The Dunes of NicodemusShe giggled. "I have made love to Jesus." She danced on the dune of herself, twirling the thin veil of her vermilion modesty around her, looking across the Sea of Reflection. She swept her gaze past the beacon. The beacon swept its illumination past her. She danced the dune, played the wind and sang the lap of the waves, lyre and lute and lyrics. Her song of self unfolds…. I am -- Nicodemus. She cared not that the tomes of spiritual history had perverted her gender. She chuckled. She held up her veil, letting it flutter in the introspective sea breeze, exposed to all – all possessing the power to see across the flat glaze, across the Sea of Reflection, the lucky few, gods, goddesses and a few selectively chosen paramour, the Son of David being one. “Call me, sweet Jesus. Call me if you want me. Perhaps, in the dark, I’ll come again.” Nicodemus laughed. “Perhaps not.” A sad wind sighed over the wave void ocean. Nicodemus laughed, again, this time from the belly of her irreverence. A gust rippled over the glazed water, disturbing ripples rolled up on the shore. Then, came the crying, a sirocco not felt by exposed flesh, but by the chill that cooled the soul. The day rolled off the edge of Reflection replaced by apathetic indigo of Lunar inspection. The hearth warmth of the dance's introspection cooled to the blue illumination of night. She glanced to the reflective pane of ocean unruffled by the wind's cry, eyeing the Lunar reflection of the cold blue-gray orb, crescent as if a dreary lid closed over its observant gaze. As with most nights, her voyeuristic companion peered on, unfettered by the sadness of the wind's cry. Memory donned a bittersweet cloak, the same bittersweet cloak worn when she'd glanced to the lunar eye after their first time, His first time -- with her, with anyone. She sighed. "I am the sole possessor of his virginity." |
The Poetry of NicodemusDancing on the dunes of myself --
by the Sea of Self-Reflection. Step wise like the fairy elf, I seek ethereal connection Fleshly grains slide beneath my skip, blown by soft winds of prescribed chance, form the curve of my arcing hip, a plateau of essential dance Prance from this earth bound dialect beyond corporeal encase. Across the glaze of introspect I turn my ever-searching gaze. Call to that from which is without Your Buddha, your God or Allah To without that is in, shout out Decree the essential Fawtwah But mine is not traditional Existing in old rhetoric. Hers lies planar to my own soul Empowered by my sole aspect. Light from yonder beacon thrown Captured for my exclusive need Its power becomes mine to own To call her to my private deed. “Oh, Bastet, Hathor and Isis,’ I call not upon your power. I have inside, a force that is It blooms within -- a flower. By name call me Nicodemus Though man I’m not, as always thought. At night, I was called by Jesus To share a sharing we each sought. Irreverent at my own reverence, I do laugh, as child, age five My power is benevolence. Independence makes me to thrive Jesus truly was a mortal, journeying to Messiahship. Human needs as possess we all, meets Nicodemus lip to lip Called again by a deeper need, Called to meet an exigency. Treading reflection to do deed I go as I must, just to be… …Nicodemus! |
A diminutive man, not at all what one would think of as rising to the stature of The Messiah, left him small in all respects. Thin fingers, almost feminine, but callused from the rugged, trade of carpenter caressed with a soft womanly touch coupled with coarse rasp of his palm against her breasts, nipples, sensitized, raising, extending them as if to beg for his touch. Aching and tingling until rewarded with his measured squeeze as if he were crafting her pleasure like some fine table or chair.
Yessss.
Memory, an Easterly breeze, hissed over the glaze of the ocean.
Truly his empathy, not stature, made him the Messiah, the kind of empathy hated by some simply because others yearned it, an empathy that made him the best lover she'd ever taken. Still, he came away more versed for having been with her on the finer points of kissing a woman on the lips -- those flower-petal lips women secret between their legs. A willing -- no, enthusiastic -- student, he mastered her mentoring with quick command, a compelling command.
Nicodemus looked to the moon and returned to her dance with urgency, a sudden urgency. Her modesty lost its sheer quality as she twirled it about her, as would a dervish, wrapping her accustomed exposure in a sari of self-fortification. She danced off the hip curved arc of the dune begotten of her, moving to another mound, suckling herself, nurturing and feeding herself, from herself. The dunes were her and she was the dunes, the land that she inhabited and inhabited her.
Nurtured, sated and fortified, she stepped off the shore padding across the Sea of Reflection toward the sigh and the cry, feet leaving sparkling, expanding ripples in the mirror quiet waters, until she reached where the waters touched the mundane grains of unfleshly sand of the mortals.
She stepped off the water, moving past a bevy of blinking bathers viewing her with surprise. Such transport, they'd been sure, had been given exclusively to The Messiah. On other occasion, Nicodemus would have tittered, water walking being another trick she'd shown the Messiah apprentice. She passed through the gazes, through the reeds beyond the beach, through the forests of the land.
The Messiah had to be shown other tricks, to be shown how to take for himself. After worshiping her body with tongue, lips and gentle exploring fingers, after bringing her to tree shaking, wildlife and human terrifying screams, she'd pull him atop her, face to face, equal as lovers, equals as Goddess and God-apprentice. Coaxing him into her, gently, as she still burned, electrified by her own climax. Over–sensitized, the deft movement of his arm smoothness sliding into her would send snaps of lightning jolting through her, radiating from her loins. He'd oblige, still seeking her pleasure, still probing her with his hardened ardor sliding slowly in and out, feeling her gauging her with the very length of his arousal. Wanting to be the instrument of her continued ecstasy, he'd move within her with dexterity as if his member were a finger exploring the secrets of her private cave. Sometimes multiple possession by her own sexual release took her, rapt her. Waves of climax continued rolled through her in syncopated pulses with his furious pumping. But then, she'd coaxed him to seek his own pleasure, encouraging him that she liked to give as much as he.
"Come, sweet Jesus. Come to me. Come into me."
Fingers in his hair, repeating her encouraging mantra, feeling her ultra-sensitized secret lips wrapped around him, hardening him, feeling him, drawing out his whimper, drawing out his seed, feeling empowered by the quivering of his manhood within her, pulsing, bursting into her, as he burst into quiet sobs.
She left memory behind, continuing on toward the cry and the sigh.
Near a place called Calvary, in a hole in the side of a hill, Nicodemus found her paramour, dead, battered and shredded. She looked upon the body once shared with her own. Such a travesty, for despite its slightness, it had been a body to enjoy. She remembered its -- his -- unblemished smoothness. Receptive skin drawn over a subtle muscularity, that quietly rippled under her touch like a slow moving brook over smooth stones in a glade. The way he relaxed under her touch, surrendering to the power she held over him.
Now that smooth perfection had been destroyed. She passed her hands over it once again, feeling not the energy of a tender carpenter lover that had satiated her before, but the depravity of its -- his destroyers. Despite the watchful eyes of others, her hand lingered on the now limp member that had always risen for her presence like gleeful puppy for its master. Always before she had relished it's -- his warmth, always warmer than the rest of him, feverish. Now it lay cold, snake cold.
She considered taking it once again in her mouth, sure she could bring life back to the torn body, bring back her Jesus. The thought brought tear to eye and smile to lips along with the memory of a frivolous moment shared by lovers.
"What is the matter with that Mary Magdeleine, always anointing your feet. You should show her what truly needs to be anointed."
Then, she'd lower herself down on him, taking his swollen tip in her mouth, running her tongue along his length, hardening him the way heat hardens clay, feeling his quiver, hearing his moan, feeling her power. In those moments, the New Messiah would have destroyed Rome for her, had she asked him.
She lifted her hand. This is the way it had to be. She would not ruin Jesus' planned destiny. She would not bring him back, would not invoke his passion. Pilot had tried. She would not. From the satchel of her spirit, she extracted myrrh and aloe and salved Jesus’ beaten corpse, then wrapped it in the shroud of her respect, knowing the impression he would leave on that shroud. From behind the linen, she heard the sigh that had come to her from across the sea, sad and promising.
“I know, my friend. ‘For God so loved the world that--' and so forth.”
Another sigh ruffled her spirit like an autumn breeze.
“Yes. Dear Jesus, rest assured, you are ‘the bread of life.’”
Nicodemus smiled tenderly.
“Aren’t you glad I taught you to bake?”
The cry came again, disturbing the sands outside the vault, then scurrying off. The cry a father lamenting and reminding his son of destiny. Nicodemus looked down at her shrouded friend.
“I must go. I must leave to discover the one last way I can be close to you. Maybe.”
As Nicodemus left the cave, three men struggled to push a rock into place before the tomb. Nicodemus touched one man on the shoulder and smiled. With a gentle caress, she rolled the stone into place.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days to move that.”
Treading the dry hardened sands of The Wilderness, Nicodemus mused. She smiled, remembering the forty wonderful days spent with her just departed love, frolicking, making love, mutually engaging in their exclusive rituals of the spirit. He prayed to his father. She danced. It had been a time of sharing, sharing the pained pleasure of intimacy, brought about by mutual suffering.
She wandered the wilderness as she had with her lover-pupil, seeking a rock, one particular rock out of rocks numbering the same as the stars in the sky, the rock where Jesus had once lain his folded hands as he beseeched his father, The Lord, for clues to his destiny. The reminiscence filled Nicodemus with a sense that she could flood all of the barren lands, the whole of The Wilderness with her tears. Whom do gods and goddesses turn to for solace and console? To whom do they turn to deign why they are filled with such sadness?
Nicodemus an awful sadness never before experienced, the sadness of loss, yet somehow a deeper sadness, loss that that of her own. She looked to the sky unable to see it for the image of her paramour's shredded body. No matter which direction she turned, the image lay before her on every craggy jut and rock of The Wilderness. She cringed, the sadness of empathy, the empathic connection to Jesus wracked her own body with every blow that had torn his body. Her heart constricted at every strike of betrayal he suffered at the hands of those who had revered him only to turn on him and demand to witness his pain, be instruments of suffering, or worse stand back and do nothing prevent his suffering.
She fought the anger threatening to drown her. The desire to destroy mortals for their invective hate, did not strike her, a lesson in compassion learned from her dead lover.
Nicodemus struggled to smile at the irony that the executor of Jesus' suffering, a Roman, had been the only man to speak on his behalf. Looking down, Nicodemus noted seven tiny wet splatters dashed against the rock. Rain? No, tears -- hers. Nicodemus unwrapped herself from the sari of her sadness. "Fine, my sweet Jesus, if this is what you want. I will celebrate your suffering."
Nicodemus stepped up on the rock, twirling the thin veil of her vermilion modesty above her, spreading it across the windless sky, exposed herself to all – all possessing the power and desire to see into the barren lands, gods, goddesses and a few selectively chosen paramour. Could the Son of David be one of those?
Nicodemus skipped.
Nicodemus stepped.
Nicodemus danced until her veil filled the sky above The Wilderness with the anger she would not feel, a crimson anger toward mortality, a mortality that bid itself to be a victim when in fact a perpetrator. Requiring two full nights of dance without the watch of her lunar companion, Nicodemus finally reached the shores of resolve after paddling her own internal ocean, racked by the tempest of turmoil. She pulled in the sail of her celebration, her veil, wrapping it around her in a sari of satisfaction.
Nicodemus's bittersweet return journey over The Wilderness held no musings of previous amorous meandering. When she reached the tomb, she rolled the rock aside with a tender coercion of her hand. From within, Jesus waited, smiling, stepping into her waiting embrace, pulling her close until she felt his very hard, very mortal need press against her thigh.
Voices approached.
Jesus took Nicodemus by the hand leading her up the path to an outcrop, from which they watched three women approach the exposed grave. Wouldn't do for them to be seen together. Though he owed her nothing, Jesus had always been emphatic to Mary Magdalene's possessive nature. Nicodemus and Jesus shared smiles at the gasps of surprise and squeals, then crying voices receding down the mount, through the trees.
“He is risen! He is risen. He is…."
Nicodemus settled into Jesus arms, letting him anoint her forehead, eyes, lips with his lips, until she released him to speak, knowing his proneness to words.
“Thank you. Why the sadness I sense."
Nicodemus brushed soft thin coils of hair from Jesus face"
“I’m not sure if I did the right thing, my misguided Messiah, letting you trod this maudlin journey. Perhaps I should have come before all this happened to you. I could have prevented it. Perhaps I should not have come to you and bucked you up, pushed you on, encouraged you to follow this horrid destiny. Perhaps, I should have stayed with you, instead of running off to confound the Roman Gods with trivial incursions.”
“You did fine. In three hundred years, Constantine will declare Christianity the faith of the Roman Empire and a whole new benevolence will sweep the world – for a while. All of that will be because of the way you have undermined the Roman Gods.”
Nicodemus slugged Jesus in the arm.
“Christianity, eh? Seems a bit arrogant, and not entirely fair. Why not Nicodemia? Why should I just stand by and watch this new religion pass me by? All that time I spent, lobbying the Senate? Even let a few Senators paw me to help your cause. I didn't see you sleeping with any fat Romans.”
“I didn’t see you treading the earth amongst this mortal chaos and letting yourself be nailed to a plank of wood. Still, the name may come from my name, but Constantine’s decree is all your doing.”
"Not fair. Being beaten and crucified is nothing more than a testament of your flaws."
"Yes. Perhaps it's my flaws that make me the Messiah."
"No a God should be flawless, totally empowered."
Jesus smiled benevolently, bent to Nicodemus, suckling her where her neck joined her shoulder, touching her. Nicodemus stopped him.
“300 years?”
“Oh Nicodemus, you have everything to be the most powerful goddess on Earth and the cosmos, except patience. You’ve set something wonderful in motion. Sit back, nurture it and enjoy watching in unfold. Plus, the era of Gods and Goddesses is coming to and end. The new era of monotheism is rushing in. Sorry, you jumped on the wrong wagon.”
"Who will handle the marketing?"
"Paul will go north. Mark will handle the Egyptians."
"Good choices. Will it be direct to consumer?"
"That's Paul's plan. You know how he loves writing letters. Hieroglyphics and the Pharaohs make it less effect with the Egyptians."
Nicodemus smiled.
"Touch me sweet Jesus."
Nicodemus enjoyed the loving tenderness of a carpenter's touch, simultaneously masculine and feminine. He cupped her, squeezed with just the right pressure, then held his hands before him, palms to her. Nicodemus discarded the veil of her modesty, leaning to him, pressing her breasts against the coarseness of his hands, sometimes flattening her breasts, sometime barely touching them with the tips of her yearning nipples, moving with the grace and dance of an ocean. She took her pleasure, staring into Jesus eyes seeing his pleasure derived from hers.
He did not look at her breasts, simply experiencing them as she desired. In like manner, she did not look from his eyes, but reached for him, finding him extended to her, struggling to find passage through his cloak. She gave him passage. He did not move, but remained supple to her whim while hard to her touch. Nicodemus stroked Jesus to the quivering rigidity she wanted, then straddled him, taking him in, coupling. Always keeping the rhythm of the ocean, she danced on him, breasts still keeping syncopated time against his palms. Lightning snapped throughout her, racing from her nipples to meet the electric charge radiating from her groin until her ocean dance halted in a hawk scream, a cry heard beyond Calvary Hill.
She arched her back, exposing herself, surrendering to Jesus pleasure. He cupped her breasts, hanging on to her as she found his man-sack, gauging her squeeze to match his squeeze of her breasts. She rocked over him, on him as the earth might in a quake. Jesus tremored, then erupted. Taken by her own empowerment, she again exploded with him.
They fell into each other, each cradling the other, engaging in the most intimate of touches, that which crosses the boundaries between lust and caring. They kissed, endlessly, longingly, equally. Eventually, a breeze coughed from above, a father reminding cough. Jesus gazed into Nicodemus eyes with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry I have to go, but I will be back in a few days. I have some doubters to attend to and will need to introduce them to the Spirit. Maybe we could hook up again, then.”
“Ooo,’ teased Nicodemus, “the Spirit."
She giggled.
"We’ll see about hooking up. Maybe. Maybe not. Which way are you going, maybe I can walk with you.”
“Sorry I have to leave this way, it’s the way it’s supposed to be recorded.”
Jesus gave Nicodemus one last kiss and a sad smile. He stood, arms out, showing off his hands. A gaudy beam of pure white light fell on him streaming through the holes in his hands. He rose up through the, in a tasteless display of religious pandering. Nicodemus sashayed down the path, her hips swaying with the hormonal gait of a teen girl.
She giggled.
“I have made love to Jesus."
Yessss.
Memory, an Easterly breeze, hissed over the glaze of the ocean.
Truly his empathy, not stature, made him the Messiah, the kind of empathy hated by some simply because others yearned it, an empathy that made him the best lover she'd ever taken. Still, he came away more versed for having been with her on the finer points of kissing a woman on the lips -- those flower-petal lips women secret between their legs. A willing -- no, enthusiastic -- student, he mastered her mentoring with quick command, a compelling command.
Nicodemus looked to the moon and returned to her dance with urgency, a sudden urgency. Her modesty lost its sheer quality as she twirled it about her, as would a dervish, wrapping her accustomed exposure in a sari of self-fortification. She danced off the hip curved arc of the dune begotten of her, moving to another mound, suckling herself, nurturing and feeding herself, from herself. The dunes were her and she was the dunes, the land that she inhabited and inhabited her.
Nurtured, sated and fortified, she stepped off the shore padding across the Sea of Reflection toward the sigh and the cry, feet leaving sparkling, expanding ripples in the mirror quiet waters, until she reached where the waters touched the mundane grains of unfleshly sand of the mortals.
She stepped off the water, moving past a bevy of blinking bathers viewing her with surprise. Such transport, they'd been sure, had been given exclusively to The Messiah. On other occasion, Nicodemus would have tittered, water walking being another trick she'd shown the Messiah apprentice. She passed through the gazes, through the reeds beyond the beach, through the forests of the land.
The Messiah had to be shown other tricks, to be shown how to take for himself. After worshiping her body with tongue, lips and gentle exploring fingers, after bringing her to tree shaking, wildlife and human terrifying screams, she'd pull him atop her, face to face, equal as lovers, equals as Goddess and God-apprentice. Coaxing him into her, gently, as she still burned, electrified by her own climax. Over–sensitized, the deft movement of his arm smoothness sliding into her would send snaps of lightning jolting through her, radiating from her loins. He'd oblige, still seeking her pleasure, still probing her with his hardened ardor sliding slowly in and out, feeling her gauging her with the very length of his arousal. Wanting to be the instrument of her continued ecstasy, he'd move within her with dexterity as if his member were a finger exploring the secrets of her private cave. Sometimes multiple possession by her own sexual release took her, rapt her. Waves of climax continued rolled through her in syncopated pulses with his furious pumping. But then, she'd coaxed him to seek his own pleasure, encouraging him that she liked to give as much as he.
"Come, sweet Jesus. Come to me. Come into me."
Fingers in his hair, repeating her encouraging mantra, feeling her ultra-sensitized secret lips wrapped around him, hardening him, feeling him, drawing out his whimper, drawing out his seed, feeling empowered by the quivering of his manhood within her, pulsing, bursting into her, as he burst into quiet sobs.
She left memory behind, continuing on toward the cry and the sigh.
Near a place called Calvary, in a hole in the side of a hill, Nicodemus found her paramour, dead, battered and shredded. She looked upon the body once shared with her own. Such a travesty, for despite its slightness, it had been a body to enjoy. She remembered its -- his -- unblemished smoothness. Receptive skin drawn over a subtle muscularity, that quietly rippled under her touch like a slow moving brook over smooth stones in a glade. The way he relaxed under her touch, surrendering to the power she held over him.
Now that smooth perfection had been destroyed. She passed her hands over it once again, feeling not the energy of a tender carpenter lover that had satiated her before, but the depravity of its -- his destroyers. Despite the watchful eyes of others, her hand lingered on the now limp member that had always risen for her presence like gleeful puppy for its master. Always before she had relished it's -- his warmth, always warmer than the rest of him, feverish. Now it lay cold, snake cold.
She considered taking it once again in her mouth, sure she could bring life back to the torn body, bring back her Jesus. The thought brought tear to eye and smile to lips along with the memory of a frivolous moment shared by lovers.
"What is the matter with that Mary Magdeleine, always anointing your feet. You should show her what truly needs to be anointed."
Then, she'd lower herself down on him, taking his swollen tip in her mouth, running her tongue along his length, hardening him the way heat hardens clay, feeling his quiver, hearing his moan, feeling her power. In those moments, the New Messiah would have destroyed Rome for her, had she asked him.
She lifted her hand. This is the way it had to be. She would not ruin Jesus' planned destiny. She would not bring him back, would not invoke his passion. Pilot had tried. She would not. From the satchel of her spirit, she extracted myrrh and aloe and salved Jesus’ beaten corpse, then wrapped it in the shroud of her respect, knowing the impression he would leave on that shroud. From behind the linen, she heard the sigh that had come to her from across the sea, sad and promising.
“I know, my friend. ‘For God so loved the world that--' and so forth.”
Another sigh ruffled her spirit like an autumn breeze.
“Yes. Dear Jesus, rest assured, you are ‘the bread of life.’”
Nicodemus smiled tenderly.
“Aren’t you glad I taught you to bake?”
The cry came again, disturbing the sands outside the vault, then scurrying off. The cry a father lamenting and reminding his son of destiny. Nicodemus looked down at her shrouded friend.
“I must go. I must leave to discover the one last way I can be close to you. Maybe.”
As Nicodemus left the cave, three men struggled to push a rock into place before the tomb. Nicodemus touched one man on the shoulder and smiled. With a gentle caress, she rolled the stone into place.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days to move that.”
Treading the dry hardened sands of The Wilderness, Nicodemus mused. She smiled, remembering the forty wonderful days spent with her just departed love, frolicking, making love, mutually engaging in their exclusive rituals of the spirit. He prayed to his father. She danced. It had been a time of sharing, sharing the pained pleasure of intimacy, brought about by mutual suffering.
She wandered the wilderness as she had with her lover-pupil, seeking a rock, one particular rock out of rocks numbering the same as the stars in the sky, the rock where Jesus had once lain his folded hands as he beseeched his father, The Lord, for clues to his destiny. The reminiscence filled Nicodemus with a sense that she could flood all of the barren lands, the whole of The Wilderness with her tears. Whom do gods and goddesses turn to for solace and console? To whom do they turn to deign why they are filled with such sadness?
Nicodemus an awful sadness never before experienced, the sadness of loss, yet somehow a deeper sadness, loss that that of her own. She looked to the sky unable to see it for the image of her paramour's shredded body. No matter which direction she turned, the image lay before her on every craggy jut and rock of The Wilderness. She cringed, the sadness of empathy, the empathic connection to Jesus wracked her own body with every blow that had torn his body. Her heart constricted at every strike of betrayal he suffered at the hands of those who had revered him only to turn on him and demand to witness his pain, be instruments of suffering, or worse stand back and do nothing prevent his suffering.
She fought the anger threatening to drown her. The desire to destroy mortals for their invective hate, did not strike her, a lesson in compassion learned from her dead lover.
Nicodemus struggled to smile at the irony that the executor of Jesus' suffering, a Roman, had been the only man to speak on his behalf. Looking down, Nicodemus noted seven tiny wet splatters dashed against the rock. Rain? No, tears -- hers. Nicodemus unwrapped herself from the sari of her sadness. "Fine, my sweet Jesus, if this is what you want. I will celebrate your suffering."
Nicodemus stepped up on the rock, twirling the thin veil of her vermilion modesty above her, spreading it across the windless sky, exposed herself to all – all possessing the power and desire to see into the barren lands, gods, goddesses and a few selectively chosen paramour. Could the Son of David be one of those?
Nicodemus skipped.
Nicodemus stepped.
Nicodemus danced until her veil filled the sky above The Wilderness with the anger she would not feel, a crimson anger toward mortality, a mortality that bid itself to be a victim when in fact a perpetrator. Requiring two full nights of dance without the watch of her lunar companion, Nicodemus finally reached the shores of resolve after paddling her own internal ocean, racked by the tempest of turmoil. She pulled in the sail of her celebration, her veil, wrapping it around her in a sari of satisfaction.
Nicodemus's bittersweet return journey over The Wilderness held no musings of previous amorous meandering. When she reached the tomb, she rolled the rock aside with a tender coercion of her hand. From within, Jesus waited, smiling, stepping into her waiting embrace, pulling her close until she felt his very hard, very mortal need press against her thigh.
Voices approached.
Jesus took Nicodemus by the hand leading her up the path to an outcrop, from which they watched three women approach the exposed grave. Wouldn't do for them to be seen together. Though he owed her nothing, Jesus had always been emphatic to Mary Magdalene's possessive nature. Nicodemus and Jesus shared smiles at the gasps of surprise and squeals, then crying voices receding down the mount, through the trees.
“He is risen! He is risen. He is…."
Nicodemus settled into Jesus arms, letting him anoint her forehead, eyes, lips with his lips, until she released him to speak, knowing his proneness to words.
“Thank you. Why the sadness I sense."
Nicodemus brushed soft thin coils of hair from Jesus face"
“I’m not sure if I did the right thing, my misguided Messiah, letting you trod this maudlin journey. Perhaps I should have come before all this happened to you. I could have prevented it. Perhaps I should not have come to you and bucked you up, pushed you on, encouraged you to follow this horrid destiny. Perhaps, I should have stayed with you, instead of running off to confound the Roman Gods with trivial incursions.”
“You did fine. In three hundred years, Constantine will declare Christianity the faith of the Roman Empire and a whole new benevolence will sweep the world – for a while. All of that will be because of the way you have undermined the Roman Gods.”
Nicodemus slugged Jesus in the arm.
“Christianity, eh? Seems a bit arrogant, and not entirely fair. Why not Nicodemia? Why should I just stand by and watch this new religion pass me by? All that time I spent, lobbying the Senate? Even let a few Senators paw me to help your cause. I didn't see you sleeping with any fat Romans.”
“I didn’t see you treading the earth amongst this mortal chaos and letting yourself be nailed to a plank of wood. Still, the name may come from my name, but Constantine’s decree is all your doing.”
"Not fair. Being beaten and crucified is nothing more than a testament of your flaws."
"Yes. Perhaps it's my flaws that make me the Messiah."
"No a God should be flawless, totally empowered."
Jesus smiled benevolently, bent to Nicodemus, suckling her where her neck joined her shoulder, touching her. Nicodemus stopped him.
“300 years?”
“Oh Nicodemus, you have everything to be the most powerful goddess on Earth and the cosmos, except patience. You’ve set something wonderful in motion. Sit back, nurture it and enjoy watching in unfold. Plus, the era of Gods and Goddesses is coming to and end. The new era of monotheism is rushing in. Sorry, you jumped on the wrong wagon.”
"Who will handle the marketing?"
"Paul will go north. Mark will handle the Egyptians."
"Good choices. Will it be direct to consumer?"
"That's Paul's plan. You know how he loves writing letters. Hieroglyphics and the Pharaohs make it less effect with the Egyptians."
Nicodemus smiled.
"Touch me sweet Jesus."
Nicodemus enjoyed the loving tenderness of a carpenter's touch, simultaneously masculine and feminine. He cupped her, squeezed with just the right pressure, then held his hands before him, palms to her. Nicodemus discarded the veil of her modesty, leaning to him, pressing her breasts against the coarseness of his hands, sometimes flattening her breasts, sometime barely touching them with the tips of her yearning nipples, moving with the grace and dance of an ocean. She took her pleasure, staring into Jesus eyes seeing his pleasure derived from hers.
He did not look at her breasts, simply experiencing them as she desired. In like manner, she did not look from his eyes, but reached for him, finding him extended to her, struggling to find passage through his cloak. She gave him passage. He did not move, but remained supple to her whim while hard to her touch. Nicodemus stroked Jesus to the quivering rigidity she wanted, then straddled him, taking him in, coupling. Always keeping the rhythm of the ocean, she danced on him, breasts still keeping syncopated time against his palms. Lightning snapped throughout her, racing from her nipples to meet the electric charge radiating from her groin until her ocean dance halted in a hawk scream, a cry heard beyond Calvary Hill.
She arched her back, exposing herself, surrendering to Jesus pleasure. He cupped her breasts, hanging on to her as she found his man-sack, gauging her squeeze to match his squeeze of her breasts. She rocked over him, on him as the earth might in a quake. Jesus tremored, then erupted. Taken by her own empowerment, she again exploded with him.
They fell into each other, each cradling the other, engaging in the most intimate of touches, that which crosses the boundaries between lust and caring. They kissed, endlessly, longingly, equally. Eventually, a breeze coughed from above, a father reminding cough. Jesus gazed into Nicodemus eyes with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry I have to go, but I will be back in a few days. I have some doubters to attend to and will need to introduce them to the Spirit. Maybe we could hook up again, then.”
“Ooo,’ teased Nicodemus, “the Spirit."
She giggled.
"We’ll see about hooking up. Maybe. Maybe not. Which way are you going, maybe I can walk with you.”
“Sorry I have to leave this way, it’s the way it’s supposed to be recorded.”
Jesus gave Nicodemus one last kiss and a sad smile. He stood, arms out, showing off his hands. A gaudy beam of pure white light fell on him streaming through the holes in his hands. He rose up through the, in a tasteless display of religious pandering. Nicodemus sashayed down the path, her hips swaying with the hormonal gait of a teen girl.
She giggled.
“I have made love to Jesus."