THE POWER OF COCK COMPELS HIM

haggard

Ted Haggard is guilty. Before hearing the voice mails, before reading the emails, and before that tearful plea for forgiveness by the good pastor, I know for a fact that the head of Colorado Springs’ New Life Church, one of America’s most awesome spectacles of Christian muscle, and the president of the National Association of Evangelicals, an organization with tens of millions of members, fucked, sucked, and rimmed Denver-area male escort Mike Jones. It’s as sure as the sunrise; as bankable as the Cubs’ futility; more certain than the godless void that is our universe. As the news comes hard and fast — much like Mr. Haggard himself — we now know that over the course of three years, these two shared a business relationship, up to and including the exchange of fluids. The exact location of these trysts has yet to be determined, but one can imagine seedy hotel rooms throughout the Denver area, perhaps even a YMCA parking lot, or the sauna at some rundown apartment complex. As sure as I’m born, Haggard took it in the ass, swallowed Mike whole, bathed him, powdered him dry, and, according to rumors, snorted meth off the young stud’s inner thigh. Yes, we know that Haggard has a wife and five children. Yes, we know that he opposes gay marriage, gay civil unions, and anything even hinting at gay rights, but if I’m not mistaken, he’s never overtly opposed gay sex. Now we know why. I was prepared to call him a hypocrite, but there’s no evidence whatsoever that he believes fisting to be an unpardonable sin.

What is it about devotees of Jesus and the love of hard cock? Exposing moral scoundrels and liars is always most pleasurable, but down the line — even among those who live openly in the manner most reflective of their true selves — men who worship Christ have raw, ravaged sphincters to go along with their daily devotionals. Sure, most modern images of Jesus show a buff, well-chiseled hunk of oily disposition, complete with sweat, blood, dirt, and nary a trace of body hair. He’s clean, bronzed, and cut, and lonely homosexuals are bound to feel an attraction to him, which may be the only way to endure mindless Bible readings and flowery, feminized church services. But as these institutions forbid gay intercourse, men must hide behind a persona of fatherhood and neighborly decency, even if their hormones are screaming for a full-tilt cum fest on the altar with a resurrected messiah. It’s really no more complicated than that: because religion has nothing else to offer the modern man except the pretense of middle class respectability and business networking opportunities, it becomes imperative that the central figure of the myth be a fully erect symbol of carnal possibility. That gleam in his eye, the casual slip of the loincloth; these serve to push beyond obsolete doctrine and stiffen the parishioner’s resolve to serve a brutal, though tender master.

This combination of servitude and homoerotic longing makes perfect sense, of course, but too many flamboyantly gay men like Haggard must live in the darkness and seek pleasure through surreptitious means. If Haggard devoted a few minutes every Sunday to clips from his lathered sessions of leather and savagery, I might drop a few coins in his basket, but instead, he bashes, lectures, and lies, proving that projection, even more than prostitution, is the world’s oldest profession. His fall, though satisfying, is not fatal, and his second act will likely be even more hysterical than the first, as we’ll either get a Liza Minnelli-like revue of pride and openness, or a sobbing, unending tour of redemption, where we learn that Satan’s power, combined with blackouts, alcoholism, and childhood sodomy at the hands of a vicious priest, “transformed” a good man into a hideous beast of limp-wristedness. He’ll insist he’s not gay, but rather “fallen”; temporarily sidetracked by some sort of illness or disease that removes responsibility and causes untold pain for the innocent members of his family. Not only is such a script possible, it’s already written; and I expect it to be carried to full effect in a surreal press conference unlike any we’ve seen since, well, the last Christian conservative was found with a throbbing member splitting his ass cheeks.

About Matt

Matt is the site’s Longest Serving Critic and chief misanthrope. He divides his time between classics of cinema and the most ridiculous movies he can find on Redbox.
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