Going to the Gay Bar with Jesus
It goes without saying, but Jesus
is in booty shorts.
It's summer, so we're showing skin. Jesus
sports a mesh top, his chest hair and side scar
peek through the holes, the absence of cloth
more present than the strings pretending
to cover him. I'm in a similar get-up,
jockstrap and harness visible under my clothes.
Because we're both in booty shorts,
everyone assumes we're not together – correctly,
and that we're both bottoms – incorrectly,
and that we're looking for dick – correctly.
*** *** ***
Jesus charms the door man, so we don't have to pay the cover.
He flips his hair when we walk in, but not until he's sure
every eye is on him, which they are. Even the queen on stage
flicks her attention to the savior briefly, mid-lip-sync,
and straightens her back. We walk straight to the bar, and people
step aside to make space for us. The bartender approaches immediately,
a miracle in and of itself. Two shots of vodka and two ice waters, hun,
Jesus says, tossing a wink over his shoulder at me. We clink
our shooters, tap them on the bar, then down 'em.
Jesus takes our waters, thanks the bartender, then leaves
two twenties on the counter without using his hands.
C'mon, hun, he says to me, making his way to the dance floor.
He hands me a tequilla sunrise, sipping his own through the straw.
Wine doesn't taste good on ice, he says, starting to churn his hips
to the Dua Lipa mash up slamming our ears. I want to ask him
if he can only turn water into red drinks, or if we can have
rum-and-cokes after this, but the blood of Christ is potent.
A stone rolls in front of my inhibitions, sealing them away.
I'm not too much of a dancer, but you wouldn't be able to tell.
I arch my back and shake, surrender my arms to the air.
Jesus is spinning, singing along, head tilted, hair flowing.
His arms are spread wide, pierced palms spilling light.
*** *** ***
At the end of the night, we're all sweaty. We danced until close.
We didn't find boyfriends, despite many hopeful candidates,
so we lean on each other to keep upright on the sidewalk.
Couldn't you make our Uber come faster? I ask him, hiccupping
halfway through. He laughs, really girly, pushing his forehead on mine.
I cooooould, he croons, kissing my cheek, a little sloppy. But I'm not ready
to go home. He sighs, looks up beyond the stars.
I'm not ready to leave you all down here alone.
*** *** ***
I wake up in my bed, an alka seltzer on my pillow
and a copy of the King James all hollowed out,
the cove filled with pre-rolls and a note:
Thanks for the fun, hun.
Pray sometime, why don't ya?
XOXO, JC.
P.S. Never forget how you're made –
wonderfully, and beautiful.
Benjamin Anthony Rhodes is a queer and trans poet living in Northeast Ohio. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Kent State University and a BA in English from the University of Louisiana at Monroe. His work can be found in Cowboy Jamboree, Cleveland Review of Books, LimpWrist, and in "Let Me Say This: A Dolly Parton Poetry Anthology," forthcoming from Madville Publishing. His poem "Elliot Page Just Came Out as Trans" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Drunk Monkeys.