion. Art is her signature. Music is her life. Follow her on Instagram @maryjomusic_.