The Curse of the Jesus

You see, readers, this all started many moons hence…

I was ambling home late one evening, just minding my own business, since that is always by far the most important thing going.

A sudden chill crept up my spine as I heard a peculiar howl in the distance. Quickly, I hastened my steps and my business-minding. Many fine ladies had kept me out longer than I intended.

Suddenly, out from the shadows leapt… a Jesus!

“Wash your feet?” he asked rapidly, nervously. “Wash your feet?”

“Uh, no… no thanks,” I stammered “I don’t have leprosy.”

This seemed to give the Jesus pause. Still, after some brief yet uncomfortably long eye contact, he looked down at my feet hungrily.

“Thanks—uh, thanks though,” I said and tried to scooch past him unobtrusively on the sidewalk. No sooner had I turned my back on the world’s most famous sandal enthusiast than… he leapt upon me!

I was unused to being jumped upon so savagely by those of the same sex as I, and was knocked to the ground immediately! The Jesus grabbed at my shoes with his holy hands, trying to rip them off! Unwilling to accede to something so gay as another man washing a part of me, I bravely pushed him away, right in the face.

Totally super gay.

“Ow!” shrieked I, masculinely—the Jesus had bit me in the hand with his razor-sharp Jesus-teeth. Stepping up my game, I kicked him right in his holy nuts. He yelped similarly—if somewhat more effeminately—then bounded off back into the shadows again.

Having recovered myself perfectly, I stood up and began to examine my bitten hand, hoping that its breast-grabbing functions would prove little impeded. Much to my surprise, the wound from the Jesus’ teeth had closed itself already. There was no pain and no blood.

“It’s your lucky day, ma’am,” said I to the first hot chick I passed, as I confirmed that I was able to grasp her breast and even tweak her nipple with my injured hand with my typically ample dexterity.

However, I soon realized that not all was unchanged. Night after night, as I lay in my bed among several fine ladies, I had the same dream over and over again—one of being accosted by the Jesus the same as before, but this time acceding to his offer to wash my feet. For the remainder of the dream I would sit contentedly as the Jesus worked my feet over in ladylike fashion, paying special attention to any dirt between the toes and under the toenails. He even used bubbly, soap that smelled like bubblegum.

“No!” I would scream upon awakening, yanking back the covers to look at my feet. They were filthy, every time… just the way I liked them. “You’d never let a man wash your feet for you,” I’d tell myself over and over as I lay in bed, shuddering amongst the babes, “that’s totally super-gay and you’re totally macho.”

I had little idea what lay in store for me, however. But I found out night of the very next full moon.

I woke up the next morning feeling strangely cold, except around the loin. As though my sheets had been removed, except around the loin. I am, of course, used to waking up feeling weird around the loin, but something was different this time…

I nearly screamed when I realized that my sheets had been removed, then turned into… a makeshift loincloth! I wore that and little else. I sprang to the edge of the bed and spotted on the floor… neatly arranged sandals!

Most suspiciously yet, there was none of the usual bevy of busty babes with alliteration fetishes!

I vant you to dvink my blood! Blagh!

As I stood up, I saw that I had left a large wet spot in the sheets. Nervously, I leaned down and sniffed the wet spot. Unsure, I then felt the wet spot, at at last licked the wet spot… Just as I had feared, it left my tongue with a certain acrid taste… it was holy water!

Clothed again, I dashed from my abode in search of some sign, any sign, of what had happened to me the night before. I hadn’t far to dash before I found a trio of familiar ladies—the very same trio who should have been in my bed when I awakened that morning! But instead, they were standing at the street corner where I had first found them… this time, handing out leaflets.

In a panicked frenzy, I turned to the stupid one, asking “What happened here? What—What happened… last night?”

“Last night?” she repeated stupidly as she blinked stupidly with her stupid eyelids. “Oh! Last night! Last night was amaaaazing!”

So far, so typical.

“You convinced us to stop being stupid whores!”

I stood dumbly agape as the stupider one approached.

“ ‘It is a sin in the eyes of you for us to sleep with you,’ you said. You said you were a shepherd and we were a flock, which we figured was just a sex thing, but you told us not to put the costumes on this time!”

“I was gonna be the wolf!” the stupidest of the three volunteered.

“Yes,” said the first and least stupid of the stupids proudly and stupidly, “through you, we learned that our holy holes are sacred things to be reserved only for our eventual husbands and sometimes for pickling our own fingers in the meantime.”

Beware the streets at night... ah-woooooooo!

I collapsed to the ground in shock, lacking even the strength to stand in my typical masculine pose. As I stared at the ground trying not to retch, the last thing I remember was their feet… their perfectly clean feet…

Since then it has been an ongoing nightmare. Each night I dream of watching feet. Each full moon I break free of my usual sexy self to become… a werejesus.

As this decidedly unsexy beast, I roam the streets of the city proselytizing. When I awake the next morning to see the spiritual carnage I have prevented the night before I near as much collapse with sorrow and anguish. These mornings, I continually I find myself clad in a loincloth, or doused in holy water, or bleeding from the hands and feet.

Indeed, I tried to prevent these holy rampages by crucifying myself, but quickly discovered that it hurt a fuck-ton, and decided I would just deal with it.

And so, should you ever find yourself amongst the streets of the city at night when you hear a howl in the distance, beware! If it is a full moon, it may be me, in werejesus form, stalking along to convert your soul! If it is not a full moon, some dumb bitch probably just bit down on me.

In either case… beware!