“Why do you think Jesus is portrayed as sexy?”
She rolled over onto her elbow and propped her head in her hand awaiting his attention.
He stayed supine staring at the sky and picking at a piece of grass instead of his abused cuticle.
His answer was nonchalant, with an air of I don’t care or I’ve thought of this before so already have the answer,
“It’s probably that young-death-apotheosis thing like Cobain and Kennedy.”
“Oh yea, definitely,” she agreed, all the while making a mental note to look up the word a-paw-thee-oh-sis.
“Do YOU think Jesus is sexy or do you just think everyone else thinks Jesus is sexy? Because those are two different issues entirely.”
Conversing with him felt pedantic and clinical, and in 10 years time she’d tire of it and treat their friendship like a succulent you’re gifted on Administrative Professionals’ Day. But today, she was still in the State of Enamor.
“Well, I mean he’s never been MY type,” [both Authentic and Western Jesus looked nothing like the man she was trying to impress] “but he’s always been presented in a sexy way. Hair on the verge of drying, curls buoyant like breasts, and all those elongated fingers on the cusp of caress.”
While her words came naturally, she was still intentional about trying to seduce with verbiage. She figured if her physicality wasn’t a lure then maybe her mind was. But she didn’t even know the word apotheosis so suddenly her head felt as fat as her body.
“But that’s not necessarily the way others present him so much as it’s the way YOU perceive him. You are the one sexualizing Jesus, not the artists.”
Matter of fact. He was a legal document that delivered paper cuts along with obfuscation so you were both confused and in pain.
She hated how he believed he KNEW her, but her only emotional equipment at the time was a pout. When women in movies from the 1930’s and ‘40s were sleeping or pouting, they always looked so sultry. But on her, pouting just looked like duck lips and no one watched her sleep.
She went home that night and scoured her college art history books and the internet for evidence to prove that Jesus was sexy beyond her own imagination. She typed it up and hand delivered it the next day at their dinner date.
She could tell that he could care less about her findings but what she couldn’t tell is that he did care; not about her research but that she spent all that time on trying to prove him wrong. . .she spent all that time on HIM. His pride and dick swelled at the thought of it, of being someone’s sun, of having a satellite.
But only the Hindsight Lion knows that with enough time, Jesus would have become a bald man with a pot belly and she would become a woman who who didn’t give her time to a man like him.
I’m loving these! -hindsight…” like a succulent you’re gifted on Administrative Professionals’ Day”. Ah yes what a gift 😍
I love the lines of thought you go down and explore! Genius