BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 12

TUESDAY
05 NOVEMBER, 1996
ISAIAH

               Dorian pulls me flush against him. The strength of his arms is foreign but it builds a secure cradle I wouldn't mind getting used to. Whether due to anaemia or his touch, flutters tickle my knees; if he lets go, I might collapse.

He doesn't seem to intend to let go. All he does is pull me closer.

It's counterintuitive, but Dorian becomes more confident when he's naked. He was always most himself at night, dressed in nothing but boxers, like he sheds timidity along with his clothes. That hasn't changed — in fact, he's more bold than ever before.

I'm dizzy when I pull away from the kiss, craning my neck so the rest of our bodies can stay in touch. 'Are you sure about this?'

'Yes.'

A smile tugs at my lips. 'Me too.'

We have to postpone touching long enough to spread the towel on the bed. I only have two pillows but I allow Dorian to arrange them as he likes.

I still ask. 'Are you comfortable?'

'Yes.'

Nodding, I settle onto my heels between his legs and lose myself in the sight. The orange glow falls like honey on his dark skin, skin as brown as the most arable soil that nourishes the most abundant of apple trees, and within a second, I re-live every Rosh Hashana we spent together. When I kiss his chest now, I'm also seventeen and sixteen and fifteen, sharing honey-dipped apple wedges with him, still fully enchanted that youth will last forever.

His abdomen is firm to the touch. I've never considered myself "into" muscle, but when his shiver under my fingertips, I couldn't imagine anything more attractive. There's nothing violent about muscle on Dorian. They don't say I can snap you in half if I want to, but I won't get tired even if I have to carry you up five flights of stairs.

Though his body is unrecognisable, his skin is exactly as smooth as I remember. There are only two scars on him: one on his left thumb from a slipped knife when cutting an apple, and another on his knee from the time I dared him to climb an oak by the river and he fell. We were eight then.

I apologized with tears in my eyes and Dorian just beamed. 'I'll treasure it forever.'

Do you still?

I kiss the scar on his finger first, then his knee, which I use as a starting point to travel his thigh. His skin becomes progressively softer and more sensitive until his legs attempt to clamp shut. I grin into the flesh centimetres from his groin and, latching my eyes onto his, I graze the skin with my teeth.

Dorian jerks. His breath braids "God" with "Shay" and the two become interchangeable on his tongue.

'Don't do that.'

I pull back with a blink of feigned innocence. 'You ain't like it no more?'

'Like it?' he repeats. 'It'll ruin everything else.'

I settle onto my stomach. 'I don't think it will,' I sing as I trace my hand down, allow him to welcome relief only to retreat. With a huff that means fine, I'll do it myself, Dorian wraps his fingers around his shaft only for me to pry them off. 'No. I want to make you come.'

'Touch me then.'

'I am touching you–'

'Please.'

I pry my wallet from my jeans pocket and fetch a small lube packet, the kind of plastic pouch that you get condiments in with your takeaway. Ripping it with my teeth, I squeeze it into my hand and spread it over him. Dorian writhes at every brush against his perineum, whines flowing into each other.