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Jesus Gave Me a Blowjob in the front seat of my car. It was a miracle. He was beautiful. I shot a load in his almighty beard. Slipped my phone number in his crown of thorns. His head fit like latex gloves between my legs. "I'll call you later," he said. I can tell he's not the type to forget faces. He actually calls the next morning. "Last night was great. I want to see you again over breakfast." He asked how my day was and if I got the green boots I wanted. "If you need anything at all don't hesitate to call," he said. This was very generous of Jesus. He asked if my mother was still being a pain in the ass and if my father knows I'm happy, healthy & making money. He said, "I like men who love to take it in the ass." I found out he's been married for twenty years. A son in the army. A daughter with a degree in Advertising, & children of her own. Calling him would be a mission impossible. so I settled for head in the front seat of a black Celica in the parking lot of a shopping mall after closing. The windows up, the radio turned down like the Levis around my ankles. His tongue is a roller coaster down the track of my throat in a seedy hotel with HBO & the Playboy channel. Come on baby, Give me some quarters for the vibrating bed that sits on olive green shag carpet that smells like stale piss owned by a fat, over weight Mexican whose English is jagged, whose hands are tinged with kerosene from the heater in his bedroom from around the corner from the lobby decorated with a black and white 9 inch t.v., orange sofas & wallpaper coming undone with the glue crack & bulk falling to the floor. Where the cock roaches are bigger than my thumb, & rats live on lobster, sleeping in queen sized beds. He plans to leave his wife. He wants to spend the rest of his life feeding me grapes in bed while we watch American Werewolf in London for the sixth time. Let's run away together in your 64 Thunderbird to Las Vegas for a quicky wedding where the justice of the peace is an Elvis impersonator. Bible in one hand, Fried peanut butter & banana sandwich in the other. He said, "I can't leave my children. My wife wants things like it used to be." Vacations to Busch Gardens Romantic rendezvous to Aspen. Fake orgasms in a heart shaped bed of the honey moon suite, plates of pot roast, mouth stuffed with strawberry short cake on special occasions. He calls me crying, sniveling snot. "I'm sorry, but I can't see you anymore." I'm cocooned on the black leather sofa, knees pulled to chest and hoping for more true love without its crown of thorns.
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