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Subject: A LOVE STORY BEGINS!  Mama was a Preacher Chapter 1. GAY. (M/M) ADULTS ONLY!
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Mama was a Preacher Copyright 1996 by AUTHOR22@aol.com All rights
reserved.

PREFACE and Disclaimer

"Mama was a Preacher" is the story of a young boy who grows up as the
son of a traveling revival evangelist, eventually becoming a star in
his own right as a modern day television evangelist.

The book traces that evolution examining not only religion, but the
development of the boy while in the public eye. And of course, sex,
plays just as important a part in his life as it does with anyone
else.

I invite you to partake of this adventure as it leads from the 1940's
into the 1990's, as it traces the evolution of a young boy's sexual
development through adolescence, young adult, and middle age. As he
evolves from a preacher's son, to a road pounding itinerate
evangelist. The story takes a close look at "being on the road",
developing sexuality while in the public eye, the emotional
relationship between performer and audience, and today's multi-media
religious television business with its many political facets.

The issue of religion is expected to make this work a very
controversial one, as it takes an honest look at this human frailty in
light of human appetites.

If the reader can identify with any of the characters in the story,
then learn from it. All of the characters are based on real people,
however, in most instances the names have been changed to protect the
guilty. If you feel you have been libeled, resist the opportunity to
come forward, use the cloak of anonymity lest ye be found out.

But as with all works of fiction, and "Mama was a Preacher" is a work
of fiction, people and events appear real, because in fact they were
real.

Chapter One IN THE BEGINNING

In 1935 Adolph Hitler was rattling swords in Europe. Japan was unhappy
with American foreign policy, and the United States was the
international playboy whose primary goal in life was enjoy, enjoy,
enjoy.

My mother was with child, and in 1935 I struggled free of her body,
entering a world rapidly moving towards strife.

Sometime later, and well before my memory began recording things for
my retention, my father moved on and Mom got religion.

My earliest recollections were inside of a country church in the hills
of Arkansas. The settlement was small and very poor. There was only
one community building and it served as a one room school house,
church, and meeting center.

We lived in a small house trailer parked alongside of the structure.
Water was from a well, some 20 feet away; light and heat came from
kerosene.

Compared with where everyone else lived, our trailer was a mansion.
Two of the largest families lived in what at first looked like old
barns; the inner space being divided into a couple of rooms with walls
constructed from rough, unfinished lumber. Most cooking was done over
an outdoor fire pit, although both houses did have large wood burning
stoves. The Holborns had 12 Kids, while the Osbornes had only 11;
mostly boys.

A living was wrenched from the hard, mean land by applying much effort
with a few tools but mostly bare hands. They raised chickens, pigs,
and everyone had at least one cow.

The nearest town was 20 miles away, so the only entertainment was
Mama's church and she held services twice on Sunday, and Wednesday
evening.

The church building wasn't much better than the houses, although I
suspect neither the Osbornes or Holborns had to put up with the leaky
roofs that we did. But that wasn't really much of a problem because
when it rained everyone stayed home.

Mama's Sunday Night Services were the most fun of the week; the entire
community looked forward to them. If the number of times the
congregation said "Amen Sister", or "Hallelujah" meant they liked what
they heard, then she was very good. However, the main part of that
Sunday evening service that every one looked forward to was the
singing. 

She had tried to organize a choir, but everyone in the congregation
wanted in; and there was no point in simply re-seating everyone behind
Mama on the platform.

The Sunday morning services were a bore. First there was Sunday
School, with someone's mother, father, uncle or aunt teaching us about
what they thought the Bible said. However that ordeal was only an hour
long, and was followed by the Sunday morning sermon. Mama tried to
keep that to an hour, but like a salad once started, it grew and grew
and grew, sometimes lasting well past one o'clock. The congregation
divided its self into two parts with the adults up front and the kids
in back. The children could sneak out without disturbing the older
folk; only Mama could see them leave.

At the age of ten I was too young to understand why some of the
teenage boys and girls would leave in the middle of the evening
services. Mama would be quite distressed, although it didn't bother
her when it happened on Sunday mornings.

Sometimes I would sit in Mama's chair behind the podium while she was
conducting the singing. She wasn't very good on the piano, but one of
the Osborne girls could play by ear and did most of the piano playing.

I still had long blonde curls which framed my round cheerie face. My
body was babyish; round and chubby. 

One time I was sitting on the edge of the platform, clapping my hands
in time to a spirited number and Mama handed me a tambourine. My
little hands began to spank the surface causing both a tinkling sound
from the metal rings as well as a drum like thump. Soon my little
frame was bouncing up and down having become part of that little
instrument. 

After the singing was over, and Mama got down to preaching, I would
sit in the lap of Marjory, the piano player. She would put her arms
around me, her hands in my lap, and as she would get stirred up she
would press her hands, almost rhythmically, into my lap. The feeling
was nice and my little penis would stiffen; and when that happened her
smile would get bigger, and her body seemed to get even more into the
beat of her emotions, as her hands continued to administer to my tiny
drum stick.

Even though singing and testimony were the only two parts of the
service in which everyone was expected to participate, the
congregation would join in agreement with points made during the
sermon.

The testimony part of the service was kind of a "public confession",
where people would stand up and tell about the sins they had
committed, and how God had changed their lives. You could always tell
when the older children were "maturing", as they would suddenly be
sinning, and would need to seek forgiveness. Yet outside of the church
their daily lives didn't change.   They still would sneak out of the
service and seek "fun in the bushes".   Their confessions would never
admit to that part of their behavior. Sex wasn't sinning; that was
just part of growing up.

One night when Mama and I were in our beds, and before I had gone to
sleep I asked her what caused babies to be born. She dwelt heavily
upon the growing in her body and the pain of giving birth, but never
mentioned the fun part of how a girl would get pregnant. Of course I
had heard things from the other kids and had witnessed the siring of a
cow by the bull. In my infant innocence I tried to guide her to that
part of the process but failed.

In the summertime most of the boys would go skinny dipping in the
nearby river. When I was old enough they would take me with them.
The older boys had hair growing below their abdomens, and had wee-wees
that were not so wee. On occasion they would wrestle and play tag.
Frequently their wee-wees would get stiff and stand out from their
bodies. When that happened the boy would quickly dive into the water,
and swim rapidly around until he was no longer stiff.

Jerry was an Osborne. Jerry was my age, and Jerry was my best friend.
We would hang out together, play jacks or marbles, and go fishing. We
also talked about the girls in his family; there were three: Marjory
who was 16, Betty who was 14, and Jerry's twin sister Geraldine.

Jerry knew a lot about girls. They had pussy's, and wee-wees were
designed by God to go into pussies. Just why and how that happened
remained a mystery. Occasionally our little peckers would get stiff,
and we would lay back and wonder how it would feel to have them inside
of a girl's pussy. 

Jerry's oldest brother Todd was nearly 18, and he was "very popular"
with the girls. Jerry said that he had heard that Todd had spent an
entire weekend with a waitress down in Clinton, and had bragged to his
brothers that the girl could not get enough of him. We wondered
exactly what part of him she could not get enough of.

It was about then when Jerry started his growth spurt, while I
remained pre-pubescent. His dick was the first thing that started to
get bigger.   We talked about that and compared our equipment. Within
just a couple of months Jerry grew from little finger sized to a good
five inches. Then, he told me about having a dream where he had his
wee-wee inside of a girl's pussy, and waking as it squirted sticky
stuff into his undershorts. He told one of his brothers who laughingly
told him that he would produce a lot of that stuff. None of this made
any sense to me, but it did start me wondering more and more about
that part of our bodies. By the time we were twelve, Jerry and I
started going camping. We would take our fishing poles, and head down
to the river. He would bring an old comforter in which we would sleep.

We would collect a pile of sticks and branches from which we could
make a bonfire. If we didn't catch any fish (and we usually didn't) we
would throw a couple of potatoes in the bottom of the fire, while we
toasted a hot dog. The taste of the fire roasted potato and hot dog
made for a meal yet to be equaled by any restaurant.

As the night grew on, we would cuddle up inside of his comforter.
Sometimes I would sleep with my arms around him, sometimes it was the
other way around. In the mornings we would both wake with stiffies. If
I was facing away, then Jerry's hand usually cupped my waking wee-wee,
and his much larger one would poke the rear of my shorts. 

One morning I woke with Jerry's hand around my bare wee-wee; it felt
really good. Then, I noticed that my shorts were down around my
ankles, and that his much larger wee-wee was between my legs, and was
making a very wet spot on my balls. But, the warmth from his shaft,
plus his hand on mine felt wonderful, and I pushed back towards him
feeling warm and loved. After that we always slept naked.

Jerry became the central part of my life. If he wasn't around I was
miserable, if he was then I was overjoyed. Our camping trips became
more frequent. 

We would sit together in the front row during Sunday night services,
harmonizing during the singing. Mother suggested that we practice
singing together. Marjory, Jerry and I began spending hours together
singing songs and experimenting with our voices. Marjory would be at
the piano, while Jerry and I would stand close together, an arm around
one another, heads practically touching so that we could hear
ourselves better. 

Jerry and I preferred high tempo songs; things with life and bounce.
Mother and Marjory preferred the slower, ballad type numbers. "Rock of
Ages" was mother's favorite, while "When the Saints go Marching In"
was mine. In as much as Marjory played the piano we were stuck with
her choices, until we started to sing a Cappella.

As we discovered this new technique we began to play off of and with
each other. We began to use our voices to improve how the other
sounded, and would frequently surprise one another. The more we sang
together without accompaniment, the closer we became; it was almost as
though we were sharing our innermost self. I felt closer to Jerry then
than I did when we were sleeping naked together with his stiff dick
between my legs. Our intellects, our minds, our souls had joined. And
at thirteen that's pretty powerful stuff.

Mother began featuring a Cappella duets at the close of Sunday night
services. The call for sinners to come to the altar were accompanied
by our two voices, and brought tears to the eyes of the congregation
while "the sinners" knelt in front of the platform declaring their
sorrow for their misdeeds.

In a small community there are no secrets; everyone knows what
everyone else does. So how these people could possibly have sinned
that much in the last week was a real mystery. However, the emotion
was real, and it fed back to Jerry and I as our voices got even more
tearful, and beckoning.

It was in early fall that we first heard that there was a tent revival
meeting coming to Clinton. The evangelist was visiting every church in
the vicinity, inviting the local minister and congregation to attend.
Mother was quite excited about this event, and organized
transportation for the entire community. We were to drive into town
for the day immediately after Sunday morning services.

Jerry and Marjory drove down with Mother and I. Mother saw the tent
first.   It looked like a small circus tent. The sides were rolled up,
allowing free movement of air. And there was saw dust on the floor.
Folding chairs were placed in rows in front of a large platform. A
piano was on the right side. There was seating for about 300 people.

The Reverend Gregory was a short, balding man. His heavy frame was
strong and spirited. What little hair he had was gray. His wife was
plump and homely. She played piano and led the singing. 

The revival meeting was to be divided into two sessions starting at
three in the afternoon, then breaking for a potluck dinner at six,
then continuing at seven-thirty.

There would also be tent meetings every night during the week, ending
next Saturday.

By the time three o'clock had arrived the tent was packed. The
Osbornes, including, Jerry were in the front row on the right side,
while the Holborns were on the left side, and mother and I were on the
very end.

The good Reverend started the service with a lengthy prayer that
mentioned every minister and church in the area. Once that chore was
out of the way his wife led the singing, and it was joyful and
spirited; just the kind of thing Jerry and I loved to do. I could hear
his voice clearly as he sang out; and from the other side of the tent
I met his and harmonized. Then we began to play with each other as our
voices met, teased, complemented, led, and joined. 

Reverend Gregory joined his wife at the front of the stage and
whispered something in her ear, and then retired to the rear of the
stage. At the end of the first song, she beckoned first Jerry and then
me to join her. 

These two teenage boys beamed at each other as they walked towards the
steps in the center of the stage. Something very special was
happening.

Most of the afternoons music was designed to be uplifting; to get the
congregation into a joyful, emotional state. It was exactly the kind
of material Jerry and I always strove for. It was really US.

I think it was then that I first realized Jerry and I loved each
other.   That love extended beyond our minds, entering our singing,
extending beyond and into the people who joined us in song. Every
person within that tent were being bound together by what we were
doing, and what we were doing was rooted in the deep love that existed
between these two teenage boys.

By four o'clock the singing had come to an end. The reverend came to
the podium with a few words, and said that he wanted each minister in
the area to give a 15 minute message, after which they would break for
the Pot Luck Dinner.

The first minister was from the Clinton Methodist Church, and he was a
bore. That 15 minutes was the longest 15 minutes of the day. The
second minister was from the Pentecostal Church and had some fire to
him. But mother's 15 minutes was not 15 minutes, she couldn't even
begin to say what she wanted to say within that short time, and she
was powerful, and she had drive. Forty-five minutes later she finally
closed, and the good reverend broke for dinner.

Mrs. Gregory asked mother to join her and her husband at their table.
Jerry and I started to sit with them, but mom suggested we eat with
the other kids who were congregating on the far end of the tent.

There was lots of food. Watermelon, fried chicken, potato salad, and
lots of Jello. There were cakes and pies, lemonade and fruit punch.
But with all of the kids that were there the food did not last long,
and before people could drift off, the Gregories started the evening
services thirty minutes earlier than planned.

Mrs. Gregory asked Jerry and I to join her on stage, where we
continued with the uplifting singing, but once the spirit that had
been generated before dinner had been regained, she thanked us, and
then turned the services over to her husband.

He spoke of the evils of our modern day, of how mere man could not
live without sinning unless he had the hand of God upon his head. As
he continued he developed a rhythm to his speaking which was
emphasized by a pounding on the podium as he made his points. The pace
increased, as he spanned from the evils of the world to the wonders of
a forgiving God.  His voice had moved from the pounding of Hell Fire
and Brimstone, to the pleading voice of compassion. It was almost
hypnotic as he drove deeper and deeper into these country folk. 

Finally the service came to an end with the call for sinners to come
to the altar and seek the forgiveness of Christ. It had been a very
emotional experience.

Mother and Marjory were sitting in the front seat of our car, with
Jerry and I in the back. She said that the Gregorys wanted her to
preach on Tuesday night, and that they would like for Jerry and I to
sing. Jerry, reached over and squeezed my hand; and my heart pounded
in my chest.

It was past midnight by the time we had parked the car, and mother
suggested that the two Osborne kids spend the night. Marjory would
double up with mother, and of course Jerry would sleep with me.
However, despite the lateness of the hour, Jerry and I were far too
excited. We told Marjory that she could sleep in my bed, as we were
going to take the comforter and sleep alongside the river.

Mother didn't object, so we rolled up Jerry's old comforter and hiked
the half mile to our special spot.

We sat along side of the river, our bare feet being cooled by the
passing waters. The moon reflected from the rippling surface creating
a magical moment in my memory. Jerry reached over, pulled me to him,
and kissed me solidly upon the lips.

It must have been well past two o'clock when we finally laid out the
comforter and crawled into its familiar interior. We faced one
another.   His breath was warm and sweet. Our lips were within tongues
reach, our arms encircling; mine around his shoulders, his cupping the
cheeks of my buttocks. In total innocence we slipped into dreamland.

The next morning a pestering fly woke me as the warm sun began its
rise.   We had shifted our position during the night. I had turned
over, and Jerry's stiffie was resting where it usually did; between my
legs, probing my balls. But this morning it was a bit different. First
there was an unusual, but pleasant odor emanating from under the
comforter, and secondly, Jerry began rocking back and forth, his shaft
massaging between my legs all the way to and past my balls. His right
arm was around my waist. He held me firmly in his embrace, as his hips
began to move. As his pace increased, I moved backward, closer to him,
sharing his unknown pleasure.   As his movements increased the area
between my legs got wetter and wetter.   Without knowing why I
squeezed my little legs tight together. Then, very suddenly Jerry
began nibbling on the back of my neck and shoulders.  Without warning
his pecker spurted a warm, slippery substance between my legs.   He
held me even tighter as his hands massaged my little one. His wetness
trickled down inside of my leg. Even though it tickled, I didn't want
to do anything that might destroy this mood, and thus lay very quite,
snuggled in his arms, his now quieter breathing testifying to the
waning passion which was being replaced by an even greater feeling of
warmth and emotion; of love.

The pestering fly returned. As I batted it, I accidentally hit Jerry.
That started a bit of wrestling. His sticky stuff started to spread
around on our bodies as we ground into each other, trying to see who
could pin who to the ground. Laughingly, I slipped out of his grasp
and ran to the river where we continued our morning exercise.

Then hunger raised its ugly head, and we headed for the Osborne's for
a morning meal.

Mama spent all day Monday, and most of Tuesday preparing her sermon
for the revival service. 

Marjory, Jerry, and I experimented with different gospel songs. Every
morning KWHN in Fort Smith had a live concert of gospel music. Marjory
began to develop a liking for the up tempo songs, and her ability to
duplicate on the piano what she heard on the radio, enabled Jerry and
I to expand our repertoire. 

During the week most of the people in our community toiled from sun up
to sun set, so it wasn't a surprise when Mama, Marjory, Jerry and me
were the only ones going into Clinton for Tuesdays Revival Meeting.

The trip from Crabtee took close to an hour, and it wasn't 'till
almost four o'clock when we reached the intersection of Main and Pine.
The tent was setup in a vacant lot, just four blocks from the center
of town.

The Gregory's were already making ready for the services, so Jerry and
I pitched in helping to check out the ropes and stakes that were
keeping the tent up. 

Marjory began playing some of the new songs we had heard on the radio.
Soon Jerry and I were singing out as we evened up the rows of chairs,
picked up a few pieces of litter from the saw dust on the floor, and
rolled up the last canvas wall from the side of the tent.

The day was approaching twilight as the first to arrive took seats in
the center. Within 20 minutes the golden glow had left the Arkansas
sky. As darkness descended Mrs. Gregory turned on several glaring,
bare light bulbs. The naked light reflected from the canvas of the
tent, imitating the natural glow, restoring the congenial atmosphere.
As people continued to arrive, trampling the saw dust, the odor of
wood cuttings permeated the air. She then proceeded to the piano, and
the services began.

At the Reverend Gregory's request, Jerry and I were seated on the
platform, just to the rear of the piano, partially hidden from the
congregation. 

The first hymn would have brought Lazarus to life. Mrs. Gregory asked
Jerry and I to lead the singing. We moved to the front of the
platform, separated by perhaps 25 feet. Almost, as though I was a
leader for the left side of the congregation, and Jerry for the right,
we began a competition, seeing which side could out-sing the other.

This was the first time that I had ever experienced the raw
interaction of performer and audience; people followed where I was
leading.

Jerry was experiencing this same new involvement, and as we each
realized what was happening we got caught up in it, and the more we
applied control, the more the audience became part of this event. It
was breath taking.

The singing came to a close much too soon, long before Jerry and I
could uncover the real potential of our discovery ... but we quite
suddenly realized that there was something that needed exploring.

After a short introduction by Reverend Gregory, the service was turned
over to mother.

I had never seen mother preach to an audience of complete strangers.
None of our people from Crabtree or Crowel Mountain were there. That
did not deter here from delivering a well organized message on the
evils perpetrated by the devil upon mankind, how it was important that
we walk a righteous path, rejecting the worldly, embracing the love of
God.

She spoke mostly in truisms. What she said everyone already agreed
with, and thus I began to see that special relationship between
performer and audience, reestablish itself, and grow in strength. 

At the close of her message, the Reverend Gregory spoke about the need
to accept God, with a call to the sinners to come to the altar of god.
Mrs.   Gregory began to sing, and motioned Jerry and I to join her at
the front of the platform. Her large, heavy arms, encircled Jerry on
the right, and me on the left, as we lifted our voices in harmony ...
and totally a Cappella.

The experience had been exhausting. Jerry and I slept in the back seat
of the car all the way back to Crabtree.

Wednesday afternoon, we were surprised by a visit from the Gregorys.
They had driven a borrowed pickup truck the twenty some miles from
Clinton so that they could talk with Mama.

Later that night she told me that the Gregorys wanted us to join their
crusade. The idea excited her. She wanted to do it. After the revival
closed on Saturday night, they would pack up the tent and chairs, and
proceed to Fort Smith for two weeks, then on to Little Rock. 



-----END of CHAPTER ONE "Mama Was A Preacher"------

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