Secrets of a Gay Marine Porn Star. Rich Merritt
beans and squash and okra. But even by doing that, we were in touch with nature and loving the outdoors, despite the mosquitoes and other bugs. I slept very well at night after playing and working so hard. I loved it all. Heaven really was a place on earth. I was happy. Life seemed easy.
I’m telling you all of this so you get an idea of what my childhood was like. My life on the outside seemed very simple—it revolved around my immediate family and religion. To say it plainly, our religious faith was the center of the family. For example, my dad had taken an old antique wagon wheel from the 1800s, which—with some paint and glass—he converted into our coffee table. Placed on the center of this table, rather symbolically, were a family photo album and a large white Bible. Every night before we went to bed, we’d gather around that coffee table with my dad reading from the Bible and then we’d all pray. Our family devotions lasted from twenty minutes to an hour each night.
From the time I was born until I was five, we were members of the Pentecostal Holiness Church which, to me, now seems really wacky; for example, people speaking in tongues and, in extreme cases, handling live snakes. (I never saw any snake handlers in person; we weren’t quite that backward.) My family went to church every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night, and I was totally happy with it. I thought everyone did that because almost everyone I knew did do that. Even the members of my family who didn’t go to church paid lip service to God and Jesus and the Bible.
Oh, it wasn’t all that extreme. Generations before, Pentecostals weren’t even allowed to see movies, dance, have parties, anything like that. Grandpa Schrader, who was Pentecostal, didn’t think women should wear makeup, have a perm, or have their hair colored. In my day, they were a little more lax about that kind of thing. My mom would say, “Any ol’ barn can use a coat of paint.”
Along with The Brady Bunch, my brother and I were allowed to watch some other television shows. My favorite show was Bewitched. I imagined how much fun it would be to be Samantha, living a relatively normal and happy life among mere mortals, but having a special secret that made her unique.
“That Uncle Arthur sure is a sissy!” Momma said as she and I laughed at the character played by Paul Lynde. Soon enough, I would come to dread that word, but at this point, I was too young to understand what it meant.
Of course, there were some programs that were totally off limits. Shows like Sonny and Cher, All in the Family, and later Three’s Company, were all taboo. But I do remember trying to sneak a few glimpses of the spectacular Cher when my mom wasn’t looking. I guess that was a hint of things to come.
Martha Rogers was my Sunday school teacher at the Pentecostal Holiness Church. She was my first teacher, and I loved her dearly. She also paid special attention to me, setting me up to be a lifelong teacher’s pet. One morning as she read from the Old Testament to the assembled group of five-year-olds, one segment in particular caught my attention, “And the Lord God rained fire and brimstone down on Sodom and Gomorrah because of the sin and wickedness of that city.” I was fascinated as I imagined the horrific scene of fire raining down from the sky, people running, mass hysteria. Martha continued: “He had commanded that no one turn and look back at the city, but Lot’s wife disobeyed the Lord,” Martha said, almost whispering the deadly judgment that was to come. “God turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt.”
I was confused. I tried to imagine what purpose was served by a pillow of salt. Could you sleep on it? Did the salt get in your mouth as you slept? Was it comfortable or was it crunchy? Years would pass before someone would correct my misguided notion that the Lord had taken a pillowcase and stuffed it with salt made from Lot’s disobedient wife.
Then Martha added, “The Lord destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah because they were wicked.”
“What was so wicked about them?” a child asked
Martha didn’t have a quick answer. “Well…in Sodom…and, well…I suppose in Gomorrah, too…” she stammered, “they…people, er, men…had, um…men married other men.” She seemed relieved, as if she discovered the word “married” just in the nick of time.
No Sunday school teacher has ever held the attention of a group of five-year-olds more raptly than Martha Rogers held ours that summer morning. We were amazed. Men marrying men? My only thought was: A home with no mother? Who would cook the meals?
After church services every Sunday, my family piled into the car to drive less than a mile to Grandma and Grandpa Schrader’s house for Sunday afternoon dinner.
As soon as the car door was shut, I announced, “Mrs. Rogers told us about a place where men marry men.”
Momma looked at Daddy in horror. “What is she teaching them, Paul?”
My dad hesitated his usual minute or two before responding, “San Francisco?”
That didn’t sound right. How could my parents not know this? “It’s in the Bible,” I said.
“There’s no place in the Bible where men…,” my mom began.
“It had fire and a pillow of salt,” I said, giving them more clues.
“Oh,” my dad said, laughing, “You mean Sodom and Gamawrah.” Daddy’s voice, with his gentle Southern accent, was always warm and easy, especially when he was laughing.
Momma laughed too, but added, “I don’t think they’re old enough to be learning about that.”
Because my mother held the title of chief disciplinarian in our household and my dad was the more congenial of the two, the idea of a home with two men intrigued me. But surely that was something that occurred only in Biblical days. The idea of a man marrying another man in modern times was even more unlikely than balls of fire raining down from the sky, or a person being turned into a pillow of salt.
My educational career began at Tabernacle Baptist Church and Christian School on the west side, the poorer side, of Greenville. My cousins Charlie and Glenda were a year ahead of me in school and they went to Tabernacle, so naturally, I wanted to go there. Their younger sister, Amy, who I loved (and love to this day), would also be going there.
When I started school I didn’t have any friends. Frankly, I don’t remember being close to anyone outside of my family. I kept to myself—and I was content that way. At the time, I didn’t feel excluded. It’s just that I was shy and introverted. I was still trying to feel my way about.
My first teacher, Mrs. Hand, was my inevitable introduction to the dark side of life. She was a total contrast to Mrs. Rogers, my kind and gentle Sunday School teacher who adored me. Without a doubt Mrs. Hand was the meanest person I had ever met. One thing, which was totally shocking to me, was that Mrs. Hand loved to paddle her students. Who knew what personal demons had led her down the path towards turning into such a cold, evil witch? All I knew is that she was a witch and her choice to become a teacher dealing with children was a wrong one. Whenever she had an opportunity to spank a kindergartner, which was often, I could see pure joy light up in her eyes, even through the thick lenses on her horn-rimmed bifocals. It was pretty sick. Unfortunately on several occasions, I saw that joy directed at me.
Even as a child I had been abnormally sensitive to pleasing others. I was always trying to do right, to gain the grown-ups’ approval. It was all the more troubling to me that nothing I seemed to do would please Mrs. Hand. To her, justification for punishment was never a serious concern. If Mrs. Hand wanted to slap your wrist or beat your behind, she’d find her own reasons.
My first incident with the dreaded woman is etched in my memory. Chapel service was a daily ritual at Tabernacle Kindergarten. Students met at the end of each morning to listen to Bible stories and sing children’s songs about Jesus. The teachers would take turns leading the kindergarten in chapel. It was during one of Mrs. Hand’s turns to be in charge that I “earned” her uncompromising wrath.
Our small chapel contained several rows of church pews. By the age of five, I was already fascinated with church pews, primarily the way that, no matter how crowded they became, as if by some Biblical miracle, another human body could always be added onto the end of