My crisis of faith occurred long before my life fell apart. Raised Catholic, I’d drifted into religious apathy over the years so, when I stumble into my childhood church after a week of questioning my life, several days of crying, and a long night of drinking, the priest is just as surprised to see me as I am to be there. I’m even sure how I got here, but the alcohol still buzzing in my veins probably had something to do with it.
I’ve always been a bit of a sad drunk.
“Welcome, my son,” the old priest says. I can’t dredge up his name though, to be fair, I don’t try very hard. “It’s been a long time.”
A long time? That’s an understatement. I haven’t stepped foot inside a church since my son’s christening nearly sixteen years ago. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m there now. The only thing I’m certain of is that I need... something. What? I don’t know.
“What brings you to us so early on a Tuesday?” The priest asks.
I look around. “Us?”
The priest looks up at the life-sized, painted, wooden carving of Jesus on the cross.
Suddenly, I remember why I stopped going to church.
“He sees everything,” the priest says, laying what I'm sure he thinks is a comforting hand on my shoulder, “and he knows exactly what you need.”
At least someone does because I sure as hell don’t.
“Wish he’d tell me,” I mumble.
The priest offers me a kind smile. “You have to ask the question to get an answer.” He wavs a hand at the rows of wooden pews and turns, leaving me with my thoughts and the six-foot wooden Jesus looming over me.
Well, hell. I’ve try everything else, right? Booze and women haven’t helped – maybe prayer will. What do I have to lose?
I take a seat. Plopping myself down in the nearest pew with a sigh, I bow my head and, clasping my hands together, speak to Jesus for the first time in many years. I don’t expect him to answer.
“Help me,” I beg. “My life is a mess. I’m a mess and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Have you tried anal sex?”
The booze lingering in my system makes my head spin as it whips up. There, standing in the aisle between the pews, is a six-foot, painted Jesus carved out of wood. He has one hand on his waist and wears a look of concern.
“Oh. My. God.”
The wooden statue of Jesus huffs. He narrows his eyes at me. “Leave my father out of this,” he says, clearly annoyed. “I think I can handle one little crisis without his help.”
“Ripped?” The living statue of Jesus runs a hand along the literally chiseled plains of his abdomen. The grin that finds its way to his face is proud.
“A statue!” I manage to gasp.
His smile dies. “Uh, yeah. How else am I supposed to see everything?”
The feeling of awe that grips me at the sight of a living, breathing, wooden savior gives way to one of-
“Ew! That’s so creepy!”
“Really?” The living statue of Jesus is less than amused by my display of disgust. “Creepy? I had to die for all your sins and my reward is to be trapped in every statue, painting, and item of jewelry bearing my resemblance but, sure, the fact that I had to watch you beat off while you watched your cabin-mate sleep at church camp in the twelfth grade is ‘creepy’.”
“That’s...” I sputter, face bursting into flames, “not true.”
The wooden statue of Jesus gives me an unimpressed look. “Hello? Sees everything, remember?”
I try not to think of all the embarrassing, horrible, disgusting things I may have done in the presence of Jesus. “Ugh,” I groan, “I feel sick. I need to sit down.”
The living statue slides into the pew next to me. He lays a hand on my shoulder, much like the priest did. Unlike the priest, though, the wooden statue of Jesus somehow makes it seem comforting.
“You are sitting down,” he points out.
I look down. “Oh.” I put my head between my knees.
The wooden statue of Jesus continues to rub my back soothingly as I take one shallow breath after another. And I thought my life is out of control before...
“That’s not going to help,” he advises sagely.
I glare up at him. “Oh, Yeah? What will?”
“Have you tried anal sex?”
He said that before, but I was too stunned by his appearance to process it. “What?”
“Anal sex,” he repeats. “I mean, your life has been falling apart for a long time. You just didn’t see it.”
There could be plenty of truth in that, I suppose.
“It’s been falling apart since that night in the cabin,” the living statue tells me. “You were so ashamed of your feelings you went out the next day and got caught making out with the preacher’s daughter, remember?”
“I... I...” I really don’t want him to be right but...
“If you’d just tells your friend you were attracted to him at the time, your life would have been on track by now. He’s single at the moment, by the way,” the living statue of Jesus adds conspiratorially.
Oh, is he? Wait, why should I care?
“I’m not gay!”
The living statue of Jesus throws back his wooden head and laughs. “Sure,” he says, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks, “Sure. Totally straight.” He has the gall to wink at me, the bastard.
You can’t call the son of God that! I scold myself. Even so, I shrug off his touch and stand.
“Besides,” I say, “isn’t homosexuality supposed to be a sin?”
The living statue doubles over, clutching his hand-carved sides. “Stop!” he laughs. “You’ll make my wounds open!”
I can see the red marks painted onto his hands and head meant to symbolize the wounds he suffered before his death, but they don’t seem to be bleeding. Can they? He is made from wood yet... he also seems to be living and breathing. I’m drawn forward, despite myself. My fingers itch to touch the marks, to see if they’re real.
“Do they hurt?”
The living statue of Jesus stops laughing. “You get used to it after a few millennia,” he tells me soberly.
Every image of Jesus, all over the world, all with wounds that can never truly heal. My life suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. I reach out to lay a hand on his bare, wooden thigh.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, wondering how many humans that he died for have never said it.
The living statue of Jesus blinks his wooden eyelids slowly as he looks down at the place where my hand rests on his thigh. When he looks back up, his eyes are hot with something that is definitely not religious fervor.
Someone moves first – that’s how these things work, after all – but I can’t say who it is. One minute the living statue of Jesus and I are staring at one another and, the next, his tongue is in my mouth.
Even though I’m not gay, I grow hard as he reaches down to rub me through the fabric of my slacks. Oh, who am I kidding? I am one hundred percent gay for this six-foot, painted Jesus carved out of wood. And I can tell from the way his growing erection shifts away the ragged cloth covering his waist that he’s gay for me too.
Pulling back, I look into his painted-on blue eyes. “I want you,” I tell him, “to fuck me up the ass.”
He graces me with a triumphant grin before grabbing me by the waist and turning me so that my knees rest on the seat and my hands grip the back of the pew. Spreading my firm cheeks, the living statue of Jesus leans down to spit on my sensitive hole. The slick wet trail of saliva makes me shiver with anticipation.
The living statue of Jesus takes hold of himself. He rubs the head of his carved shaft against my puckered hole and I find myself pushing backward, eager to have him inside me.
“Fuck me, Jesus,” I beg. “Please!”
Laughing, he obliges. The living statue of Jesus begins easing himself into my ass. At first, my untested hole resists, but he keeps pushing until my tight ass welcomes him. All of him. There’s a lot to welcome.
He truly is divine.
His thrusts are deep and hard. They hit just the right spot.
The living statue reaches around to press a finger against my lips. “Don’t,” he pants.
Impulsively, I open my mouth and draw his finger inside. I suck hard, stroking his finger with my mouth. The wooden statue of Jesus shudders.
“Oh, God!” he cries.
There’s a blinding light, accompanied by the sound of blaring trumpets.
The living statue of Jesus stops. His head drops to my shoulder. I move against him impatiently. “Don’t stop,” I moan.
He ignores me, immediately pulling out in a move so swift it leaves me feeling empty. “Fuck,” he complains.
“Please!” I laugh.
The living statue of Jesus doesn’t laugh. He plants his wooden hands on his lean hips and glares at the pillar of light in the aisle.
I think, at first, he must be talking to me, but then I see a figure emerge from the light. The sound of trumpets fades as God himself steps out of the light in long, white robes. He has a head full of wavy white hair and a thick beard of the same.
“Is that...” I whisper, “God?”
The wooden statue of Jesus catches my eye a second before he rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately,” he says.
“Is that any way to speak to your father?”
God eyes me up as he approaches, making me keenly aware of the fact that I’ve been caught with my pants around my ankles. Literally. I hurry to stuff my throbbing cock back into the confines of my slacks while God openly stares and the life-sized replica of his only son taps his toe impatiently.
“Can you go now, please?” Jesus whines, sounding more like a petulant teenager than the savior of mankind. “I’m trying to fill this man with the Holy Spirit.”
Raising one white eyebrow, God says, “I can see that.”
I shift uncomfortably. As it happens, being caught between celestial parent and child during an argument is just as awkward as being caught between any other parent and their child during an argument.
“Maybe I should.... I don’t know, go...”
“No,” Jesus says, “stay.” He catches my hand and gives me a look that promises all sorts of bad things if I do.
“Should we, um, find someplace more private?” I ask, glancing at the divine being who still glows slightly. What I see makes my eyes widen in shock. “Uh... Heavenly Father?”
He doesn’t stop removing his robe. “God will do,” he tells me. “All that other stuff takes too much time.”
“Fair enough.” I look away quickly when the robe falls away to reveal a massive, erect penis jutting out from a nest of white curls. Gawking at a deity’s nether regions has to be a sin...
And fucking his only son isn’t?
“But, um, what are you doing?”
“Well, God says with a shrug, “I came all this way. Might as well make the most of it.”
The living statue of Jesus looks from his father’s naked form to my wide-eyed stare and shakes his head. “No. No way,” he insists angrily. “You are not stealing another man from me!”
God laughs. “Go back to your cross, young man, and let the adults play.”
“Don’t call me-”
“Hold on,” I say, interrupting their argument before it can get into full swing. They stop and stare at me. “No one has to go anywhere. There’s plenty enough room in my ass for both of you,” I tell them.
There probably isn’t, but if they can’t make room, no one can.
I, for one, am certainly willing to try.
The looks on their faces tell me they are too.
Summoning a boldness I didn’t know I possess, I fall to my knees in front of God and take his glowing cock in my mouth. It’s impossibly big. Almost too big – if that’s possible. I do my best, though, wrapping my lips around him and pushing forward until the tip of his erection hits the back of my throat. My gag reflex has never had to deal with anything like a god’s dick before (or any dick for that matter) but, after a small struggle, I manage to relax my gag reflex enough to take him fully inside.
God holds my head there nearly a full minute before releasing me to gasp for air. He only gives me a brief respite before he starts thrusting into my hot, wet mouth.
“Fuck, yeah,” God cries. “Suck my holy dick!”
Not to be forgotten, the living statue of Jesus comes up behind me and tugs my trousers back down, freeing my still-engorged cock. He slaps my ass playfully and I lift it into the air in invitation. He accepts eagerly, driving into me with a force that shoves his father’s cock deep into my throat. I choke, and God grabs my hair, yanking my head back so I can gasp for breath.
God releases me. He urges the living statue of Jesus to sit on the nearby pew. The living statue of Jesus obliges, holding me against him so we move as one. When he settles onto the seat, I begin to move up and down along his hard, wooden shaft. Soon, I feel God behind me, parting my cheeks. The head of his holy cock nudges my stretched hole.
“Yes!” I cry. “Shove that glowing cock up my ass!”
Easier says than done.
My anus is already stretched so wide to accommodate the living statue of Jesus’s massive carved dick... there can’t possibly be any room for...
They stretch me further than I’ve ever dreamed possible. Together, they begin thrusting, one pulling back as the other pushes deep. My head swims. It’s all I can do to cling to Jesus’s shoulders as he and his father work my virgin ass in tandem.
The wooden statue of Jesus captures my panting mouth in a hungry kiss. Behind me, God moans.
“Oh, yes," the deity cries. "Oh... oh, Buck Trungle!”
The men plowing my asshole still as a puff of smoke erupts beside us. A handsome man stepped out of the smoke. When he sees us, he grins.
I blink in confusion. “Wait. Who...?”
“Well, hello there, buckaroos,” the newcomer says.
“If you want to cum any time soon,” the living statue of Jesus warns, “don’t ask.”
“But that guy...”
“Don’t worry about him,” God tells me. “Buck just likes to watch.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“That’s right,” the man agrees in a heavy drawl, “I do like to watch.”
I look from the newcomer to the living statue of Jesus, both confused and concerned. Then, the living statue of Jesus leans forward to capture one of my nipples between his wooden teeth and I think, To hell with it. I don’t care if the whole damned congregation watches, as long as the six-foot, painted Jesus carved out of wood and his glowing, holy father keep pounding my ass.
And they do.