Archives for November 2008
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I know that sooner or later I must write this all down. He is
growing up, my first memories of the boy are less certain now, the
details grow hazy every passing day. This morning, as I lay back
in the pillows I decided to begin. The story that follows is based
upon what I have discovered myself, from what Rafael has told me,
and from what can be reasonably supposed about his life before I
came to know him. The story is a long one, it’s a story that is sad
but one which needs to be told. Too many people don’t understand,
or don’t want to understand. This morning I picked up a writing pad
and began to write. This is the story of another way to live, of a
boy who discovered that he could play in the major leagues. Most
of the names of people, the clinic, and the institution where
Rafael lived have been changed, though the protection I have given
them is undeserved in all but one case.
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I decided, as I looked at him, that he is incredibly beautiful
and I gently brush the smooth satin skin with my hand. I have
watched people’s heads turn and look at him when we are out
together. I have seen men and women stare at the beautiful boy and
I sense that they are attracted, enamored of the boy with the lithe
graceful body. I know they wonder whether I am his father or merely
a friend. The boy feels deliciously warm and his body seems to glow
with energy and life. His skin is perfectly smooth with the silky
oiliness of a child, a dry warmth emanating from a lustrous brown
body.
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This morning I awoke slowly, becoming gradually aware of the
boy lying beside me, his arm draped casually over my chest, his leg
over my legs, his face pressed against my shoulder, his cheek hot
against my skin. His breath was moist against my skin as his chest
moved rhythmically though barely visible unless I looked closely.
He stirred, his body pressing closer, a slight tremble passing
through him like a little quiver and then he settled down again,
back to sleep, his body unmoving.
For a long while I looked at the boy lovingly, his dark hair
glistening in the early morning light as it filtered though the
trees outside the window, steadily getting lighter as morning came.
The boy’s hair is the color of dark mahogany, not black, but a rich
dark brown. His hair is long and slightly curly and it lay tousled
on the white pillow and over my shoulder. It is soft like silk but
it has a surprising amount of body in it. His eyes were closed, his
eyelids almost translucent, his eyebrows long and thin, almost
feminine. The boy’s lips are pale and full and they are open
slightly, revealing perfectly shaped white teeth. His skin is much
darker than mine, a golden-bronze from head to toe, not even a shade
lighter at his thighs and hips because for the last two months he
has spent almost every afternoon in the nude. He tans beautifully
but he has the advantage of his heritage. His rich dark tan comes
from our two months together on Phaenon. I should explain that
Phaenon is our 34 foot yacht. Built in Canada in 1990 and engineered
to one of the highest standards in the world, the boat is something
Rafael and I treasure for the wonderful times that we have shared
aboard it. This summer we spent two and a half glorious months
cruising down the Inter-coastal Waterway to Florida, and then
across to the Bahamas and the other islands of the Caribbean. We
returned only two days ago.