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As a single gay man hurtling towards the obsolence of my mid-30s, the one thing that brings me peace is knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ryan Reynolds will be my husband someday, because I have claimed it in the almighty name of Jesus.
As it is written in The Holy Bible, “Whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” (Mark 11:24, English Standard Version) When my ride-and-died-and-arisen, Jesus Christ, spoke those words, He wasn’t playing around. As a child of God, if I want something, all I have to do is drop down to my knees to lift up in prayer, and lo and behold, “I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it.” (Ariana Grande, “7 Rings”) Well, there’s nothing on this earthly plane I covet more than to be bonded in holy gay matrimony to charismatic actor, film producer, and budding business tycoon, Ryan Reynolds. And with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost on my side, that Canadian-born sexbomb is as good as mine, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Not even the “world’s most sarcastic man” himself. Ryan and I are getting homo-married, by God’s good heavenly grace, whether he likes it or not. Sadly, the early-2000s female R&B group 3LW wasn’t kidding when they sang, “Playahs they gon’ play, and hatahs they gonna hate.” If that ain’t the Gospel truth, I don’t know what is. I cannot believe the sheer number of raggedy messes that try to crucify my dream whenever I openly proclaim Ryan Reynolds as my gay lover and life partner. Although I really shouldn’t be surprised. My big bad bestie, Jesus, had haters too. You see, Satan’s minions will try to discourage you. Like Lance, the Pavilions manager who kicked me out for speaking in tongues after I saw Ryan on the cover of Men’s Health. Or my homophobic cousin, Kayla, who constantly reminds me that Ryan is heterosexual and married to Blake Lively. As if I don’t watch Access Hollywood. Trust me, my eyes are fully open to the obstacles that Satan has set before me. But I won’t be deceived by the devil. No sir. Not today, Kayla! A weaker Christian might relent, but this Christian soldier is on the battlefield to conquer. Just because Ryan is straight and married now that doesn’t mean he’ll always be. It’s called having FAITH: “Being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” (Hebrews 11:1, New International Version) Gnaw on that chicken bone, haters. Booyah! Also, let’s not forget this gem: “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can make a mountain yo’ lil’ bitch.” (Matthew 17:20, AAVE Translation) Word up, homie. God’s Word. Lucky for me, my faith is as large as a Costco gallon of Heinz®—the same brand of yellow mustard that I will spread onto the lean turkey patties Ryan and I will grill on Sundays, post-coitus, as we do our meal prep for the week in accordance with God’s will. “For wt god can nothinge be vnpossible.” (Luke 1:37, Tyndale Bible of 1526) Boom. Mic drop. I don’t know about your God, but my God delivered Daniel from the lion’s den and Jonah from the belly of the whale. My God put a rainbow in the sky after sending a forty-day flood to destroy the world that He lovingly created. My God might be straight-up unhinged at times, but He makes things happen. You think my God can’t unleash the repressed homosexual urges churning like sequined butter inside the pectoraled barrel of Ryan’s glistening man chest? Wrong! You think he won’t jack up Ryan’s blissful marriage beyond recognition and drop him off at my door in nothing but a pair of Gucci short shorts and a tight, brightly-colored tank? Wrong again, babe. Those things are child’s play for my God. Will I feel bad for Blake when Ryan boards the Atlantis cruise ship to gay paradise and tosses her aside like a mangled Malibu Barbie? Um, did Europe feel bad when it razed entire civilizations to the ground in the name of Christianity? Most assuredly not. Because I know what God has for me, it is for me (Isaiah 54:17, paraphrased), and “if somebody gets hurt, well, them’s the breaks” (The Misfits, “Winning is Everything”). I called dibs on Ryan in 2007 after I saw him shirtless in the movie Nines. If anything, Blake and her serpentine predecessor Scarlett Johansson should’ve respected the sanctity of dibs instead of seducing a man I’d already planted my Christian flag in. If they’d paid more attention in Sunday school, those janky Jolenes would’ve known that “no weapon formed against [me] shall prosper” (literally also Isaiah 54:17) and spared themselves the rod by staying away from my man. Unlike Mr. T, I have no sympathy for foo’s. For fourteen years now, I have dutifully prayed, fully believed, and waited to receive with hella conviction. I wish I could say it’s all been sunshine and rainbow covenants, but much like Job, I have long suffered. Although I am RIPE with Christian virtues, patience is the least among them. Especially when I’m feverish beneath my bed sheets, burning in my desire for Ryan like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace. For me, it’s not about the Benjamins; it’s about the Ryan. As much as I try to resist temptation, I’m ashamed to confess that sometimes I fantasize:
Me, running my hands through Ryan’s modern ivy league coiffure as he flashes that mischievous chipmunk grin of his. Ryan, pulling me in for a tight embrace, covered in gym sweat and the blended musk of motorcycle fumes and Le Labo’s Thè Noir 29. His thin lips brushing softly against my ear as he convinces me to break my contract with Verizon. His breath thick with the aroma of Aviation American gin—piney like a wet, dark boreal forest—as he whispers the terms and conditions of my new Mint Mobile wireless plan... It’s enough to make even the most steadfast Christian falter. Sometimes I’ll think of Ryan and commit Onan’s transgression four or five times in one hour. What can I say? I’m only human. But fortunately, when I’m weak, my God is strong. The waiting game might be hard, but hey: Philippians 4:13. (If you know, you know. If not, look it up!) |
The more I grow as a Christian, the more I realize that it’s not my place to question when or how Ryan Reynolds will become my smokin’ hot gusband—whether it happens tomorrow, within the next three hours, or within the next two hours. Whenever it happens (let’s say within the next hour even), it will take place in Divine Timing. Even if it doesn’t happen today (although it could). Because my God is an on-time God, and I TRUST in His plan. Which might have Ryan at my door within thirty-minutes or less. As hot and fresh as a Domino’s pizza circa 1985.
I might not know when, but I know that it will happen, and that keeps me sashaying back to the runway of righteousness whenever I lose my way. I’m pretty sure it was Martin Luther King, Jr. who said, “I have a dream,” and like, literally samesies. I cannot begin to fathom the milk-and-honey Heaven that awaits once I’m Mr. Ryan Reynolds: The Eden of nestling on the couch with him and staring contentedly at the side of his face as he watches a Green Bay Packers game, oblivious to my entire existence. The Jerusalem of handfeeding him slices of pizza from Patsy’s Pizzeria and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Because he’s my big, hungry man, and mmm, Mama knows what he likes… According to this truth bomb by Henry S. Haskins that often gets incorrectly accredited to Ralph Waldo Emerson: “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” (Meditations in Wall Street) This finger-snappin’ queer could not agree more. Every time I visit Ryan’s IMDb page (several times a day to boost his star meter), I fall more and more in love with the man inside the Deadpool costume. The man who can do a standing back-flip. The man who is one-eighth Luxembourgish. The man who donned a unicorn mask and sang “Tomorrow” from Annie on South Korea’s The King of Mask Singer. How totally random, yet so predictably Ryan. Real talk: I don’t care about Ry-Ry’s fame or his estimated net worth of $150 million. I’m a failed actor turned erotic massage therapist turned West Hollywood real estate agent. I’m quite comfortable. For me, it’s not about the Benjamins; it’s about the Ryan, and his incredibly ripped physique and chiseled eight-pack abs. Am I buggin’ about how we have absolutely nothing in common? Not me, boo. If I learned anything from the 2009 rom-com, The Proposal, starring Sandra Bullock and my very-soon-to-be husband, it’s that “opposites attract” (Paula Abdul). And Ryan and I? We couldn’t be more opposite unless we were Donnie and Marie Osmond. Our marriage, like all the best marriages, will consist mostly, if not entirely, of oiled-up, toe-curling, man-on-man biblical knowing. “Gloria in excelsis!” (Luke 2:14, Latin translation of the original Greek: “Δόξα ἐν ὑψίστοις”) The haters out there might accuse us of committing some kind of immoral act, but that really all depends on what version of The Bible you read and how the translator chose to interpret (or in most cases, misinterpret) the Scripture. In my heart of hearts, I know that God made me, and He made Ryan, and He fully ships us, and He wants us to engage in no-holds-barred, around-the-clock rumpy pumpy just as much as I do. I can feel it in my sanctified bones. But if I’m wrong and making passionate, consensual love to my gay husband Ryan Reynolds is a sin, then by all means, put me on a one-way train and send me to hell. The ticket price is well worth the destination. Besides, even if we were to engage in pre-marital sex (which we would never), neither one of us would spawn a bastard child. Unlike my hypocritical cousin Kayla who needs to “judge not, lest [she] be.” (Matthew 7:1, version unknown) I admit, it won’t be easy for me to abstain until our marriage night, but if I have my way, my sizzlin’ Ryjita will spring for our wedding as soon as he catches feels for me. Nothing extravagant. Just a modest $1 million affair that won’t put a dent in our joint finances. I can see it now, our quaint beach wedding on the French Riviera. The two of us, holding hands under a giant floral arch. Me in an all-white, slightly see-through, pure linen vest and pants set by Versace. Ryan in a pair of dark jeans and a nice t-shirt (so very Ryan). Both of us, doin’ our thang and keepin’ it caszh. Our officiant, Sir Elton John, will turn to me and ask, “Do you, Landon, take Ryan Rodney Reynolds, to be your lawfully wedded husband [… so on and so forth]?” (Marriage vows, abbr. Roman Catholic version) In response, I’ll gaze into Ryan’s almond-hued eyes, and then I’ll promise him forever by singing all five minutes of All-4-One’s “I Swear.” Just like Ryan did in the 2005 rom-com, Just Friends, which featured him and Amy Smart and a divinely inspired performance by Anna Faris. And when the Rocket Man finally announces us “gusband and gusband,” Ryan will spin-dip me into an open-mouthed kiss in front of everyone—including my best man, J.C., and my dumb cousin, Kayla, sitting on the front row, choking on her own sanctimonious venom. “Ha!” (Julia Roberts, Notting Hill) Blake will be there, too, of course, having just walked me down the aisle and given me away. Freed by God from the shackle of resentment, she’ll smile and give me her blessing, knowing that she had her time, and now it’s mine. “To everything—turn, turn, turn—there is a season—turn, turn, turn—and a time to every purpose under heaven.” (The Byrds, “Turn! Turn! Turn!”… and maybe a Bible verse?!) I hope to be wed to Ryan for a solid chunk a’ time, but I’m not delusional. I can’t possibly be the only hallowed queen praying for that fine man’s manicured hand in marriage. I mean, c’mon, he was People Magazine’s 2010 “Sexiest Man Alive.” Can’t nobody lock that down forever. Like “Gossip Girl” (and “Black Widow” before her), someday I too will have to let God shepherd Ryan away to another lamb in His holy flock. But when that time comes, you won’t find me weeping like Jeremiah over the destruction of Judah at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar (the entire book of Lamentations). Not me, gurl. Not hardly. Because years after our blessèd union is over—when I’m in my late 30s, and I’ve moved to Palm Springs to live out my final days (as all gay men must)—I’ll be ready to meet my maker in peace. Having known the fullness of heaven, incarnate on earth, in the rapturous embrace of my gay husband Ryan Reynolds. And knowing that all my waiting was not in vain. “Whoomp! There it is.” (Tag Team) |
Navaris Darson is a gay actor/writer who enjoys writing poetry, personal essays, and short stories. Outside of writing, Navaris has acted in various television shows (including 2 Broke Girls, The Other Two, and Will & Grace), and he’s sung with choruses at Disney Concert Hall, The Hollywood Bowl, and Carnegie Hall. His Twitter and Instagram handles are @NavarisDarson and his website is www.navarisdarson.com.
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