Jesus is my fuckbuddy.
My father objected at first; “beard”, “loincloth” and “casual sex” are not things that a man wishes upon his daughter, but he really likes his new birthday table. My brother didn’t care. He just keeps making second coming jokes. Mother had the most to say on the matter.
“You’ll fall for him, I know it,” she said, barely looking up from her pitta. “I mean, come on, he’s dying for our sins on Thursday. You love all that nonsense.”
“Are you afraid it’ll hurt,” I cannot help myself asking later, head nuzzling into his slick heaving chest, moments after.
He looks at me, then gets up and begins to put on his loincloth.
And that’s fine. I don’t mind.
Mother was wrong.
I don’t mind.