The worst night of my life began with a kiss.
It was a chaste kiss, mind you, just the lips, and very brief, but my Lord did clasp my face between his hands for a moment after his mouth left mine, his blue eyes gazing deep into my black ones. I could feel the calluses on his palms, thick from sanding rough wood into smooth. They were strong hands, carpenter's hands, and in that moment all I wanted was for them to strip away my clothes and carve my hard wood into even as I fought the urge to slip my hand under the hemp robes of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and grasp his righteous throbbing member, right there, in front of all the other Apostles and his wife, that ugly whore Mary (as if that bitch could give him anything I couldn't. Ten seconds with your Son, O God, I prayed. Ten seconds with me and he'll be down on his knees, all right)- my Lord's hands fell away. He turned, and, tossing his glorious golden curls over one shoulder, went to kiss John, who had been anxiously fingering the cheese plate as he waited for his own greeting.
But even as I fought the urge to slip my hand under the hemp robes of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and grasp his righteous throbbing member, right there, in front of all the other Apostles and his wife, that ugly whore Mary (as if that bitch could give him anything I couldn't. Ten seconds with your Son, O God, I prayed. Ten seconds with me and he'll be down on his knees, all right)- my Lord's hands fell away. He turned, and, tossing his glorious golden curls over one shoulder, went to kiss John, who had been anxiously fingering the cheese plate as he waited for his own greeting.
I fought the blush that was beginning to rise in my cheeks, and poured myself some wine from a silver carafe. The tavern's backroom was bustling. Disciples crowded around our Lord and waiters scurried from one end of the table to another, hastily setting down plates (cheap Corinthian stoneware, how tacky) before the dinner began in earnest. The walls were lined with torches that produced great gouts of smoke as they burned, so that everything—the food, the guests, even the table itself —had a blurred, dirty look.
I drained my glass of wine and poured myself a second and then a third. Tonight was the night, after all, and I needed something to steady myself. For nearly two weeks I'd been planning and now here it was-the end game, the goal line, the big reveal- the night that I, Judas Iscariot, confessed my feelings to the Lamb of God.
My Lord went around one last time, shook a few hands, kissed Paul (the perennial latecomer), and then finally took his place at the center of the table. Those disciples who were still standing promptly sat. We all looked at Jesus expectantly.
Shaking back the voluminous arms of his robes, Jesus raised his hands for silence. He cut a striking figure, standing there in the muted torchlight. Rather than dimming it, the smoke made his white clothing even more radiant, as the edges of the cloth seemed to blur the way sunlight does when it shines through glass. His skin shone, too—pure and dove-white, but none of this, stunning as it was, could compare to My Lord's beautiful hair. Of all his glorious features, I loved Our Lord's hair the most. The long blond curls spilled over his shoulders and glittered softly as torchlight flickered over them; it was the kind of hair that angels might pluck, jealously and secretly while the owner slept, to use as strings for their lyres. I had traveled the empire from Carthage to Alexandria, but nowhere had I seen such heavenly color, such exquisite fineness of texture. Looking at that hair while Jesus stood, regal and erect, with his shoulders squared back and his strong chin thrust forward, you never forgot that you were looking at the divine.
Jesus Christ, the Lamb, the Rose, the King of Kings and Son of God, cleared his throat and spoke.
"So which one of y'all backstabbin mothafuckahs is it gonna be?" He looked around at us, staring at each disciple in turn. When his blue eyes came to me, I shivered but did not look away. "C'mon now. Some little homie here tonight think he gonna sic the Romans on my ass and do me in."
Matthew, a graying tax-collector with a long beard tucked into his belt, stood. "M'Lord surely no one at this Supper would wish you harm."
Jesus squinted at him. "Did I fuckin stutter?"
Matthew appeared to hesitate. "No, m'Lord, your voice is clear and steady as it ever was, I only—"
"Then sit yo crotchety ass down!"
He sat.
"Now then, if y'all done interuptin me," Jesus looked pointedly at Matthew. "I'd like to say a few things before some hot-shit Centurion comes in here and busts a cap off in my ass."
I started. Often my Lord's strange Galilean slang was beyond me, but this seemed pretty straight forward. I barely prevented myself from leaping up out of pure indignation; no filthy Roman was going to do anything to the ass of my Lord Jesus Christ. If anyone was going to "bust off" between those pert cheeks, it would be me!
"So, y'all see this basket of bread right here?" Jesus pointed to a small wicker basket at the center of the table. "This is my body, metaphorically, and I want y'all to eat it, non-metaphorically. Now—Matthew, Paul, and John, you got that? METAPHORICALLY. None of this super literal 1st century low reading comprehension shit. I'mma spell it out for you later cuz seems like y'all still hooked on phonics. "
He passed around the basket, and we each took a piece of bread. The slices were round, baguette-like. My piece was mostly crust and quite hard. Our Lord bid us to eat of his flesh once more, and we ate. You can guess which part of the Savior I imagined in my mouth.
Next, my Lord lifted up the silver carafe I'd been nursing since I sat down (there wasn't much left, to be honest) and said it was his blood and likewise bid us drink. I was less enthusiastic about this part-I've never been into that sort of thing—but I drank it anyway.
"Last thing," Jesus said, once we had all drained our glasses. "Simon Peter, you're taking over for me after I die—unless you're the bitchass mothafucka that kills me, in that case, Judas, you're head of the Church. And the rest of y'all—keep yo eyes open. Whoever this betrayin little cuntnugget is, he's pretty homo. Gonna reveal me to Pontius Pilate the same way I greeted each of you tonight: with a kiss. So look out."
Peter and I bowed our heads in thanks.
After that, the dinner went on as planned, although the news of our Lord's impending death did make things more solemn than usual. That meant there was no backing out, then, I thought, watching as John and James, the Galilean fishermen, played wine pong across the long wooden table. John sunk a cork into one of James' glasses, and then ducked as James hurled it back at his face. If tonight was Jesus' last night on earth, I had no choice but to tell him how I felt. Still, I hesitated. He had said that the traitor was something called a "pretty homo" and would deliver him to the Romans with a kiss. But how could that be? A kiss? It was so innocuous, so commonplace. Strange, how such a small thing could be so dangerous.
Eventually, the party wound down, and the disciples began to leave, embracing the Lord at the door and then furtively dabbing at streaming eyes with the edges of their cloaks as they went out. I lingered by the fireplace until even Mary, who was weeping openly, had said her last goodbyes. By the time Jesus persuaded her to leave, her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying.
Jesus closed the door after her and then turned to face me, wiping some of her snot from his shoulder. He shook his head.
"These Italian bitches, man. You know what I mean?"
I nodded, pretending that I did.
He came over to me, and took a moment to examine the intricate molding on the underside of the cherry wood mantle before saying, "You wanna proposition me, doncha Judas? That's why you're hangin around looking all skeevy, isn't it?"
"Proposition, My Lord?"
"Offer me somethin. Oh my Dad, man, you so drunk you can barely stay on your feet. That ain't like you."
It was true, I was swaying rather heavily, with one hand on the mantle to keep myself upright. I inhaled deeply; here it was, the moment of truth. "Well, Lord, it—it's a rather
"Well, Lord, it—it's a rather delicate matter, but suffice to say I'm…nervous."
"Nervous? Why?" But just as I was about to reply, there was a loud clatter on the stairs behind us. I heard a gruff voice.
"They were here, Claudius? The Judean Messiah and his followers? You're sure?" it asked.
"Yes, Centurion" replied a second voice. I recognized it; it belonged to one of the waiters. "They were all here. A right assembly, it was."
Jesus' eyes widened almost imperceptibly. For a moment he looked almost afraid. There was another clatter—someone was unlocking the door to the tavern.
"Shit! We gotta hide!" Jesus grabbed a torch from the wall and took my hand. Despite our danger, my heart leapt into my throat at his touch. There was a broom closet a few feet away. He pushed me in first and then followed, closing the door just as the Centurion entered the backroom.
"Seems to me this room is empty," the Centurion said.
"Please, Pontius, he was just here! He has a bill to pay, and I've never known him to skip out." The waiter squeaked. "He must have hidden somewhere!"
"Or maybe someone tipped him off, eh?"
Pressed close to him in the tiny closet, I looked at My Lord. His noble brow was creased with concentration as he listened to his would-be captors.
A third voice said something, but it was too far away for me to make out the words.
"You're right, Julius. A search is in order, men. Though I doubt we'll find anything." The room filled with the soft scuffle of footsteps.
Beside me, Jesus inhaled sharply.
"Judas," he breathed, so softly I had trouble hearing it. "Judas, I got a plan. You promise to do what I say? No matter what it is?"
The scuffling was drawing closer. I could hear a knocking on the wall to my left, coming towards me; one of the Romans was trying to sound out secret compartments in the walls.
"I'm gonna perform a miracle—make us look like some of the waiters. But if they find us just standin in a closet fo no reason—that shit looks super suspicious, so I need you to blow me."
"What?!" I whispered. Did I hear that correctly? The Son of God really just asked me to suck his dick? Praise his holy name!
"Ay, chill man. Sometimes friends blow friends to protect them from the Romans. Don't make it gay—
"Yes!" I choked.
"Brah, please, they're gonna kill me—"
"No, I mean, yes, I'll blow you, my Lord!"
"Thank Dad." Jesus whispered, and lifted his robes to expose himself.
I sank to my knees, slowly, reverently, kneeling before the holy cock. It was nearly a foot long and impressively thick, like the trunk of one of those exotic gray monsters the Emperor sometimes brought from the Southern reaches of the empire to fight in the coliseum. My Lord placed a hand on the top of my head. A gentle heat filled my face, and then trickled downwards until all of me was on fire. Oh how I burn for you, My Lord!
With both hands, I lifted the Dick of the Divine, and opened my mouth to receive the Body of the Lord, just as the closet door sprang open.
"Pontius, sir, I found—" the soldier began, and then fell silent. Or maybe he continued to speak, I don't know. I had four inches of the Lamb of God down my throat and my hand was reaching around to find his buttocks, as firm and round as I'd always imagined it. The soldier stood in the doorway, staring slack-jawed, as I inserted first one finger, and then two, into Jesus' anus. My Lord gasped a little at this. I looked up to make sure I hadn't transgressed and found the Lord smiling at the soldier, his cheeks slightly flushed.
"You wanna taste, dulce puer?" he asked.
The soldier looked over his shoulder, making sure that Pontius Pilate was out of earshot, before turning back and whispering.
"I'm on duty right now, but maybe when I get off if you guys are still…"
My Lord nodded indulgently.
"Sweet, I get off in an hour." The soldier said, and, closing the door, he called back to the others. "All clear over here."
"Well, that's it, then. He isn't here," Pontius announced. "Seize this fool for misleading the Emperor's men and take him to the prison for questioning. This is the third false call we've gotten this week, and I'll be damned if I don't see somebody get crucified."
"What?! No! You can't! He was here—he was really here, I swear!" Claudius cried. His voice grew fainter as the soldier dragged him towards the door. "But I'm innocent! Innocen—" the door slammed shut, cutting him off.
Jesus sighed and slumped back against the wall. "That was fuckin close!"
I couldn't nod without scraping my teeth against the underside of his penis, so I made a muffled grunting noise, and continued to suck him off. But something troubled me. As glorious as the Lord's penis was, something was off about it. Something not quite right with the massive, pendulous scrotum, perhaps, or the silky black treasure trail that lead down his perfect abs to a dark thicket of—
I stopped sucking.
Jesus looked down at me. "Hey, man, don't stop. I was actually kind of enjoying tha—"
I pulled the erect penis out of my mouth.
"You're not a natural blond," I said.
He stared. I looked again at his pubic hair, black and wiry as the Adversary himself, the skin beneath it a slick olive tone. The olive skin gave way to white at the creases of his muscular thighs, but the truth was obvious. Not a natural blond or a white man. I closed my eyes, feeling dirty, betrayed.
"Your eyes," I whispered past the lump forming in my throat. "They're not really blue, are they?"
Jesus said nothing.
"My Lord!" I cried. "Tell me this deception is just a trick set by Satan to test my faith in you! Tell me that you have not lied to us all."
"Judas…" he said, and there was sadness in that voice, a kind I'd never thought I'd hear from the Son of God; the sadness of a great man caught in a shameful act. "Judas, let me explain…"
But I shook my head. I didn't want him to explain. No explanation could restore the gaping hole that now stretched wide and painful in the place where my love for him had been. The man I loved so dearly was a lie, an act. Nothing but a beautiful and bittersweet illusion- some sharp hook, prettily baited, that I had swallowed, and shame on me if the line had gotten tangled around my heart. What else had he lied about?
"You don't understand," Jesus said. He knelt, and grasped my shoulders. "Judas, I had to. Hundreds of years from now—there's gonna be a country called America. It's gonna be great, as powerful as Rome is now, except with something called chocolate, which is like ground up nuts in a bar form that tastes like joy. And people die at 75 instead of 40, which is pretty great. This America is gonna be one nation, under me and Dad and something called the Holy Spirit that looks kind of like a floating condom (that won't start to matter for a few centuries, but spoiler alert, it's a thing). It'll be the greatest Christian nation ever. But they won't listen to a thing I say if I'm not white as fuckin Miracle Whip. Yeah, my hair's naturally black, and I wear colored contacts and, okay, I went Michael Jackson on my skin—but it's what's inside that counts, right?"
"What's inside?" I stood, and looked down at him, kneeling there like a toppled Pagan idol, Jupiter's golden head, lying broken and tarnished on the floor of the Acropolis, the scales of Juno smashed and scattered on the stairs of the Parthenon. "What's inside is a man who'd lie to everyone who ever loved him. And I did love you, Jesus. But I guess that the person I loved didn't really exist." I shook my head, and spat. My spittle hit the back of his bleached blond hair. It looked filthy now, greasy and unkempt.
"Keep that," I said. "Since nothing else you have is real."
With that, I left him there, still on his knees. I grabbed my cloak in the dining room and let the door slam shut behind me. I did not look back. The street was dark, the only light coming from the moon and a few candles still burning in the windows of quiet homes. I drew up my hood and looked at Palantine hill, the sprawling city center. Stealing silently over the broken cobblestones, I headed towards it, a small shadow working its way into the heart of Rome. I had a date at the palace tonight, with a man named Pontius Pilate.
THE END?