I reach for my robe, managing to remove the garment without disturbing our current occupation any more than is necessary, but then I find I must. The time has come to rearrange ourselves, a momentary pause to catch our breath as I spread the robe beneath us, covering the damp grass. I’m more than passing aware of the parlor tricks Lucifer can and does conjure out of thin air, but I want this to be as real as Jesus and I and this moment, our moment together. Even if my heart warns me it may be our one and only such occasion, I want it to last forever.
We fall backward now, onto the robes, and he lies beneath me, allowing me to take the lead, as he has no experience in this particular arena, while I have more than I really wish to admit to. None of that matters to me, though, the rest were simply means to an end. Practice if you will. Life lessons learned that I may tutor him now, for although he is my spiritual teacher, my guru, I am the one that can claim expertise, and I am more than happy to teach him what I know. Anything to please him. Everything to please him.
“Teach me,” he echoes my own thoughts, his words sending vibrations rippling through me in erotic waves, “make me yours, sweet Jude…” Our eyes meet, I need to know everything he is thinking and feeling, when all I can see is his love, and all I can feel is his life, and I know this is so very right, it is meant to be. And in the back of my mind, unvocalized but noted, I cannot help but feel his father has sent me to him, knowing how I feel, knowing how his son feels—for he is all-knowing, is he not?—and that he approves. Of him and me. Of us. Of this. At least I hope so.
My fingers work to rid us both of our clothing, discarding it but keeping it near at hand, for later. For now there is no need. All I need is him, my sweet Jesus, and I have him. He is mine, and I am his.
I pause for a moment, to admire the view, for although I have seen his naked body many times, over the years, there is something quite different and very breathtaking about seeing it from this position—vis-a-vis, me on top—and under these circumstances. He is, without doubt, the most perfect man I have ever seen.
Those that have portrayed him in films have always gotten it wrong, most of them presenting him as some sort of Anglo-Saxon god—blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin.
Seriously? He is dark of hair and eyes—beautiful almond eyes that hold the light of the world in their depths. Golden of skin. And his mouth is soft and sweet and finely shaped, and so very kissable. I can testify to that kissability personally.
“Is something wrong?”
My lips curl up in a small smile at his anxiety, lost as I am in my tour of admiration. I have ceased to breathe, my eyes simply taking him all in. The wonder of him, in its entirety. Up close and personal.
“Far from it,” I reply, “everything is perfect. You are so beautiful, I just…” My voice falters for a moment, and I swallow down the knot in my throat that threatens to choke me—whether of emotion or fear, I can’t be sure and I don’t wish to analyze it right now. “I just…love you so much,” I finish, sounding far too weak for my own taste, “and I’ve wanted to be with you for so long…” I can’t keep going on in this vein, or I know I’ll start to cry, and this is not a moment for crying, this is a time for rejoicing in our love.
“I love you, too, Jude.” He smiles, his fingers tracing a path about my lips. “I never realized before just how much you mean to me, how special you are to me.
I’ve been so foolish, trying to hide from myself how I feel about you because I didn’t understand, but I’ve never felt this way before, not about anyone else, ever…”
“Sssh, it doesn’t matter,” I shush him, my heart expanding with his words, and even so I find myself compelled to speak—yes, I know, I pick the wrong damn times to be chatty, don’t I?—to ascertain before we go any further that this is what he truly wishes. I know I’ll be the first, an amazing thought in and of itself, and I feel almost giddy at the idea he’s saved himself for me, and me alone, and I don’t care how egotistical that sounds, I think I’m allowed a little bit of back-patting after all the shit I’ve had to put up with for all these years. I’m not the bad guy here, I’m truly not, but somewhere along the line, I’ve managed to win the heart of the man that is undeniably the hero of this tale, and that, let me tell you, is a damn heady feeling indeed. To think Jesus actually loves me as I love him—mind-blowing. “Are you sure this is what you want?” I know it’s what I want, but I’m trying not to be selfish here, for he is a virgin, and I’m afraid to hurt him. In more ways than one.