“Loosen up,” said my then-girlfriend.
Lil Wayne blared through the speakers.
“You know I don’t imbibe.”
“Puh-lease.” Hard eye roll.
Later, testosterone crowds parted.
There He was. Red toga. Half His golden face concealed by a white mask.
“Dip, my Son,” He commanded, hand on my head.
He dunked me into the punch bowl. Reluctantly I gulped.
Five wet years have passed—snuck by.
Haven’t seen Him since.
I remain a disciple of thirst. Thirst unquenchable.
I search for my elusive King.
When I find Him, He will know His work.