Memory
In my mind, I suddenly see a beautiful figure as I enter my room. 5'11, blone haired, sheared to an inch or so, lying haplessly upon my bedding. His innocent face is still boyish except for the hint of stubble on his chin. He is All-American.
Under a blue, loose-fitting tee, his chest isn't chiseled, but hints at a six-pack that could be. Nipples, unerect in a dreamful sleep.
His hand, squareish, lays crooked across his stomach, his other bent at the elbow lays open-palmed near his angelic face.
His jeans undoubtedly sheath box-briefs as less 'boy' that tighty-whities and more hip than his dad's boxers. It's the statement they make that inspires him to pull em' from the Wal-Mart shelves.
The jeans are relatively new. Hi parents never let him wear them ripped and that has transferred over into his young manhood. The hems are tattered, the style being to wear them too long. He's stepped on them repeatedly w/ his Birk's.
His jaw is set, keeping his mouth slightly open. His face is relaxed, the light from the closet darkening his slight, almost non-existent tan.
He is a vision of amazing.
My mind recounts the times those lips have been upon mine. How his hands have traveled down, seemingly at their own volition. Not calloused, but not totally soft. His future experience will teach him to turn gentle and feather-light his touch, but it's a skill he has yet to learn. Passion and heat still consume him too quickly.
I think of the times my hands have traced his smooth, perfect back, felt corded muscles contract and relax w/ each movement. How his ice-blue eyes have caught mine, held them and then squeezed tight as we moved together and the world fell away.
I think I am unworthy of this creature's love. I feel suddenly old and dirty. Perverted for wanting something so marvelous. Thinking I deserved it. He flickers from my mind, reappears. I feel cold until I settle behind him, hear his breath and feel his heartbeat and fall asleep. My lover in my arms. When I awaken, I'm cold, alone and no less dirty. I miss you.
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