by Kirsten Koza
When they were done with the whipping part, the hot guards, now sweaty and jacked-up on testosterone, dragged Jesus out into the audience and kicked him in the kidneys repeatedly. By this point in time, my emotions were all over the place, ranging from disgust at a place that would let little kids watch such violence, to fear over how unfazed the crowd was by this insanity. Then Jesus landed on all fours on the ground in front of me, covered in blood and sweat and so scantily clad I could almost see his junk through that diaper. I soon realized I was, more than anything, unbelievably horny.
But you would be too if you were a single 32-year-old woman who hadn’t had sex, much less been kissed or even touched by a man, in a year and a half. The baby-making organs of a woman in her sexual prime will latch onto anything that seems promising, even the Son of God.
It’s not that I am a celibate prude. Quite the opposite in fact. I was prone to the addictive feast-or-famine approach to life—the one where people like me oftentimes take a good thing too far and turn it into a bad thing. After my last binge a couple years ago, I’d decided to cage the little feline for a while. It’s been pretty easy to abstain…until this Jesus guy showed up.
No wonder I reacted so strongly to Jesus touching me in the cave. Maybe it hadn’t been a spiritual experience at all—just a sexual one. And that tent revival reaction of mine was probably just Jesus jolting awake hormones that’d been on snooze for too long. After the touching incident, the whipping, and now, here in front of me, a sweaty, handsome hippie with the body of a swimmer bent over doggy-style, my inner tiger smelled blood and desperately wanted out of her cage.
There wasn’t much I could do with all this arousal other than continue to watch and take some pictures. Eventually the guards put a thorny crown on his head and made him carry a log, all the while continuing to beat him. I couldn’t believe he just kept taking it like a man, never giving up.
Once he was up on the cross, the guards pounded huge spikes through his hands and feet. (The special effects at Holy Land were some of the best I’ve ever seen, by the way.) They let the poor guy hang up there for quite a while, which was kind of boring to watch until one guard gave him a sponge bath and another speared Jesus in the gut. I must say, even nailed to a cross, the guy looked hot. And that six-pack! I’ve never been a fan of buff guys, but Jesus had one of those lean-yet-toned figures I always fell for. Sure, I felt bad staring at him “that way” while the people around me cried, but I couldn’t help it. This was the first near-naked man I’d been around in ages.
I’m sure you know what happened next. He died. The guards took a hammer to his hands and feet to get the nails out, lowered his perfect body down from the cross, then wrapped him in a white sheet and carried him through the crowd down to a tomb. Satan made a victory speech, and again, the crowd booed.
After the tomb exploded, Jesus appeared again, only this time he had a wardrobe change. All cleaned-up now, he wore a white flowing nightgown, gave another speech, thanked his dad, then held up a set of enormous golden keys in front of the crowd. Anyone who wanted keys to his place, he said, they were there for the taking. Hells yeah I wanted keys to his place! If only he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.
All of a sudden, a bunch of angels dressed in white-and-gold disco outfits gathered around him and started twirling, like dancers at a Grateful Dead show. Their gold, sparkly wings fluttered and made cool designs, a visual routine that would have blown the mind of anyone on acid.
We were told to follow the angels to heaven, so all 2,000 of us walked about 50 yards away to a gold-and-white amphitheater, where we were met by even more dancing angels. After about ten minutes, Jesus finally showed up, casually late to his own party, only now he wore a non-thorny crown and a king’s robe. As he walked down the aisles, people held their right hands up and screamed “Praise Jesus!” again and again.
Not only was the train of his robe longer than Princess Diana’s wedding gown, but he had the aura of a real king. While I’ve never actually dated a guy with money, I’m still just as much of a sucker as any woman for a handsome man with power and loads of cash. And don’t forget fame. He wasn’t just the most popular man at Holy Land; he was the most famous person in the world. Even more so than Brad Pitt.
Satan made one more appearance, but Jesus had the upper hand now. He threw Satan on the ground by pointing his staff at him and using his superpowers. Two disco angels picked Satan up off the ground and lassoed him with a gold rope before escorting him out of Heaven, once and for all.
As the crowd continued to cheer, and Jesus reveled in his glory, I started to wonder if maybe I had a shot at hooking up with him after the show. I mean, I was on vacation and that was usually the only time I ever hooked up with cute guys. Even though I wasn’t the prettiest woman at Holy Land, the odds were definitely in my favor. There was absolutely no competition—most good, Christian women wouldn’t even consider banging the Holy Spirit. And certainly not in the backseat of a car or in a public restroom like me.
After the show was over, I went looking for Hot Jesus, but he was nowhere to be found. I was willing at this point to even settle for one of the hot Roman guards, but they must have made a dash for the green room too. After wandering around, looking for any guy in a costume, I finally gave up on Holy Land and left. Defeated.
Back in NYC, I started noticing a dramatic change in my body. I’d be on a crowded subway or waiting in an hour-long line at Trader Joe’s when, all of a sudden, I’d have that knee-buckling experience if a man so much as brushed up against me. These were not good-looking men, or men I’d even consider hooking up with. They were still men though, and I was a single, horny woman in her thirties who still hadn’t been touched by anyone in almost two years, except for Jesus of course. Being a hormonal landmine of sorts, I knew I needed to do something.
One day, as if by divine intervention, a kid next to me on the subway grabbed my leg. For the entire subway ride he made sure he always had a hand on someone, if not me or his mom, then another adult close by. It occurred to me at that moment that perhaps I wasn’t a horn-ball or a sex-crazed psycho, but rather a human being who just needed to be touched. The need to have physical contact with another human being doesn’t go away just because we grow into adults. In fact, once I thought about it, I bet half the men I’d hooked up with in the past had been out of a dire need be hugged.
I knew then and there that I had to find another way to survive in such a dark, lonely city like New York, lest I settle for a boyfriend who’s bad for me. So thanks to Jesus, I do what I think any smart single woman ought to do. I pay someone to touch me. Twice a month, I treat myself to a massage. Until, that is, I meet a guy as nice and cute as Hot Jesus.
Melanie Hamlett is a writer, comedian, adventurer, and three-time Moth Storyslam winner who’s based out of Los Angeles, New Mexico, and New York City, when she’s not sleeping on couches or in a tent around the world, or in her truck traveling across America. She’s been featured in multiple podcasts, including the Risk! podcast five times, has been published in Marie Claire, Nerve.com, and the book Leave the Lipstick, Take the Iguana (in which this story first appeared). She can be seen performing all over New York City and Los Angeles at places like The Upright Citizens Brigade and The Moth. She’s also a frequent monologist for the hit show, Assscat. She tells picture-stories about her travels as a wandering narcoleptic at melaniehamlett.com. She’s represented by literary agent, Scott Mendel.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU TO MY COVER MODELS IN WADI RUM, JORDAN: Chela Lewis, Mike Quigley, Christopher Campbell, Beth Mercer, Samantha Sarafinchan, Leslie Belson, David Zundel, and Gabrielle Broche. And thanks to the readers and experts who answered my incessant questions: Stephen Dennis, Kevin Wrycraft, Snad, Malc, Rigel, Mechelle & Dave Mosher, Michelle Campbell, Doug Milburn, Kimmy Beach and the Dr. of grammar—Gary Buslik. Dear Lavinia Spalding: forward dirty stories my way anytime, and thanks for the ones you flushed my way for this. Thank you to Tr
avelers’ Tales, especially James and Sean O’Reilly (see Introduction). Also thanks to my Facebook friends for answering my various surveys about how you read anthologies and how to choose a penis gourd.
“Kap’n Cy” by Gary Buslik published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Gary Buslik.
“You Go in the Morning, I Go at Night” by Emma Thieme published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Emma Thieme.
“The Wind that Shakes the Barley” by Johanna Gohman published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Johanna Gohmann.
“If Pigs Could Fly” by Meghan Ward published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Meghan Ward.
“When the Empire Strikes Back” by Paula Lee published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Paula Lee.
“Costa Rican Red and a Golden Shower” by Beth Mercer published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Beth Mercer.
“A Real Good Deal” by Dana Talusani published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Dana Talusani.
“The Battle of Waterkloof” by Gerald Yeung published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Gerald Yeung.
“Cold London Summer” by Nigel Roth published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Nigel Roth. .
“Going Feral in Filoha” by Vanessa Van Doren published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Vanessa Van Doren.
“Because It Was a Sunday” by Reda Wigle published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Reda Wigle.
“The Chocolate Egg Bomber” by Elizabeth Tasker published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Tasker.
“Friendly Skies” by Gazelle Paulo published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Gazelle Paulo.
“The Córdoban Crap” by Shannon Bradford published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Shannon Bradford.
“My Night in a Shipping Container” by Dave Fox published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Dave Fox.
“A Bad Day” by Jon Penfold published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Jon Penfold.
“The Holy Grail” by Spud Hilton published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Spud Hilton.
“The Spittle Express” by Scott Morley published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Scott Morley.
“’Allo! ’allo, ’allo, ’ahhhhhllo!” by Katka Lapelosová published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Katka Lapelosová.
“A Bed of Fists” by Keph Senett published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Keph Senett.
“The Big Forehead of Newfoundland” by Dawn Matheson published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Dawn Matheson.
“A Real Piece of Americana” by Sarah Enelow published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Enelow.
“The Bone Breaker” by Kasha Rigby published with permission from the author. Copyright. © 2015 by Kasha Rigby.
“A Tale of Two Toilets” by Leanne Shirtliffe published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Leanne Shirtliffe.
“Spanking It in the South Pacific” by Tom Gates published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Tom Gates.
“Biannual Belgian Blowout” by Kimberley Lovato published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Kimberley Lovato.
“What I Did in the Doll House” by Sean O’Reilly published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Sean O’Reilly.
“Love in a Black Jeep Wrangler” by Kyle Keyser published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Kyle Keyser.
“Africa à la Carte” by Jill Paris published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Jill Paris.
“Postcard from Kenya” by Andrew Schwartz published with permission from the author. Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Schwartz.
“I Had a Passion for the Christ” by Melanie Hamlett originally appeared in Leave the Lipstick, Take the Iguana, edited by Marcy Gordon. Reprinted with permission of the author. Copyright © 2012 by Melanie Hamlett.
About the Editor
KIRSTEN KOZA IS A HUMORIST, JOURNALIST, ADVENTURER, expedition organizer, and the author of Lost in Moscow: A Brat in the USSR. She’s a contributor to Travelers’ Tales anthologies, and her stories “Chasing Tornadoes” and “Mare’s Milk, Mountain Bikes, Meteors & Mammaries; a Nipply Night in Nomad’s Land” are in The Best Women’s Travel Writing, volumes 8 and 9. And her misadventure “Easter Island: The Chilean with the Brazilian” is in Leave the Lipstick, Take the Iguana.
She’s a journalist at TheBlot Magazine (Wall St., New York) and covers topics such as cannibalism, bullfighting, dildos, Putin, gluten, twisted travel, tropical diseases, gross food, and outrageous world politics.
Kirsten also leads writing, photography, and eating expeditions around the world for Writers’ Expeditions (www.kirstenkoza.com). She received a B.A. in Theater from Dalhousie University (Canada) and completed the Post Grad program at East 15 Acting School (London, England).
Notes from the first story, Kap’n Ci by Gary Buslik
1 “Catsup!” shouted Uncle Hans, goose stepping.
2 Which is not to say that you have to walk even that far to drop in on one of the city’s myriad sex shops, which, be honest, is why you’re really here.
3 My Uncle Irv once got his arm caught in a curb sewer while trying to retrieve a Flomax.
4 The Dutch naval hero Maarten van Zoot Jansse Tromp (no relation to The Donald) was affectionately nicknamed “Kapitein Cyclops” after his 1587 victory over the Spanish forces (softening the so-called Invincible Armada for its imminent defeat by Sir Francis Drake), in which van Tromp lost an eye during his decisive maneuver of wrapping his ship’s bowsprit with an explosive charge and ramming it up the stern of Admiral Diego de Bobadilla’s flagship, São Filipe, blowing the galleon’s and the Catholic’s aftcastles to kingdom come.
5 Dutch for “How do you do.”
6 German for “Nine one one.”
7 10mg. and 20mg. tablets, 30 bucks apiece. Where’s Obama when you need him?
8 Phebe in As You Like It (III, v, 82). These muthafuckas had boned up on their Bard.
9 Not for sprinkling on his matzo, I assume.