It was a mild Sunday evening when Henry and I decided to take the kid for a leisurely after dinner stroll around the neighborhood. We managed to make it three blocks before colliding with a pair of Mormon elders, looking especially clean cut and dashing in their dress shirts and meticulously parted hair.
My eyes connect with one of them for a brief moment, and in an instant the solicitation floodgates have been opened.
"Would you like to take one of these cards for a free DVD?" he inquires, arm extended with a card in between his fingers.
Oh, you bet I would.
As I quicken my pace to catch up with Henry, who does not brake for religious solicitors, I examine the card in my hand, which is not unlike that of a prayer card. The back informs one how to send away for a free Jesus Saves DVD. The front though, that’s another story.
There have been many faces of Jesus shoved at me in my twenty-seven years. Some depict him as your average working class, Henry-type of guy; someone you can depend on when your shower needs re-caulked or a floor board needs replaced. He can probably direct you to the nearest baptismal pool with a few flicks of his arm. Other Jesuses are horrifying, with sorrowful eyes and rivulets of blood curling down from a crown of thorns.
Those Jesuses just don’t do it for me.
But the one on this card? This was one Hot Christ.
The rest of the walk was spent in near-orgasm, exalting over Christ’s sex appeal and delighting in Henry’s discomfort. But when we returned home, I discarded the card atop the dining room table, where it would be forgotten for the next thirty-six hours.
The next thing I knew, my dreams of punishing Henry by glazing him with buckets of molten plastic like he’s been a bad donut were replaced with curious scenes of Hot Christ escorting me on a series of dates.
Christ and I take in a viewing of The Exorcist, where he snorts and makes snide remarks about how they got it "all wrong" and "demon possessions are so 15th century." He smacks his lips while voraciously masticating every last butter-drenched kernel of popcorn, which would be a deal-breaker if this was a date with a mortal, but since it’s Hot Christ, I’m only mildly turned off.
A spectacle brews as Jesus guffaws like he’s taking in a Dave Chapelle performance. Theater patrons swivel in their seats and ogle as his laughter causes him to choke on Milk Duds; I sink down to avoid eye contact.
"What?" Jesus incredulously asks. "It’s funny! I guess you have to know Pazuzu. He’s a fucking card, yo! That green vomit stunt is his oldest trick. I’ve seen him perform it thousands of times over the centuries. It never gets old!"
As we leave the theater, he remarks that he’s going to keep the 3D shades for our Relationship Scrapbook, as he tenderly tucks it into his hemp satchel. My Gaydar crackles and pops briefly, but then he boisterously yells, "Who wants to play mini golf?!" and I answer with an enthusiastic "I do, I do!" and forget all about his alarming display of fruitiness.
Hot Christ gallantly springs for my entrance at Family Fun Land, which is reassuring considering he ran off to the arcade after telling the person in the box office that he only needed one movie ticket.
Here I discover that Hot Christ’s line-waiting patience matches mine, which surprises me considering this is the person who slows down his pace to amble with the crippled. He sways back and forth, taking turns putting his weight on each foot, and sighs in frustration. "Good God, we’re going to be here all night," he hisses, saliva droplets collecting in his unruly beard, while the young boy in front of us takes his time lining up his shot. "Noah could have built the ark and set sail by now," he spits, knocking back an angry chug of his Big Gulp. I’m silently grateful that his cup holds only Dr. Pepper and not vodka.
"Mmmm-miss it!" Hot Christ heckles, masking it as a cough. The boy stops mid-swing and nervously tugs at his collar.
Finally unable to withstand the wait any longer, Hot Christ makes idle threats involving a Sunday school teacher, a confessional, and rubber-banded ballsacks, causing the boy’s father to hurriedly lead him away from us.
Hot Christ rejoices and places his feet on the mat, wiggling his ass as he prepares to take his shot. We will be the stars of Putt-Putt, I think smugly, tossing taunting glances over my shoulder at the growing line behind us.
Twenty-eight miss-putts later, and the man who has walked on water and cured lepers still can’t manage to land his ball in the hole. I worry about what our sex will be like. We flee the scene.
Hot Christ, living on a meager carpenter’s salary, has enough cash left over to buy himself a meal at Taco Bell. He offers me a bite of his taco, but I remind him that I don’t eat meat. I’m annoyed that he’ll remember all of my sins and driver’s seat fellatio parties, which he has chosen to chastise me for and name drop various prayers for penance throughout the night, but he can’t remember my eating preferences? He thoughtfully chucks a packet of Fire Sauce at me, and I hungrily scrape out the contents with my teeth. We share his Mountain Dew, but I opt to use my own straw since he’s made a habit of kissing diseased people.
The night ends and while I still find Hot Christ extremely hot and Christ-y, we decide we’re better off as friends. I think his flatulence is so powerful that it, combined with his acerbic temper, could be bottled and used as a genocide aid to obliterate a medium-sized village, and he thinks I’m a big fat whore who needs to make friends with the Rosary. At least we’ll always have the scrapbook.