Like Punching Jesus

Fucking Him Was Like Punching Jesus – very dangerous and wrong. Altogether as selfishly as it was gratifying. I’d wanted to do it for years but waited on principal, finally giving over to carnal knowledge and pushing everything toward our pelvic entanglement. Pushing downward and struggling like mad to receive that one glorious drop of sweat from his face or hair. One single drop of proof and nourishment; full in the knowledge that it was real, it was happening. His sweat into my mouth quenched all that was ever missing and poisoned me with the relish of taste that would linger but not stay. One drop as a magical elixir holding time; a halting, to bind him into me, more even than the traditional fluid of lust. I licked the air below his face and pushed with all might to meet him, accept him and then hush the reasons to leave sooner. I think I always knew that if ever I would have him in me, the beginning would turn into the ending, counting down and backwards the going away. Now it never hurts to think of him, us, there conjoined, now if my arms fold and I think of him, my hips clench into a happy smile, remembering sweating secretly away. Punching Jesus would be the terrible thing, the dark thing I’d wanted. Getting away with it was glory and happy and memory and white light. Withdrawal and sorrow have long since faded and I select the perfection to review, hold high.