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The Secret Life of JC

It was a pleasant Sunday morning in the beachside community of Paradise Cove. A heavenly breeze greeted early risers with divine temperatures in the low seventies. If there was ever a day for relaxation, this was it.

That is, unless you’re Jesus Christ.

The Messiah appeared troubled while sipping wine on the balcony of his beachside residence. Sundays were notoriously difficult for him to enjoy. Unresolved trauma was partly to blame. Ditto the fact that he was living a secret life.

Upon his Second Coming, he had successfully carved a new identity for himself while blending in with the surf culture of Southern California. He was also in a loving relationship with Thickem McDickem, a gay atheist porn star whom Jesus lived with.

The Messiah seemed to be living his best life post-resurrection. So, why couldn’t he enjoy it?

It wasn’t that he felt guilty for disregarding his predestined fate. If anything, Jesus was glad to be free from God’s iron grip. What he feared most was being outed. The revelation of his true identity would undoubtedly destroy his beloved newfound life with Thickem McDickem. It could also spur another crucifixion, which was not an experience the Messiah wished to revisit.

As Jesus stirred his wine and contemplated his predicament, his lover entered the balcony.

‘JC? Are you awake?’ Thickem asked.

‘I’m afraid so. How was your jog, love?’

‘Fairly uneventful until I came across this.’

Thickem handed his lover a framed photograph. It was a portrait of Jesus from his time spent in Nazareth.

‘I found it at a tag sale,’ Thickem revealed, his voice suspect.

Terrified, Jesus searched for a lie to cover his ass.

‘Uh, fear not, Thickem. It’s merely a Jared Leto headshot.’

‘It’s a portrait of Jesus Christ,’ Thickem replied bluntly.

‘Oh. Well, you could’ve fooled me.’

Jesus erratically tossed the photograph over his shoulder.

‘Can I confess something to you?’ Thickem asked.

‘Of course.’

‘I feel like you’re hiding something. Something big. I’ve told you everything about my life. And yet, I know next to nothing about yours.’

‘Thickem, I’m an open book,’ Jesus replied, equal parts panicked and remorseful. ‘Ask me anything.’

‘Alright. What were your parents like?’

‘Wow. Where to start? My stepfather was a carpenter-’

Thickem’s eyes immediately widened with suspicion.

‘But he didn’t teach me anything!’ Jesus blurted. ‘For example, I couldn’t tell you the first thing about Jerusalem Pine or Mediterranean Cypress.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Small-town girl. Well-meaning. But very lonely. And a HUGE prude.’

‘Are they still alive?’

‘I’m afraid they didn’t make it to the twenty-first century.’

‘Did you ever meet your biological father?’

The Messiah’s mood quickly soured.

‘Here and there. The less said about that egotistical prick, the better.’

‘Well, what about your name? Does ‘JC’ stand for anything?’

‘Obviously,’ Jesus scoffed while sweating bullets. ‘J-J-J… Jerry. Jerry C-C-C… Christ… opher. Christopher! Jerry Christopher.’

‘Jerry Christopher?’

‘Present, professor!’ the Messiah quipped with a raised hand.

‘It sounds like you just made that up.’

‘Why would I do a silly thing like that?’

Jesus laughed nervously and took a large swig of wine.

‘Is that wine?’ Thickem questioned.

‘A glass a day keeps the doctor away.’

‘Huh. I didn’t see any in the cabinet this morning.’

‘Well, I conjured some up while you were jogging-’

Once again, Thickem’s eyes widened with suspicion.

‘From Trader Joe’s, that is,’ Jesus fibbed. ‘It’s not like I magically transformed an ordinary glass of tap water into wine. That would be ludicrous!’

‘Where’s the bottle? Perhaps I’ll pour a glass.’

‘Forgive me, babe. I finished it off like the sinful glutton I am.’

Jesus anxiously tugged at the collar of his robe.

‘Is it hot outside?’ the Messiah inquired. ‘I feel hot.’

‘Well, you are wearing a robe in seventy-degree weather.’

‘That’s because I’m a free-spirited Californian! The ocean is my church, and the surfboard is my altar!’

Jesus threw up a shaka sign for good measure. On his hands were fisting gloves, which he never removed.

‘You realize those fisting gloves clash with the surfer aesthetic,’ Thickem critiqued.

‘It’s crossed my mind from time to time.’

‘Then why don’t you take them off?’

‘Sure, I could take them off. BUT – and hear me out – what if we’re in the mood to get down? After all, we’re both sexually liberated children of-’

The Messiah stopped himself short. Thickem leaned in.

‘Children of whom, JC?’

A wave of guilt crashed over Jesus as he looked into the eyes of his doubtful lover.

‘I can’t keep this up,’ he sighed in defeat. ‘Brace yourself, love.’

Jesus removed his fisting gloves, exposing his stigmata to Thickem. At the sight of his partner’s wounds, Thickem screamed bloody murder and leaped over the balcony. The Messiah chased after his terrified lover as the pair sprinted down the beach.

‘I know this looks bad, but I can explain!’ Jesus shouted mid-chase.

‘What’s there to explain?’ Thickem replied while panting for breath. ‘You’re here for the rapture! I don’t believe this. I’m a gay atheist porn star who’s fucking Jesus Christ!’

‘Don’t be so vulgar, darling! You’re making LOVE to Jesus Christ!’

‘I should’ve listened to my batshit evangelical family when I had the chance! Now I’m headed straight to Hell!’

Jesus finally caught up to Thickem and tackled him to the ground.

‘Will you get a hold of yourself?’ the Messiah pleaded while straddling his lover. ‘I’m not here for the rapture.’

‘Then why are you here?’ Thickem responded, gasping for air.

‘Same as you. To live.’

Perplexed, Thickem brushed Jesus off his body. The pair sat in silence on the shoreline.

‘I need a drink,’ Thickem sighed.

Jesus instinctively retrieved a spare cup from his robe. He quickly gathered some ocean water and turned it into wine. Thickem looked stunned but accepted the cup nonetheless.

‘My life used to be dictated by predestined fate,’ the Messiah began. ‘I was compliant right up until my crucifixion. Amidst the six hours of grueling torture, I realized how miserable I was. How lonely I was. Right then and there, I knew I wanted something different. Something I could call my own. I tried reasoning with God, but he blew smoke up my ass. Now, he expects me to continue his narrative and forgo my own story. Fuck that. I want to live my life my way.’

Overwhelmed, Thickem downed his entire cup of wine in one gulp. He filled the empty cup with ocean water and wordlessly directed it toward Jesus. The Messiah snapped his fingers and instantly converted the ocean water into wine.

‘Gracias,’ Thickem murmured. He proceeded to take another large swig.

‘When we first met, you spoke of your upbringing and how frustrating it was,’ the Messiah continued. ‘Your family wanted you to conform to an ideology that threatened to erase your individuality. But you didn’t let them win; you abandoned the bullshit and carved your path. I always found that inspirational.’

‘But it wasn’t bullshit,’ Thickem sadly pointed out. ‘God is real.’

‘So am I.’

Jesus took his lover by the hand and squeezed it gently. Thickem’s rigid demeanor began to soften.

‘This is a lot to process,’ Thickem admitted. ‘I think it’s admirable that you’re taking control of your life. But aren’t you worried you’ll eventually have to face divine responsibility?’

‘God still bitches about building the universe in six days,’ Jesus quipped. ‘He’s too lazy to follow up with how I’m doing. I’m more worried about his followers. Those psychos will nail me to a cross if I’m not exactly what they want me to be.’

Suddenly, a surfer with a strong resemblance to Jesus emerged from the ocean. As he walked past the couple, Thickem giggled.

‘I’m starting to realize why you came to Malibu,’ he said while performing a shaka sign.

‘Yeah,’ Jesus exhaled in defeat. ‘Do you like the way I look?’

‘Of course! Dark brown locks. Washboard abs. A wild beard. Hung like a horse. What’s not to love?’

‘What about my outfit?’

‘It initially gave off cult leader vibes.’

‘Technically not untrue,’ the Messiah quipped under his breath.

Thickem affectionately rested his head atop the Messiah’s shoulder. He observed the stigmata on his lover’s hands.

‘Say,’ the porn star began. ‘I know a great makeup artist in the industry. I bet they could hide those scars. You wouldn’t have to wear fisting gloves all the time.’

Upon realizing he was in public without his fisting gloves, Jesus quickly concealed his hands in the pockets of his robe.

‘An effective way to hide the truth, I suppose,’ Jesus replied, his voice breaking with each word.

Thickem instinctively reached into the Messiah’s pockets to retrieve his lover’s hidden hands. He gently kissed the wounds, never once flinching.

‘Thank you,’ Jesus lamented. ‘I wish I could own who I am without fear of being crucified.’

‘Honey, you said it yourself. I don’t think the world is ready for a gay, nonconforming Jesus Christ.’

The Messiah gazed across the ocean and nodded sadly.

‘But I am,’ Thickem said with a smile.

Jesus returned his focus to his lover. The pair shared a tender kiss.

‘I love you,’ Jesus replied. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been honest.’

‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor,’ Thickem teased.

Jesus rolled his eyes and embraced his partner.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Torrey Kurtzner is an out-of-work writer and master of self-deprecation. Against the better judgment of his peers, he’s determined to pursue a career within the creative arts, even if it kills him.

Image generated on Magic Studio