Vignette 1

by Jack Kendle


I imagine I observe you as you sleep.

You lie there, naked. Long lashes flutter so gently over moving orbs. Your breathing is shallow, I can hardly detect a movement in your chest. Lips slightly parted, those lips I would have kissed a thousand, million times; pink, moist cupid-bow lips. Beyond which I glimpse your teeth, pearly, straight, except for that one eye tooth, sharply out of place, which makes your smile lopsided, genuine.

I gaze down at you, following contour of brow, jaw line, chin, throat, neck and shoulder. I imagine the soft curves, smooth and cool to the touch. Through the mass of the tousled blond silkiness of your hair, your ear, shell-like whorls, the lobe not quite detached from the neck, whose milky contour I follow past the crook where your soft shoulder joins; my preferred resting-place for my lips. Your throat, white and smooth, the definition of your Adam’s apple breaking the long deepness. I follow it down past the furrow between your collarbones; a deep cavern where I want to bury a thousand more kisses, inhaling your scent, nuzzling the softness of a throat untouched, as yet, by razor.

There you lie, unknowing, unconscious. Exposed to my longing looking. A tear breaks your image into a thousand splinters before falling on to the sheet by your hand; slender musician’s fingers splayed by your head. I follow the length of your arm, spy the faint traces of blond hairs along the honeyed skin. Leaning close, my breath disturbs the almost invisible blond strands, which, from a distance, give a glow to you as if you had been dipped in a vat of gold dust. I watch as goose bumps appear spontaneously on your forearm at the same time as a small sigh escapes your lips. With my forefinger I gently wipe away a trail of your saliva from the corner of your mouth. Another sigh. Yours or mine? I cannot tell.

My gaze moves to your chest, finely chiselled, each rib faintly visible beneath the pale gold skin. On either side, orioles of dark brown, puffed and raised from the surrounding skin. I scrutinize them, wondering at their complete contrast. What can be their function? No infant will ever suckle there. But I so long to take them in my mouth, run my tongue across their uneven erectile surface, take them lightly between my teeth, hear your sighs and groans.

My eyes roam downwards, over your flat abdomen, creamy white, against which a sparse trail of surprisingly dark and slightly coarse hairs, lead downwards, from your navel; a ‘treasure-trail’ indeed. I have seen your slightly long guitarist’s nails entwine in those hairs and longed to imitate your actions. I stroke the wiry follicles, feeling their resistance, watch them spring back after my fingertip has moved across them.

Downwards, my eyes and finger wander to where the sparse hairs become a bush. Reddish brown, not blonde, hidden, tightly coiled, not straight and silky as your public image. Secret, thick, protecting your hidden parts. The root of your manhood closely surrounded. I gaze in awe and wonder at what makes you a man.

In repose, loosely hanging, resting on milky white thigh, elongated, dark, a longer fold of skin protecting the delicate organ within. Beneath the slightly darker skin, a tracery of thick blue veins. My eyes drink in the sight. Below, hanging loosely in their fleshy sac, ripe and plum like, two orbs, soft and generous. Even as you sleep, I see the organ of your manhood lengthen, harden slightly. What are you dreaming about? I would like to think it is about us. I am fascinated by your nakedness. I look on as your organ engorges, to reveal the glistening flesh within, purple, imperious, pushing through the flap of skin, emerging prouder and prouder as the blood rushes in some primitive response to stimuli either real or dreamt. The two heavy orbs behind seem to churn in their confinement.

I look on, mesmerised as a cobra by a fakir’s pipe.

You sleep on.

A name escapes those sleeping lips.

It is mine.


I wake. Feel the stickiness.

A wet dream? Heavens, at my age???


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