Jesus had been bleeding up there for decades, all sexy with the blood.
Jesus had had enough and decided to come down and meet me.
“It’s a good place to meet Catholic girls,” Jesus said.
My mother looked at me, sideways and not pleased, but what could she do? It was Jesus. How could she say I couldn’t date Jesus, even if I was only 13?
Jesus and I walked around town a little, then Jesus wanted to have sex. “It’s been a long time,” Jesus said.
We couldn’t go to my house — my mother had some limits — so we went back to the church, which was empty by then. We went to Jesus’ house; Jesus’ parents weren’t gonna bother us.
Jesus said, “I love you.” My mother had said I shouldn’t have sex without love. I had never thought about whether I loved Jesus, and I didn’t want to think about it now.
Jesus was a good kisser — better than the boys in my school. I’d never kissed anyone with a beard before.
We did it on the altar, under the empty crucifix. Jesus said it wouldn’t hurt and Jesus was right. It felt great, even better than climbing the rope in gym class.
“Jesus,” I said later, as we lay looking up at the blank ceiling of the church, “what if I got pregnant?”
“Don’t worry,” Jesus said, “I made them give me a vasectomy before they put me up there.”
“Good planning, Jesus,” I said.
“Well,” Jesus said, “I didn’t want to saddle anyone with the son-of-the-son-of-God thing.”
“Or daughter,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” Jesus said.