Sins of a Heel-Lovin' Queer, by Zac Thabet

       When he was a child, Patrick spent a lot of time with his family. He had a mother who
was raised Baptist who shared a love with God stronger than life, if she did say so herself. She
loved God so much, there might as well be a seat for him at the dinner table. His father was
raised as a pastor’s son in Summersville, West Virginia, where the sun made the trees look like
golden pillars of divinity. Additionally, he had an older sister and brother that believed in family
more than they believed in just about anything, apart from God. His parents cherished the life
they had and praised God for shining the light of his love upon their humble family. Patrick
belongs to one family, under God.

       When it came to Patrick, however, he never grew to see it that way. Sometimes, he felt
the love, other times, he didn’t. He never would say he felt hated by God. To say that felt slightly
dramatic. He did, sometimes, feel skipped over. As if God might have forgotten him. Sometimes,
he was picked last during gym class. Or someone would suggest he should play with the girls
during recess. When he spoke to his Ma about these moments, she would place a gentle hand on
his cheek. “Patty, you pray for those poor children. When kids can’t find kindness, it’s ‘cause
they never seen it. You just be grateful God made you special.” He spent most of his childhood
wondering if his Ma was right, and what it meant if she was wrong. Had he been some failed
experiment in God’s Heavenly Lab Creator? The monstrous beast that the other angels whispered
about. There goes Frankenstein, he imagined them saying, the Devil must’ve gotten his hands on
that one.

       Beyond his siblings, who were much older than him, the relationships sustained between
most of his family were superficial at best. He had one cousin, though, who left a lasting
impression. Her name was Renee, and she was the kind of soul that God could never skip over.
She had hair the color of an oak tree, and a heart just as sturdy. Her love of God ran just as deep
as the any of Patrick’s family, and her love of family ran deeper than that. She babysat him on
Wednesday nights, while his parents were at church. If there was ever someone to exist that
could convince Patrick he wasn’t skipped by God, it was her. She knew of his differences,
perhaps even before he knew of them himself. “Patrick,” she would say, “I am so glad I have
you. I just know God was smiling when you came into the world.” Then she would squeeze his
arms and kiss his cheek like she believed it. For just a moment, then, he believed it too.

       Once, they were watching the television together and an ad for Barbie dolls came on the
screen. Patrick was glued to the tv in an instant. There was something about the ocean of pinks
that called out to him. It was the color of bubblegum he bought at the bookfair every year. He
had always loved the idea of dolls, and while his parents never treated him differently for liking
them, they were never eager to buy them. Ma had pushed him toward matchbox cars and action
figures. “They’re the same as a doll. It’s all plastic at the end of the day.” She was right in the
end, Patrick supposed. At least in theory. It was all plastic. Still, as a child, he never moved on
from them. Apparently, Renee noticed. She cleared her throat. “Patty... you have any of those?”
She nodded to the television. He remembers shaking his head. She smiled like she had been
hoping for that answer. She led him into her room and opened her closet.

       “You see all this?” She asked. Her voice was as bubbly as it always was, though
something loomed in the tone of it. So, he looked. A kaleidoscope of barbies piled like rubble on
the floor, congregating into a single, unsteady mountain. It looked as if the removal of a single
doll would cause the entire pile to collapse. As his eyes moved up, there were clothes on hangers.
Mostly dresses and skirts, but a few pairs of jeans too. There were pale pinks and floral
embroidery. Purple and orange collages and feathered scarves. She had shoes hanging on the
door, too, in clear plastic casing. There were sandals, wedges, heels, and tennis shoes. The tennis
shoes still had tags on them. It made him think of his own closet, full of dinosaur toys and dark
polos. There were no flowers, no pinks. He did not have heels or wedges. He had tennis shoes
that Michael Jordan sponsored. He couldn’t lie. He loved what he was looking at. There was a
part of him that was okay with that. There was another part that felt the angels were whispering
over it.

       “Patrick,” Renee said, “you listen, sweetheart. We humans, we’re all so precious. All we
got in us is love. We got to love what we love. It’s our job to love what we love. People get that
all confused, you know?”

       She let him go into her closet and try whatever he wanted; a smile spread widely across
her face as he did so. She said to him, while he ran his fingers over the baby pink prom dress.
“It’s amazing how grand life can be, when you lead through love.” The two shared a wink. “If
you fancy that dress, you might like the shoes that match it.” His eyes scanned the plastic casing
until he saw a pair of small heels, pink in color, with a small flower along the strap of the heel.
He couldn’t take his eyes off. He could not help himself but imagine the sound it would make as
he walked. He had seen girls wear these kinds of shoes in movies, but never thought to try them
on himself. What the shoe might feel like under his own foot. “Go on, you can try ‘em. Just me
and you, kiddo.” Without another thought he took her invitation and ran with it. From that
moment on, he and Renee had an unspeakable understanding of Patrick. He was the boy who
wore heels, and she was going to be the girl who let him. He remembers her eyes watching him
as he walked up and down the single hallway and into the kitchen of her home, a high-strutting
model during New York fashion week. With every click and clack against the tile, a rush of
euphoria rang from his ears to his toes. It felt…natural.

       Back at home, Patrick remembers digging through every closet, nook, and bedside in his
home until he found the perfect substitute for those heels—an old, worn-out pair of cowboy
boots. Rising halfway to his knee, they were black in color from the tongue up. The white
stitching was embroidered into wings along the shaft of the boot, looping in and out of itself the
whole way up. From the tongue of the boot and down, the leather was coated in a muddy
brown. The vamp beneath the tongue was complimented by its own looping embroidery. But
more than their flashy appearance, what mattered was the sound they made.

       Click. Clack.

       Click. Clack.

       It was an immediate love affair. He wore the boots no matter the occasion. On grocery
trips with his Ma. To his elementary school (when it wasn’t gym day). To his grandmother’s
house for Sunday dinners. His favorite occasion, however, was church on Sunday mornings. Church was a weekly thing for his family, and hearing the sound of his boots echo across the
cool hardwood floors made an otherwise blasé routine feel new, exciting. With each echo
bouncing off of the wall, he gained more strength. The chain wrapping itself around his lungs
had been broken, and for the first time, he could breathe. The aisle between the church pews
became a secret runway, but this time, he wore the only acceptable heels a boy could wear.

       Still, there remained one small truth clouded in the back of his mind. A confession hidden
just beneath the surface. One that explained why a pair of worn, beat up cowboy boots were his
most prized possession. The same reason he loved his cousin’s heels. The sound of a woman’s
heel. Perhaps a stiletto, or a pump. It brought him great shame and guilt to admit such a thing,
because he knew that his parents believed that heels were for women, and he was no woman.
Nothing changed that, not even Wednesday nights with Renee.

       Things complicated further as he got older. As he moved into high school, Renee moved
off for college, packing up her heels and Wednesday night runways with her. In its place, he
welcomed Wednesday night youth groups. The one thing that came out of the youth group that
was worthwhile to him was Richie Grier. Richie had moved into the area after his father took a
position as the new priest at their church. He was from Knoxville, Tennessee and always wore a
cowboy hat to prove it. When he saw Patrick’s boots in his first youth service, he laughed out
loud. “Would ya look at that? Between the two of us we make a genu-ine cowboy. I reckon if that
ain’t a sign for us fellas I don’t know is.”

       It did not take long for Patrick to realize the feelings he felt for Richie were more
complicated than that of a friendship. The boys began driving to the youth group together, then
they did morning pick-ups for school, and soon enough, they stayed at each other’s homes. It
was fun. It was nice to have a friend in the absence of Renee. But he couldn’t help but worry
about Richie. Life without friends can be hard, and he didn’t want to take the chance at
friendship away from him. “Richie,” Patrick tried to warn him once as they drove to school, “you
know I’m not popular or anything. This won’t getcha any friends.”

       Richie gave an amused smirk. “It got me one, ain’t it?” Richie had a way of finding the
upside in an upside-down cake. It reminded Patrick of his cousin.

       “You know what they call me, Richie?” Patrick pushed. “They say-”

       “Yeah, I know.” Richie interrupted him, the smallest sliver of frustration slipping into his
voice. “I know what say you are. Say you’re a freak for likin’ pink and stuff. Call ya a sinner, I
don’t care. Horses shit all the time, Pat. It ain’t like it’s true.” His green eyes followed the road,
focused yet distant. “Besides, even if it was true...” His voice trails off, leaving Patrick with an
uneasiness in his stomach. Was Richie waiting for confirmation? Patrick may have not explicitly
said who he was, but the knowledge had existed on some level since his childhood days with
Renee. Still, saying it aloud was a different ball game. Especially to the son of his church’s
priest.

       “Even if it was...” Patrick forced it out with a tone he hoped wasn’t shaky.

       Richie curled his bottom lip beneath his tongue. His eyes were strained on the road.
Patrick tried getting a read on his body language, but he couldn’t find anything certain. “Well, we’re all born of sin. Ain’t that why Jesus died.” His voice was quiet, faint. He sat next to
Patrick, pulling into an empty parking spot toward the back of the church parking lot. His eyes
unwavering on the setting sky before them. “Big book says it.”

       Patrick wasn’t sure what to make of their conversation. Richie was not one who favored
being serious over being entertaining, so it was strange to see this side of his friend. He wanted
to say something to comfort him, because he seemed to be upset. He felt sure that the despair
was something bigger than this conversation. In what way, he was not sure. “My cousin told me
as a kid, once, people get all confused about why we’re here. Our job.” Patrick finally spoke,
thinking of the only person who made him feel better. “She said ‘people are born of love’ Richie.
Not sin.”

       “Love.” Richie repeated, still looking forward. “So then, Dr. Lover, tell me. Are you born
of love for one side more than the other, if you catch my drift.”

       Patrick took a strong inhale before answering. “Yes. Yes, I catch your drift, and yes, I am
born of love for one side more.”

       For the first time since the conversation started, Richie looked at him. His mossy green
eyes were hazy with tears. His lip quivered just a little. His honey curls were just barely poking
through the lining in his hat. The setting sun was casting him in a melting spotlight. In this
moment, things began to make sense. Patrick was looking at Pompeii. He was seeing Richie for
who he was, maybe for the first time. A boy, pressured under the stresses of priestly fatherhood,
taking comfort in the one friend who just might be like he is, on the verge of an irreparable
eruption. Of course, he had heard the rumors about who Patrick was. He heard the angels’
whispers. That was why he reached out. The car rides, the sleepovers, it was beginning to make
sense. Maybe Richie hadn’t known it himself, even. But Patrick? He understood. He understood
the complexity of Richie Grier, and he was beautiful.

​       He and Richie skipped youth group that night. The boys drove and talked instead. Patrick
told Richie about Renee and her heels. The real reason that he kept the boots on all of the time.
Richie told him about the time he was caught wearing his sister’s nail polish in middle school.
Sometime during the drive, Richie let his hand fall on Patrick’s. Neither of them said anything
about it. They drove on, and allowed themselves to love what they love. When they pulled in
front of Patrick’s house, Richie asked. “Do you think we could do this again sometime?”

       So, they did. Two beautiful boys who became entangled with one another. They spent
nights in the bed of Richie’s truck, parked somewhere on the side of the road. Far enough out
that they wouldn’t be seen. They kissed and they held each other with the urgency of a swarm of
locusts. “I wish we could run.” Richie would say, grinning through his growing moustache.
“we’d go north or something. Somewhere you could wear yer heels or whatever. And I could
paint my nails purple or blue or whatever the hell I want.” They spent all of their nights like this,
reminiscing on what they could be if things were different. Patrick never did, but he always
wanted to ask God why they couldn’t have something different. Why could they not live the life Renee has? They told themselves to feel no shame, but that was hard when it was nothing but
sneaking around on the sides of the road and dreams of running away. Did God himself not feel
shame for making someone sneak around like this?

       “Wish I had myself a cousin like you.” Richie continued his wishful pining. “It’s hard
barin’ it all on yer own.”
​
       Did God not feel shame for that?

       Normally, such a thought would not plague his mind. Shame. It wasn’t something that he
could overlook and forget about, of course. It was just that ignoring the things that he wished he
could change was second nature to him. When it was this, though, it was different. Maybe it was
that Richie complicated things. Maybe being the priest’s son made the situation too close to the
church. Who could say? But each Sunday morning, as Patrick stood alongside his Ma and Father,
looking up at the back of Richie’s head, things were different. In God’s own sanctuary, hiding
from God felt impossible. He was all around him. God was in the golden drapes of glory that
hung over the walls and the balcony. He was among the books of hymns, disguised within the
lyrics. His eyes glared along the stained-glass windows. He surrounded him. It felt as if God had
taken a magnifying glass to him. Using the sun’s glare, he fried Patrick like an ant. Over and
over again. There was no place to escape from the insufferable truth. And it was during prayer
that the feeling persisted the most. The moment in church service when your connection with
God should be the strongest, he felt that he couldn’t be farther away from him. Yet, despite the
distance, he could never escape Him. He would be watching him, always. As his parents and
siblings bowed their heads, Patrick’s own wondrous eyes rose up to look at the stained windows
to the right. He took to studying them. It was the only thing he could think of doing.
​
       But most of the time, Patrick wondered about who Jesus was, and not just in scripture. He
wondered if he was ever ashamed... of anything. He thought about how the people hated him,
and eventually crucified him for spreading the word of God. He felt bad for God because they
were silencing him for speaking his mind.

       He would arrive at the same hope every time—that God did feel shame, because maybe
then, God would be a little more forgiving. Forgiving of a boy who dreamed of wearing heels
while holding hands with another boy. One particularly fond of cowboy hats and painted nails. If
there was anything to be forgiven. If there was anything worth forgiving, he hoped it was that.

Zac Thabet (they/them) is a queer writer based in Huntington, West Virginia whose work takes influence in their queerness and their Appalachian roots. They earned their BA in creative writing and literary studies in the fall of 2023. They currently work as a nonfiction editor for Et Cetera, and have been/are expecting to be published in previous issues of Et Cetera, Alternating Current Press, and an upcoming anthology. When they aren’t writing, they can be found listening to Taylor Swift, playing video games, or reading in a coffee shop (ideally in the rain).