Such thoughts are inappropriate and must be discarded, fervent musings have disturbed the bliss. He turns over; balancing on his forearms and knees he crouches into semi-fetal, head down, hair obscuring his face; long spiraling strands of maple sugar entwined with burnt umber and a few streaks of flat black, ends grazing the fabric bunched in loosely closed fists. A soft curtain to draw, away from my hot looks, expectant and too easily read; offering his back, a hard, less vulnerable alternative. Swallowing my own disappointment at his rejection--once again he kindles my ardor then cruelly abandons. I console myself with the actual picture: Alabaster flesh bent in servility waiting for kiss or blow, it mattered not which; either or both is anticipated. A true revenant.

I reach out and touch his shoulder. He flinches, violent, reflexive; he trembles and lets loose a small sob. Undaunted, I touch again, pressing more firmly, not allowing escape, kneading, caressing, relaxing sinew stretched over rigid bone. I draw close--moving around to his left so the lamp would be opposite and my shadow would not mar the view--my slow, soothing motions not flagging, the x-acto knife firmly held between my teeth.

If he had been generous enough to surrender his chest I could be able to feel his pulse beat; as it is, I study his breathing, watch it slow to a steady, more controlled rhythm and his shoulders release their former cringing posture. My hands seem disjointed, not my own; alien appendages smoothing blank canvas. The left continues its gentle travels from lower back to base of neck; the right takes the knife, rests poised, blade a hairs breadth from penetration. A tiny rivulet of sweat runs down his spine disappearing into the crevice revealed by his slightly gapping trousers.

It is time to begin.