He reminds me of Jesus

His face reminds me of John Frusciante, of Nathan Followill, and of Jesus. Yes, Jesus, and anyone who has known me in any meaningful way over the past fifteen years or so knows I'm kind of in love with the dude. Not the pasty blue-eyed near to blonde Jesus who seems primed to star in some 70s soft-focus porn excursion with a curvaceous, afroed, Nubian goddess (or just a rock opera primed for vocal histrionics), but the more mildly Semitic brand who is a bit wild-eyed and commanding. My Jesus. The one I read about in historical studies and apocryphal texts, the one that used Salome to get John the Baptist's head, who loves Mary Magdalene and wishes her to carry on his teachings, the one that, in a poem by me at age 20, licks my cunt and loves it, whispering between my legs that I had been his thirst all along.

But, that might make it sound as if I've put this man on a pedestal. To the contrary; instead, I find the comparison makes him even more meaty and earthy to the Sarah brain. He has, this man, already demonstrated nuanced humanity. He is strong, but vulnerable. Admirably intelligent, but not intimidating. He listens at length, but also speaks at length. He remembers names, the myriad names I rattle off in any conversation, and he's got them logged and annotated with the appropriate information. He tells tales of his life and puts me into his heart with them when he talks; it is not a distant, removed story he is telling me, it is His Life. When he touches me, he makes me shudder and convulse in the most electric way. Literally, it is as if I feel currents running through me as he strokes my skin. His mouth, when on mine, or upon any other place on my body, makes me remember that sex and sexual intimacy are direct lines to the Godhead.

When he's nervous, or feels out of place, he holds his hand to his mouth, his fingers fluttering against his lips. When he's upset, he rubs his forehead, causing a punk-rock formation of his quite perfectly formed eyebrows, hairs standing tall, at defiant attention. When he looks at me, his expression drifts from something like lovestruck to stricken in the span of seconds. I am afraid of him but not afraid. My fear seems conceptual, seeming to be more that now that I am again aware that love and tender feelings are not beyond me, it would just be silly to do something stupid and lose track of such a worthy human being to explore.

And perhaps I have. I told him I loved him last night. You know, prime third date material. I mean it, however, and I do not regret it. I've pondered this all day. Better to have loved and lost? The eternal question (but not as hard to answer as beaten in vs. sexed in, in my opinion). He did some hearty freaking last night after these words passed my lips. I talked him down from the ledge, but I know what things the brain does in the hours after. I have, in the hours since I dropped him at home this afternoon, come to accept that I may have been too much. But, in an unusual twist, the fact that I've been made aware again that I can feel this way, and maybe even better that there are amazing, beautiful, gritty, sexy, potent people who can make me feel this way, then maybe it's not so bad to have acted on my feelings. That being said, I hope I've not been too much. He is one to fight for.