In the Queer Issue this week, Kate Preusser writes about her Catholic childhood in Seattle, knowing she was supposed to be worshipping Jesus but never being able to take her eyes off Mary:

Sitting in the pew at church, staring up at the giant Jesus on the crucifix suspended like the day's catch in the fishmonger's window, I did not feel warm, as we were supposed to. Jesus had always seemed to me like a remote, sanctimonious older brother. My eyes usually wandered toward the alcove, where the statue of Mary stood: not aloof, but beseeching, understanding as she peered out from under her veil. Whenever my super-Catholic grandparents sent a package with devotional cards, I'd pick out all the Marys first and leave my sister the lesser saints and assorted Christs. Hail Mary, full of grace, Christianity's original MILF.

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And I write about rolling around in the sack with military men:

Not every gay man in the military is a moron, but this one was. We met at Neighbours. (Gay men in the military love Neighbours.) Ridiculously handsome. In the navy. Perfect. My oldest brother is in the navy. He's a born-again Christian and we rarely speak, but his existence allows me to say, "Oh yeah? My oldest brother's in the navy." We traded numbers. The desperation of military men, the arbitrary aim, the guilelessness about being gay, the lonely hours on the base—who knows what it is, but you can get a military guy to do anything...

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