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confess it, so he’s currently with Satan.”
    “Go to the principal’s office!”
    “Huh?”
    “Go. Leave.”
    And that was my first day of high school.

13
Jesus Was My Justin Bieber
    I was always fascinated by all things Jesus.
    My mom was a pope fanatic, but I was very much obsessed with my man J.C. This was no secret as it was celebrated in my house daily.
    The commemorative INY T-shirts that became popular in the 1970s gave me the idea to design my own IJ.C. shirt. I wore it so much it was practically fused to me like body paint. I rocked that thing like it had to be everybody’s business. That is until Greg Baruch took a match flame to it. Not even my waterworks could save my precious J.C. memorabilia. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Greg broke into maniacal laughter as my bedazzled Jesus top burned to the ground.
    Losing the top wasn’t going to ruin me, though. I had memories of Jesus everywhere. Most of my friends had posters of Michael Jackson on their bedroom walls. Not me. Oh no. My rock star was Jesus. I had framed pictures of my love cut from the latest tracts from the Jehovah’s Witnesses Watchtower Society that I religiously stole from a neighbor’s front porch. If the Avon catalog had a picture of a Jesus pillow for sale, it was getting cut out and added to my shrine. My side of the wall looked like a curbside memorial to worship Jesus, with dried flowers and rosaries held on by Scotch tape bordering the photographs.
    Even though I was embarrassed about religious stuff during puberty, Jesus was the exception.
    Meanwhile, my sisters would plaster pictures from Teen Beat magazine all over their sides of the walls to exalt their flavor-of-the-month crush. Scott Baio lasted a whole season, but I was sure that my Jesus crush would last a lifetime. I was in deep. I even had a Jesus scrapbook, for Christ’s sake. I was snipping out text to complement my shrine like a serial killer writing a ransom note.
    Sex was never discussed in my house, so we girls were left to deal with puberty on our own. So right around the time my boobies started growing, I noticed that Jesus was hot!
    I would stare at his poster and want to brush my fingers through his perfectly blow-dried hippie hair. Those baby blue eyes would look right through me. I dreamed that Jesus was performing live in concert. I was the crazy teenager sobbing in the front row, hoping he would sweat on me while playing his guitar.
    Based on the Bible, Jesus was not only a great guy, but he listened and cared. Chicks dig that. I wish there was a part in the Bible talking about Jesus’s bitches following him around because I would have totally been one of those bitches back in the day. But the Bible talked only about men who followed him everywhere. Hmm …
    Anyway, I mentioned my love of Jesus to a few of my friends and they called me a disgusting pervert. Well then, whoever was in charge of painting his picture should have made him ugly as sin, because if you’re going to put a hot picture of God’s son everywhere, it’s kind of hard to go through puberty and not think he’s sexy.
    One time in high school, I snuck my boyfriend over to make out and dry hump in my bedroom. I closed my door and threw my cheerleading pompoms on the floor as he slowly lowered me onto my waterbed.
    Yes, I said waterbed.
    My boyfriend’s young, stubbly face rubbed against mine as I felt his hard-on through his tight jeans. It felt so incredibly naughty. He pulled my shirt up and started playing with my nipples over my bra. It was sending lightning bolts through my body that were so intense I couldn’t help but moan. With every dry hump, he would press his hard-on against the crotch of my jeans and rub faster and faster. My breathing got louder. I rubbed my fingers across his back and felt his muscles working so hard to maintain the intense rhythm. My eyes started rolling into the back of my head because my body was experiencing such pleasure. I started squirming my body