suit that looks damn good on him. I’m indifferent to his charms, but I’m not blind. And he possesses a certain glow, an aura, although I know it’s not visible to the masses.
We all have it, actually, but each one’s different. It all depends upon the person in question. And they can change, depending upon one’s emotional state. It’s hard to explain. Maybe if you’ve ever seen a mood ring, you’d understand. Except where those worked on the principle of body warmth, ours are actually attuned to our emotional states. Mine is probably quite red at the moment, deep maroon even.
“Leave us alone.” By which I mean leave Jesus alone in particular.
“You know I can’t do that.” His eyes twinkle merrily at me, like a satanic Santa.
I gather my wounded dignity as well as I can, straighten my wrinkled suit, while maintaining a certain distance between us, for safety’s sake.
Let me state right here and now, just for the record, that I have never , I repeat never fucked this man. Not once in over two thousand years. Not that I’ve not been asked, not that he hasn’t attempted to seduce me countless times over the centuries, but I’ve been able to resist him each and every time, I’ve never fallen victim to his great charms. What makes me so special, you ask, that I can stand up to the Devil himself, when surely he knows how to make himself most irresistible to me? The answer is simple, if you care to think about it. My love for Jesus, of course. It shields me from Lucifer, as does his love for me. Yes, temptation can be overcome, Virginia, but you have to want to overcome it, first.
Of course I know my demand will go unrequited, but I still have to try. I know why he’s here. I know who he represents—the so-called moral majority who’d stamp us out of existence if they could. Those self-righteous bigots who call themselves good fucking Christians. They pretend to focus on the word of God, but they are seriously into self-aggrandizement. They feather their nests, amassing wealth right and left for their so-called churches. Jesus never had need of a church, he didn’t care for them. Rather he preferred to reach out to men directly. He went to them, he didn’t make them come to him. He never sought wealth, not for himself, so why is it there are so many fucking wealthy churches? Why isn’t the money being used for those who are going without? The hungry, the homeless, the poverty-stricken? The whore has money, why doesn’t she use her wealth for those in need, rather than in pursuit of her own selfish pleasures, not to mention her need to aggravate me? I repeat, why don’t we cut her out of the story now, she serves no useful purpose?
“I knew you were coming, of course. Doesn’t mean you can paw me like a piece of fresh meat.” Or him either , my eyes add meaningfully, a warning to him, one I intend him to heed. Will he? I doubt it. I’d love nothing better than to bloody his fucking nose on my fist, watch him writhe in pain. Unfortunately, I think he’d like that.
“I bet your darling Mary M wouldn’t mind.” He smirks—sometimes he’s on the very verge of queendom, I swear. And annoying as fuck. “She enjoys a good pawing, doesn’t she?”
“She is not my darling anything!” I snarl. A bit too loudly, I fear, for I’m attracting unwanted attention again. He merely chuckles at my vehemence as I lower my voice. Luckily the music masks our conversation from most of the unwashed masses about us. “I have an idea, why don’t you take the whore with you? I’m sure she’d make a splendid addition to your coven, or harem, or whatever it is you have these days.”
He’s looking past me, over me, through me, into the crowd, grinning quite mischievously now. And such a self-satisfied smirk he wears. With a growing apprehension, I turn to see what the fuck he’s staring at, scanning the backs of the heads between me and the stage.
And then I see her. When the fuck did she get here? And
We all have it, actually, but each one’s different. It all depends upon the person in question. And they can change, depending upon one’s emotional state. It’s hard to explain. Maybe if you’ve ever seen a mood ring, you’d understand. Except where those worked on the principle of body warmth, ours are actually attuned to our emotional states. Mine is probably quite red at the moment, deep maroon even.
“Leave us alone.” By which I mean leave Jesus alone in particular.
“You know I can’t do that.” His eyes twinkle merrily at me, like a satanic Santa.
I gather my wounded dignity as well as I can, straighten my wrinkled suit, while maintaining a certain distance between us, for safety’s sake.
Let me state right here and now, just for the record, that I have never , I repeat never fucked this man. Not once in over two thousand years. Not that I’ve not been asked, not that he hasn’t attempted to seduce me countless times over the centuries, but I’ve been able to resist him each and every time, I’ve never fallen victim to his great charms. What makes me so special, you ask, that I can stand up to the Devil himself, when surely he knows how to make himself most irresistible to me? The answer is simple, if you care to think about it. My love for Jesus, of course. It shields me from Lucifer, as does his love for me. Yes, temptation can be overcome, Virginia, but you have to want to overcome it, first.
Of course I know my demand will go unrequited, but I still have to try. I know why he’s here. I know who he represents—the so-called moral majority who’d stamp us out of existence if they could. Those self-righteous bigots who call themselves good fucking Christians. They pretend to focus on the word of God, but they are seriously into self-aggrandizement. They feather their nests, amassing wealth right and left for their so-called churches. Jesus never had need of a church, he didn’t care for them. Rather he preferred to reach out to men directly. He went to them, he didn’t make them come to him. He never sought wealth, not for himself, so why is it there are so many fucking wealthy churches? Why isn’t the money being used for those who are going without? The hungry, the homeless, the poverty-stricken? The whore has money, why doesn’t she use her wealth for those in need, rather than in pursuit of her own selfish pleasures, not to mention her need to aggravate me? I repeat, why don’t we cut her out of the story now, she serves no useful purpose?
“I knew you were coming, of course. Doesn’t mean you can paw me like a piece of fresh meat.” Or him either , my eyes add meaningfully, a warning to him, one I intend him to heed. Will he? I doubt it. I’d love nothing better than to bloody his fucking nose on my fist, watch him writhe in pain. Unfortunately, I think he’d like that.
“I bet your darling Mary M wouldn’t mind.” He smirks—sometimes he’s on the very verge of queendom, I swear. And annoying as fuck. “She enjoys a good pawing, doesn’t she?”
“She is not my darling anything!” I snarl. A bit too loudly, I fear, for I’m attracting unwanted attention again. He merely chuckles at my vehemence as I lower my voice. Luckily the music masks our conversation from most of the unwashed masses about us. “I have an idea, why don’t you take the whore with you? I’m sure she’d make a splendid addition to your coven, or harem, or whatever it is you have these days.”
He’s looking past me, over me, through me, into the crowd, grinning quite mischievously now. And such a self-satisfied smirk he wears. With a growing apprehension, I turn to see what the fuck he’s staring at, scanning the backs of the heads between me and the stage.
And then I see her. When the fuck did she get here? And
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