by Sarah Black
(10/10/07)

When he opened his eyes he was in the desert again. Huge sandstone boulders were tumbled everywhere, and nasty sharp gravel dug into his feet through the thin rope sandals. Malevolent plants with sharp spines grabbed at his robe and wouldn't let go. Just like beggars. He could almost hear them whining.

"God damn it! This had better not be Palestine again. I have fucking had it with that place." The mountains on the horizon didn't look familiar: dusty, sage green and hot as Hell.

Jesus started walking. He didn't have any water. So what was new? Hungry, thirsty, probably about to get the shit kicked out of him again. And the heat was unbearable. The air was so hot it was hard to breathe. He held his hands up. Brown skin and black hair on his arms. On his head? Seemed like a thick headful up there. He plucked out a strand. Yep, black. This probably meant trouble. Brown was down, that was the word in Heaven.

He hadn't walked far when he noticed a long white pole flying a pale blue flag sticking up from the desert. Near it, a man lying among cactus and rocks groaned and tried to roll over. He was slender and fair, with pretty blue eyes like cornflowers damp with morning dew. Jesus knelt next to him, put an arm under his shoulder and eased him up. "Brother. Are you okay? What happened?"

The blue eyes were confused. When they focused on his face, the man looked a little scared, a little mad. "You're too late, if you're with them. They took everything. There's nothing left." He struggled to his feet, tugged his arm out of Jesus' helping hand. The man's face was banged up, a purple lump rising on his forehead.

"Who took everything? I don't understand."

The man looked at Jesus a bit more carefully. "Nothing. It's nothing. What's your name?"

"Jesus. Or you can call me Christ."

The man nodded. "Right. Of course. Hello, Jesus. I've got a concussion." They stared at each other for a moment and the man dabbed a knuckle at the corner of his mouth, which was swollen and still bleeding sluggishly. "You didn't see a truck go by, did you? A blue Silverado?"

Jesus shook his head. "You're the first person I've seen. Where are we anyway?"

The man was walking around, jerking his leg out of the thorny clutches of the cactus when it reached out for him. "Arizona. Big congrats. You made it into America. I hate this place." He looked up at Jesus. "I hate this place, my friend. I'm sorry that you had to be the next person needing help to come through here, because I've just resigned from the helping business. Enough is enough, you know what I'm saying? I can't keep trying and trying, turning the other cheek, giving everything and being made a fool of, hurt, stole from..." His tears were overflowing.

Jesus reached a hand out and touched his face. "I'm thirsty. Do you know where I can find water?"

The man gave a hiccup and a strangled laugh, then spread his arms, gesturing toward the plastic water tank and the pole with the flag on top. "I have water. I'm sorry. You must be thirsty, Jesus. That's why I'm here, bringing water for people coming through the desert. Come on, I'll show you."

There was a row of plastic jugs; the man with the blue eyes filled one, handed it to Jesus. The water was sweet and tepid, and the tiniest bit salty, as if he were tasting the man's tears. The man filled a jug for himself and they moved to the shade, sitting down on a small patch of desert floor.

"Someone hurt you, took your truck?"

He nodded. "There must have been four or five of them. Not walkers like you, Jesus. I mean, I'm just assuming, but you look kind of rough, like you've been in the desert for awhile. Those men, they hadn't been in the desert long. They took the keys and my wallet and they..." His cheeks were shading pink with humiliation. "They made fun of me. Called me names. I was really afraid, because there's so much hate, you know? Hate crimes everywhere, but this was the last place I ever... This was a safe place. Where I could do good. And be myself."

He dropped his head to his knees, and Jesus dipped his hand into the water, put it on the back of the man's neck.

The man shrugged. "No more. It's ruined now. I might as well give up, just go home to Cincinnati."

Jesus took the man's hand, pressed a kiss into his open palm. "Thank you for the water, Michael."

"How'd you know my name?"

"I think you told me."

"I don't think so."

"Michael was the most beautiful of the angels, did you know that? I had quite a crush on him when I was a teenager. His eyes were like yours, gentle, the color of the sea or the sky."

"Really?" Michael's face was softer now, and he'd stopped trying to pull his hand away. Jesus took his fingers, slipped them into his mouth and sucked the tips. "So when you say the angel, do you mean, like..."

"Michael, my friend, can I pay you for the water?"

"No, of course not!" His cheeks were pink again. "No one in the desert should ever have to pay for water. We share." His voice was a whisper. "Why can't we share? What's so hard about that?"

Jesus was bathing Michael's face now, bathing his hot, dry skin, his hair. Michael's hair was like corn silk under his fingers. "It's not hard. It's the easiest thing under heaven. Michael, can I ask you something? Why are you out here alone?"

"Well..."

"When I said for you to love your brother, did you not think I was talking to you? Or have you decided love is this sort of thing but not that, smaller than these mountains, smaller than the desert and the sky?"

Michael's voice was so faint the desert wind nearly snatched it away. "You said it was a sin. I promised I wouldn't do it again, and I haven't. It is a sin, right? I mean, isn't that what you said?"

Jesus put his fingers over Michael's lips. "I'm only going to say this one more time, so I suggest you listen. This is my gift to you, Michael. Your body. Your heart. And I expect you to use them. Not for the good of mankind. For the good of man. One man. Yourself, and the ones you choose to love."

Jesus stood up and pulled the robe over his head. "Okay, I know that's two men. I get carried away sometimes. Did you know I was a poet?"

Michael gaped at him, and his gaze dropped unwillingly to the thatch of dark hair and the cock stirring between Jesus' thighs.

"It's a perk," Jesus admitted. "There are very few in this job, believe me." He spread his robe on the hard ground, and when Michael got a look at his back, he gasped again and reached a hand out to touch the scars.

"They hurt you, didn't they?"

"Everybody's been hurt, Michael." He reached forward and tugged at the waistband of Michael's jeans. The button and zipper yielded to his fingers, and he slid his hands down over Michael's ass, the smooth skin filling his hands. "You can touch me, too."

"This is wild," Michael said, wide-eyed, fingers tangling in the dark hair on Jesus' chest. "But kind of cool, too. I mean, I didn't think you'd be, you know, hot." He lowered his head, pressed his lips to a dark nipple. When Jesus sighed, then caught his breath, Michael opened his mouth a bit wider, brought some tongue to bear, and Jesus felt the wonder of the body fill his belly and his cock.

"Listen," Jesus said, pushing Michael gently down to his back and tugging his Levi's down over his hips. "Let's talk about this later if you want. I won't be able to confirm or deny, you understand? But I want you to consider carefully if this's the way you want to go. It's a cynical world. Not like the old days."

He unbuttoned Michael's shirt, spread it open and touched his thin chest. There was a scrape and a purple bruise coming up over his ribs. It looked to Jesus like someone had kicked him when he was down. Michael sighed. "I know I'm not really buff or anything."

Jesus put his head down and tasted skin, a good heart, the best intentions, sorrow and joy. "You're beautiful on my tongue, Michael." He moved down, and Michael's cock nudged his cheek, bright pink and weeping a single tear. Jesus tasted him, took him into his mouth.

Michael reached for him, soft noises of happiness and pleasure drifting out of him onto the desert wind. He was ticklish, and horny, and lonely, and he was laughing when he came, hands sliding through Jesus' hair, joined almost as if in prayer for just that moment.

"You taste sweet," Jesus told him, and rested his head on Michael's belly. He could hear the slow, steady thump of a quiet heart. "When a man comes and he's been laughing, it tastes sweet. Try it some day, Michael."

"Yeah, okay. I will. Listen, I'm not dying or anything, right?" Michael had the palm of one hand against Jesus' rough cheek. "Because I can feel these rocks under my shoulder blade, and it's still a hundred and four degrees out here. So this isn't heaven, right?"

"Not your time yet. I've got to be going soon, though." He looked into Michael's face. "I wish I could spend some more time with you. You make me feel happy. Hopeful. Or something. And I like looking into your eyes."

Michael's face was flushed with pleasure. "Thanks. I feel like...like..."

"Yeah, me too. I've been feeling a little down, to tell you the truth. Want to watch me ascend?"

"What, up to heaven?" Michael's eyes widened. "Cool!"

Jesus stood, arms spread, becoming lighter and lighter as he spun around, lifting off the ground, his body falling away until only energy and light were left. Michael lay on the ground, waving until there was nothing left to see but sky.

As the heavens darkened around him and the stars winked on, Jesus discovered he felt better. The desert wasn't all bad. It had its moments.

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