The Agony and The Ecstasy – or – I Had Sex with Jesus
I had accepted the invite to a New Year’s Eve Party, the Friday before last, at Michael and Angela’s (oh, that’s her name). To go there, I had to pass on the party that Steve and Allen were throwing. Steve and Allen have been together forever. They have a marvelous old restored Victorian, not to mention a lovely home. And they always have the best parties with the cutest boys (or are we supposed to say bois now so people will know we’re not pedophiles) because they’re rich.
But I came to Michael and Angela’s to spend time with way more straight people in one place than can possibly be legal, because they needed me and, well, that’s just the kind of guy I am.
Shut up.
(Moment of truth: the third least attractive attribute a man can have is the audacity to not find me attractive. Never-the-less, I kinda have a little crush on Michael.)
Shut up.
In past, I have often wondered if, at a certain age in adulthood, the certifiably heterosexual are given some sort of handbook, with lists of allowable clothing, hairstyles, interests and opinions. Here I had my strongest evidence yet. The stultifying conformity in appearance, posture and gesture meant that the evening was a landmine of misidentification, trying to recall who was who. Plus someone had inadvertently left a copy of Standards and Practices for Heterosexuals – WASP Edition sitting out in the open, on a shelf, in a safe, behind a picture, in the “panic” room. (Is it just me, or do non-queers seem preternaturally predisposed to panic?) A quick perusal and it rapidly became apparent that if I confined myself to vague references to golf, soccer and children named Ashley and Justin, I’d be safe.
One man stood out in the crowd. Trim, muscular, devastatingly good looking and not wearing a golf shirt, he hovered over the cheese plate while a shaft of light illuminated him from above. It was time to make my move. So I shut off the flashlight and came down off the ladder.
His name is Jesus, a friend of Angela’s from college. He moved to the US from Argentina three years ago to pursue his career as a – dare I say it – part-time underwear model! I was in love, or something that would prove to be a reasonable facsimile for 72 hours. We exchanged small talk, but I scarcely remember what we said. I recall his charm, his smile, his penetrating eyes.
With the words ‘penetrating’ and ‘eye’ still echoing in my head, he whispered in my ear, ¿Joderemos como conejitos?
Speaking a little Spanish from my days in the CIA, I replied, Bien, tengo el equipo de un conejo. Oddly enough, he pulled away for a moment. So I pulled him close and whispered back, Y el águila nunca vuela a medianoche. I must have made quite an impression on him, for his simply smiled and we made our exit.
Back in my modest abode, we inexplicably began talking in clipped and unconvincing sentences.
Want a beer?
Sure, I’ll take one.
You seem tense. Want a back rub?
I don’t know…
Aw, c’mon, I’m really good at it.
Okay.
He took off his shirt revealing his hard muscles, albeit entirely covered by skin. I whipped out the back-rub massage oil I always kept handy and began working his stiff flesh. Suddenly the sound of bad music filled the air. Boom-chika-boom-boom. I remembered that I had set my alarm to go off at exactly midnight and I had it set to play Radio Porn (or was that Kenny G?). I turned off the alarm and whispered into his ear, feliz ano nuevo. With that he turned about and began tearing at my clothing. This was odd, since I already was completely naked.
So I grabbed him and pressed him tight. I felt his hot breath coursing down the nape of my neck, and worried for only just a moment when I realized we were kissing at the time.
I pulled him by el rabo into the bedroom and pushed him onto the bed, his arms spread out and Lo clavé de inmediato.
Sunday morning, three days later, we rose from the bed.
We dressed and then exchanged phone numbers and vague, insincere promises to call. But it was clear that this passion had played itself out. He said something about needing to return to his father’s house and made a hasty exit.
After he was gone, I looked outside and saw that the sun has risen. Ravenous, I went to the fridge and began to gorge myself on camembert.
¡Ah, lo que un amigo nosotros tenemos en quesos!
But I came to Michael and Angela’s to spend time with way more straight people in one place than can possibly be legal, because they needed me and, well, that’s just the kind of guy I am.
Shut up.
(Moment of truth: the third least attractive attribute a man can have is the audacity to not find me attractive. Never-the-less, I kinda have a little crush on Michael.)
Shut up.
In past, I have often wondered if, at a certain age in adulthood, the certifiably heterosexual are given some sort of handbook, with lists of allowable clothing, hairstyles, interests and opinions. Here I had my strongest evidence yet. The stultifying conformity in appearance, posture and gesture meant that the evening was a landmine of misidentification, trying to recall who was who. Plus someone had inadvertently left a copy of Standards and Practices for Heterosexuals – WASP Edition sitting out in the open, on a shelf, in a safe, behind a picture, in the “panic” room. (Is it just me, or do non-queers seem preternaturally predisposed to panic?) A quick perusal and it rapidly became apparent that if I confined myself to vague references to golf, soccer and children named Ashley and Justin, I’d be safe.
One man stood out in the crowd. Trim, muscular, devastatingly good looking and not wearing a golf shirt, he hovered over the cheese plate while a shaft of light illuminated him from above. It was time to make my move. So I shut off the flashlight and came down off the ladder.
His name is Jesus, a friend of Angela’s from college. He moved to the US from Argentina three years ago to pursue his career as a – dare I say it – part-time underwear model! I was in love, or something that would prove to be a reasonable facsimile for 72 hours. We exchanged small talk, but I scarcely remember what we said. I recall his charm, his smile, his penetrating eyes.
With the words ‘penetrating’ and ‘eye’ still echoing in my head, he whispered in my ear, ¿Joderemos como conejitos?
Speaking a little Spanish from my days in the CIA, I replied, Bien, tengo el equipo de un conejo. Oddly enough, he pulled away for a moment. So I pulled him close and whispered back, Y el águila nunca vuela a medianoche. I must have made quite an impression on him, for his simply smiled and we made our exit.
Back in my modest abode, we inexplicably began talking in clipped and unconvincing sentences.
Want a beer?
Sure, I’ll take one.
You seem tense. Want a back rub?
I don’t know…
Aw, c’mon, I’m really good at it.
Okay.
He took off his shirt revealing his hard muscles, albeit entirely covered by skin. I whipped out the back-rub massage oil I always kept handy and began working his stiff flesh. Suddenly the sound of bad music filled the air. Boom-chika-boom-boom. I remembered that I had set my alarm to go off at exactly midnight and I had it set to play Radio Porn (or was that Kenny G?). I turned off the alarm and whispered into his ear, feliz ano nuevo. With that he turned about and began tearing at my clothing. This was odd, since I already was completely naked.
So I grabbed him and pressed him tight. I felt his hot breath coursing down the nape of my neck, and worried for only just a moment when I realized we were kissing at the time.
I pulled him by el rabo into the bedroom and pushed him onto the bed, his arms spread out and Lo clavé de inmediato.
Sunday morning, three days later, we rose from the bed.
We dressed and then exchanged phone numbers and vague, insincere promises to call. But it was clear that this passion had played itself out. He said something about needing to return to his father’s house and made a hasty exit.
After he was gone, I looked outside and saw that the sun has risen. Ravenous, I went to the fridge and began to gorge myself on camembert.
¡Ah, lo que un amigo nosotros tenemos en quesos!
posted by Eric Houston at 1:41 PM
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