God and meat

Last night I was in a summer cinema for the first time since the virus changed our lives.

It looked like a secular mass.

A parish of resin chairs arranged in a hemicycle worshiping a canvas screen planted, casually, in a vacant lot almost at the foot of the alcove of the Bishop of Alcalá de Henares.

Yes, the one he said in a homily on Good Friday, almost looking at the public television cameras, that homosexuals sometimes go to men's bars and find hell there.

Since then, every time I pass by his magnificent archiepiscopal palace, I wonder how that supposedly holy man can sleep in God's peace.

If I wake up dreaming of such feverish fantasies, I don't want to imagine his nightmares.

But we were at the cinema, which condemns me alone.

Although the film was one of the good ones, the best was in the audience.

Gangs of adolescents with their hormones in a bain-marie, and of ladies with theirs halfway between the lava and the ash of the Cumbre Vieja volcano.

Marriages of decades without even touching each other and brand new couples without taking their hands off each other.

Lonely men and women looking for human warmth to withstand the weather.

Kids fucking.

Sons and daughters of neighbors, in short, enjoying in love and company a simple and free plan after spending the day locked up at home or at work to survive the murderous solanera.

It was nice to see us.

Lonely men and women looking for human warmth to withstand the weather.

Kids fucking.

Sons and daughters of neighbors, in short, enjoying in love and company a simple and free plan after spending the day locked up at home or at work to survive the murderous solanera.

It was nice to see us.

Lonely men and women looking for human warmth to withstand the weather.

Kids fucking.

Sons and daughters of neighbors, in short, enjoying in love and company a simple and free plan after spending the day locked up at home or at work to survive the murderous solanera.

It was nice to see us.

More information

Homosexuality has no cure, but Bishop Reig Plà does;

by William Alonzo

So much so that even I, without being religious or anything like that, felt a moment of rare collective communion.

It has never been one of massive parties, or running of the bulls, or bullfighting, or Guinness records for raising the elbow, but this year is different and that movie night was, yes, my particular summer chupinazo.

After so much winter of our soul, we are dying to live life.

While reactionary winds are intensifying out there and even the government partners stab each other in the face to save their asses from the change of cycle, a handful of us mortals left the public area known as Huerta del Obispo last night in the grace of whoever the true God is to a world that will never be the same again.

In that lot, by the way, the celebrations of the LGTBI Pride of my town will thunder this weekend.

Passing under the storied balcony of his residence, I couldn't help but imagine the most reverend shepherd, kept awake by the musician and the suffocating woman, stealthily spying on their lost sheep's desire to eat each other.

Movie that is one.

50% off

Exclusive content for subscribers

read without limits

subscribe

I'm already a subscriber