Take, eat; this is my body.
The Gospel of St. Matthew 26.26 (KJV)
Note: This was originally written based on a prompt given by a reader in another venue. It is highly sexually explicit and includes religious imagery.
Remember when we met? You were wearing that sundress,
the one that reminds you of your grandmother with pink flowers
embroidered into the sides. I had gone back and forth all evening,
anxiously imagining your desires. Do you like a suit-wearing butch?
Maybe a leather dyke? An all-denim masc? I couldn't think straight.
But when you sent that photo of you glowing against
the amber summer sun, nothing else mattered but you.
You told me I looked handsome and I tried to stammer out
a compliment but all that came out was: pretty. When I pulled
out your chair, you brushed my hand and whispered: thank you.
Your thumb grazed my calloused knuckles and I couldn't help
but stare at your nails, microcosmic galaxies of color and jewels
lifting proudly from your fingers. I placed my hand over yours
and whispered back: anything for you, beautiful.
The night melted into gentle illumination, candles curving shadows
across our faces as we learned the shape of one another's spirit,
telling half-remembered jokes and burying innuendos under our words.
It was almost eleven when we made it back to your place.
At your door, I asked if I could kiss you and before I could utter
the last syllable your lips caressed mine. The heat of new love
threaded through the evening air and inhibition turned to want.
You stroked my tie and beckoned me, barely a word spoken between us
after many hours of call and response. I took you in my arms and you
guided me to the bedroom, an altar warm and freckled with you,
lace and ribbon and smooth silk. As I laid you down on the bed,
you offered yourself to me and I gave myself to you. I prayed at the chancel
of your flesh and placed my head in the sanctuary of your thighs,
singing psalms with my tongue as your soul ran liquid over my chin.
When you couldn't wait anymore, you pulled me up to you and kissed
down my neck, unraveling me and taking my strap in your mouth
just as I had taken you. Your eyes pleaded with me and I ran my hands
across your cheek, my wanting tongue intoning: oh, my pretty girl.
I placed myself before the Eucharist, my cock the elements,
your cunt the host transfigured. You offered yourself to me
like the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge and our nakedness became Eden.
For a moment, I did not move, letting you adjust to the thick matter
of my cock as I held you close, God's creation trembling in solemn
recognition as Cherubim retreat into jealous solitude. I fucked you
for the first time, shuckling into the depths of your body,
your joyous sobs mixing with my growls like the interweaving rhythms
of a jazz solo approaching the Sacred Mystery again and again,
until we collapsed into one another with the holy weight of the evening.
Remember when we met? I think about it every night as I rock you to sleep,
the earth swaying in celestial repose as the moon sighs waves
onto her surface. Our home is now freckled with our shared presence,
the substantial union of spiritflesh in the accidental form of a house.
That night was only our first, but now, ten years later, I can say
it was proleptic, a cataphora from the future announcing
the coming birth of our eternal life. And it is good. Amen.
Quod ore súmpsimus, Dómine, pura mente capiámus, et de múnere temporáli fiat nobis remédium sempitérnum.
Roman Rite of the Catholic Mass
Image: Still Life: Two Glasses of Red Wine, a Bottle of Wine, a Corkscrew and a Plate of Biscuits on a Tray by Albrecht Anker (n.d.)
