My friend Marty and Jesus

My friend Marty drives a silver BMW convertible with a black convertible top. She bought it with a very large bonus she got for saving her company approximately $253,000 by consolidating vendors. It was used when she got it, but it was still a Beemer ragtop, which is something she'd been after since she'd been old enough to want a car.

Marty was short for Martina, which she'd dropped in junior high school because of the sexual proclivities of a certain famous namesake that had dominated women's professional tennis for about a million and a half years. It was ironic, because Marty's life changed the first time she kissed another girl. And it had never changed back. She was not currently with someone, but that was only because her previous relationship had ended poorly and she wasn't quite ready for the risk.

I took Marty to Logan's the other night to meet Jesus. I liked going places with Marty because she typically dressed in form-fitting clothes and had the body for it. She wasn't petite; in fact, she called herself full-bodied. But she wasn't even remotely fat. In fact, she is an absolute knock-out, a body made for something other than saving procurement money for a worldwide insurance company.

Tonight she wore form-fitting jeans and a tight, white t-shirt with an open neck. She looked great and every guy in the place knew it. And every guy in the place looked at me with appropriate reverence. They didn't know that I had as much shot at her as I had at, say, Ingrid Bergman.

Jesus was wearing jeans and a Mike Alstott t-shirt that featured a characture of him with the words "Pound the Rock" on its front. Alstott's arms were bigger than Barry Bonds'...by a lot. He was drinking Coors Lite out of a frosted mug.

"Chris," he said. "Come in. Sit down."

"Jesus," I said, haltingly. I wasn't sure that my Lord and Savior would actually call someone a rugrat, as he had done the day before. "This is my friend Marty."

He stuck his hand out and Marty extended hers, haltingly.

"Chris says that you are Jesus."

"That's my name, yes."

"Marty is a lesbian," I said.

"How nice for her," he said, "and for you."

She smiled at Jesus a little uncomfortably, then at me, with askance.

"Jesus told me He had a problem with my stance on gays."

"So that is why you brought me to meet him?"

"No, I did that...well...okay, I guess so. Yeah."

She glared at me.

"That is why I have a problem with him, you see," Jesus said. "He doesn't hate gays, and wouldn't even hate them if I gave him permission to."

"Well, that's not bad," I said.

"No," he said, "it's not. But how do you feel right now, Marty?"

"Well, I feel a little awkward, I guess."

"Un-huh," he said. "Chris, let me ask you a question. Do you find Marty to be...desireable?"

"Well, I mean, she's my friend and she's a lesbian and..."

"Just answer the question."

"Yeah, she's hot," I said. "I mean, look at her. She's a knockout."

"She is sitting here right now," Marty said. I glanced over at her. She looked irritated at me. And confused by Jesus.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Is that why you brought her here? To show me how tolerant you are?"

"Yeah," she said. "Is that why?"

I sort of shrugged a little and prayed that the bartender would come to ask us what we wanted. Jesus looked at me and shook his head almost inperceptibly.

"Uh, okay. I was an idiot. But I mean,...awww, dammit."

Jesus looked at Marty, then at me.

"Marty are you offended by the fact that he finds you attractive?"

"No. I am flattered by it."

"Does he hold your lesbianism against you?"

"Not at all."

"So why are you irritated with him?" Jesus said.

"Because I am Marty, his lesbian friend, not just Marty his friend," she said.

The bartender came and took our orders. She had Shiraz; I had a Michelob Lite. Jesus passed.

"I have to drive," he said.

She picked up her Shiraz and sipped it.

"Be nice if there was popcorn," she said.

"Jesus doesn't do popcorn," I said. I know; I'd asked the day before at the movies.

She smiled. I was married, but her smile could melt my heart on a regular basis. I realized who I was sitting next to, or thought I was sitting next to, and my melted heart sank. If it hadn't been unseemly, I would have plucked my eye out on the spot.

"Do you understand now why I had a problem?" Jesus asked.

"I think so," I said.

"It has nothing to do with plucking your eye out. Marty has a desirable body and you are wired to notice it. You also understand that you are married and that all you can do is look and you usually stop short of imagining."

Marty looked at me and I looked down. I was beginning to not enjoy Jesus' company.

"Marty, why do you like him?"

"Because he is a person with a soft heart and he tries to do the right thing."

"Why does he like you?"

"I think because he isn't a bigot if he does."

It hurt me when I said that. It hurt me because it hurt her. And it hurt me because it pointed out a place where I was a failure.

"Yeah," Jesus said in response to my unasked question. "That's how Peter felt."