The Missing Sex Scene-We Three Kings

This is seriously blasphemous, so if you are sensitive to that sort of thing, don't read this.

Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.

He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.

“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.

Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.

Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.

Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.

Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.

That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.

Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.

Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.

“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”

The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”



Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.

When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.

In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.

The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.

The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.

His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.

“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”

He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.

“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.

The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.

The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.

“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.

And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,

“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”