Church, passion, kneeling at communion. Our shoulders and hips touch but our prayers are private and intimate. God forgive me, change me, heal me, bless him, show me. Bread in wine, flesh and blood and we eat it kneeling. Devour a man’s body and juices on our knees. We drink blood. Absolute carnality, absolute intimacy, absolute love.
Rising we are healed, saved, restored.
We reenter our pew and he grips my hand so hard. There are tears in his eyes. He chokes, “I love you.”
We come home to the New York Times, mocha coffee and Italian pasties from Bella Napoli. I’m reading about palliative care and he is in front of me, tears again, kissing me, tugging at clothes.
“Is there any greater compliment than a man who wants to f*** you?”asks Helen Gurley Brown.
And he does. And we do. Laughing, grunting, crying all over each other’s bodies, mouths, hands, fingers, legs.
Finally tired and hungry.
God is love. Sex is love. He is risen today. Amen
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