Hubert knows he brings shame on himself and on the Lord by being a queer -- his grandad and the pastor of his evangelical church tell him as much all the time. So when he dies in a freak accident, he's as delighted as he is surprised to waltz right through the Pearly Gates, no questions asked. He even gets a beautiful angel named Bartholomew as his very own guide to the Afterlife.
But when the angel makes brazen overtures, Hubert realizes his soul may have taken a wrong turn. Hubert beseeches Bartholomew to keep his hands to himself and help him find his rightful place in the Heaven he's always heard about. As they set out to explore his options, Bartholomew hopes Hubert will learn a thing or two along the way about the deeply personal definitions of Paradise.
Bartholomew had dispatched with his shimmery sheer shorts and was most assuredly standing in Hubert’s bedroom -- the unlikeliest of places, Hubert’s life had taught him -- in stark naked, chicken-house-chested, dazzling-curled glory. If Innocence fell into a rushing river of need on his way home from the gym and then waded ashore, desire dripping off him in rivulets, he’d look almost as irresistible as Bartholomew in that moment, and it took a breathless and distracted Hubert a second to remember his objection. “Wh -- wh -- what are you doing?” he managed to spit out as Bartholomew crept closer to the bed.
Bartholomew stopped, confused. “But I ... I’m just ... Isn’t this what you want? I mean ...” No trace of conceit, merely a reminder: “This is Heaven.”
“Oh no, it ain’t.” Hubert rallied. If there was one thing Reverend Jarvis preached about more than the sin of same-sex simpatico, it was the Glory that awaited the Church members who devoted their lives to railing against it in Paradise. “Reverend Jarvis says Heaven is a magnificent, eternal reward.”
Taken aback, Bartholomew gave his own body an exaggerated visual once-over. He turned slowly to highlight the hills of his behind, ran one hand over the swell of his chest, the other over the flat basin of his broad belly. Having been crafted by hand by no less an artisan than the Creator of the Universe specifically to thrill and delight Hubert, Bartholomew understood that his heavy cock spoke for itself; on behalf of the rest of his painstakingly perfected parts, he said, “Umm ...?” He spread his hands, pulled a face: This ain’t exactly what I’d call a punishment.
But Hubert shook his head vehemently. “That there is temptation and nothing but,” he said, his finger ticking off every part of Bartholomew’s body Hubert would have liked to discover.
“Hubert.” Bartholomew smiled understanding and took two steps closer to the bed. “It’s only ‘temptation’ if you resist it.”
“Oh, I’m resisting it. My mind I couldn’t help it, but I didn’t keep my body pure for twenty-nine years so’s I could die and blow my shot at Paradise with Satan’s finest temptation in the line for the Pearly Gates. You can just put them shorts back on and take that ... that ... that sinner’s Sunday supper you call a body right on out of here.”
Bartholomew couldn’t help but let out a laugh. He didn’t suppose “Satan’s finest temptation” was the worst thing a guy could get called, even if Hubert had seized hold of the wrong end of the stick. Naturally shirts were quite out of the question after an aspiring angel was awarded his wings, but he considered Hubert’s modesty and willed his lower body into a pair of jeans. Bartholomew himself unburdened by such earthly constructs, they were rather exceptionally butt-hugging and snug, but that was up to Hubert to notice or not. Bartholomew backed away from the bed. Hubert stayed on alert. With a dangerously overcrowded planet worth of tormented souls to choose from, Bartholomew had lobbied for this particular gig because he knew he could love Hubert, but if he was really staring down the barrel of an eternity of nothing but ham sandwiches, he wondered if he might not want to keep one eye on the list of transfer opportunities.
“You’re probably tired,” he said. “Dying can sometimes take it out of you. It’s the Bed of your Dreams, Hubert; why don’t you rest in it for a while? I won’t pester you -- I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable; I thought that was what you wanted. But I am your angel -- if you need anything, please ask for it. Otherwise I’ll see you later, huh?”
“Okay,” Hubert squeaked with a nod. He stayed up on his haunches while Bartholomew backed away again, and when the angel closed the door behind him, Hubert kicked off his shoes and wriggled under the whipped cream covers. Obviously he’d wanted Bartholomew in the bed with him; he’d ached for his arms ever since he’d been turned loose from them when they landed. But his Grandad didn’t raise no fool: Hubert knew his wants were evil. He knew he brought shame on The Lord by being scrawny and ugly and queer. He knew -- for Reverend Jarvis and Grandad told him all the time -- that he’d be lucky to warrant the scraps of God’s Grace. He was worried enough that this “Heaven” might be nothing more than a fancified waiting room while they cleared him a place close to the fire downstairs -- how could he risk a kiss with Bartholomew and make that a guarantee?
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