Fragment #29 – My Colossus

Your eyes go from left to right under your closed eyelids. Their long lashes in the sun of the morning. The smoothness of your skin that I don’t even dare to touch, as pure and cold as porcelain. This skin which glows in the moonlit summer nights, this skin which burns in the winter sun. The perfect angle of your nose, your chin I want to take in the cup of my palm. You lips, in the middle, which I caress with my glare. The smoothness and moistness of the pink of theirs! The taste I would feel if I put mine on those, and in a small suction movement, take your breath in me. Your vital breath, taking power onto my lungs. Your forehead I could cover with the smoothest kisses I’ve ever made. And your hair, your long blond hair! I brush my hands through them, feeling their running on my skin, their softness. The nape of your neck, and this soft neck I can take between my hands, as a strangler would do, out of fascination.
My hands go down again, fondling your torso, entwining with your arms, caressing every muscle, pressing every hard part. Oh, the loveliness of your armpits, the softness of your blond body hair! I go on stroking your torso, feeling every muscle of it, rummaging through the hills of your abs, caressing the baby skin of your sides. I feel your hands, playing with every finger, discovering the strokes of their palms, the hardness of their thumbs. I go round your body and fondle your bum, feeling the curves of it, the firmness of your globes and the little rose hidden in their trench.
I go down, caressing your legs, rummaging through the forest of your blond hair, fondling the knee, touching your firm calves. Oh, calves like the ones of ancient Greek statues, made of alabaster! The stone glory of them! The curve of your Achilles’ sinew! And your strong heel, your feet I would bend on. Those feet I’m not even pure enough to wash. Those feet I can do nothing about but bend and kiss!
The purity and chastity of your statue when you’re sleeping, Jonathan! Your entire body made of white alabaster, but blinking, kicking, humming in the morning’s sun. The Idol I can do nothing about but stare, without moving an inch of my body, before You wake up. How hypnotic are your curves!
And the small beast, sleeping in its nest of blond hair. The skinned alive, with its hood of flesh. The monster that can be ten times bigger in his days of Fury. The Idol I bend in front of. It is now calm and sleepy, and I don’t even dare to approach it.
Jonathan opens an eye in the morning sun, and stares at me.
“What are you looking at?”
“I was just watching you sleeping.”
“Oh,” he sighs, “and what did you see?”
“Nothing but Purity,” I lie.
I was obviously thinking: Lust.