Aaron: a prose poem daydream
Comments to Nick at antinous48@yahoo.co.nz.
This piece is fictional and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of of Aaron Carter or any personal knowledge about his private life. ______
'Keep it short! Keep it quick!'
No, Aaron won't oblige. If that's what you want, choose another idol. Choose Aaron if you wan't a guy that's tall, not short. Choose Aaron if you want to take things slow. Choose Aaron if you want it all to last a long time ...
Aaron is wearing jeans and trainers and a smart short-sleeved shirt, white with a narrow stripes. It flops outside his jeans, the bottom button undone. And the top two buttons -- they are undone too. Around his neck is a necklace of beads and a chain with small medallion.
You look at Aaron's chest first -- as much of it as his shirt reveals. You touch the hollow below his Adam's apple, between his collar bones. But you remember you are taking things slow. So now you put your hands on his shoulders, feeling their firmness through the fabric of his shirt.
You look into his face. His sleepy eyes quicken. You keep on looking. There is a smile on his face now.
His neck is long and strong. Inside his shirt collar your fingertips explore its outline and its smoothness. (So much to investigate! But there's no hurry, no hurry at all.)
'Aaah ...': he sighs, feeling your light touch. His chin lifts, his eyelids flicker. Still there's no hurry. You feel his throat. You pause at his Adam's apple. Then up again, slowly. You feel soft bristles and a firm jaw.
He lowers his head: his cheeky smile encourages your slow explorations. Your left hand ventures to the back of his neck. Its reward is electric: his hair, silky yet spiky-tipped, against your fingers.
As for your right hand -- just lightly, its fingers trace the line of his jaw, from his rounded chin to just below his ear. Where your fingers come to rest, they enjoy many sensations: the hard jawbone, the soft earlobe, the firm muscles of his neck, the tiny hairs on his taut skin.
He feels you feeling him. He swallows. A muscle moves in his cheek. He is serious again, gazing into your eyes. He inhales deeply, nostrils widening. Then he breaths out, long and slow, through parted lips. You smell his breath, slightly sweet. You aware for the first time of his hands, lightly clasping your waist.
You notice a tiny diagonal scar at the bridge of his nose. The tip of your left index finger explores it. He submits, smiling, as your finger travels slowly down the right side of his nose. It comes to rest in the middle of his upper lip, in that perfect half-moon hollow. He smiles more broadly and the tip of his tongue licks your finger. You laugh and, with the back of your bent fingers, caress his right cheek. He breathes in sharply and presses his cheek against your hand, then half-turns his head so that his lips brush your knuckles.
His hands grip your waist more firmly now. Through your shirt you feel his fingers, gentle but insistent, squeezing. You look down. Your hands stroke his upper arms, first the back, then the front. Your touch does homage to the muscles under his skin. You feel the contours of his biceps. They are relaxed -- until he provides a demonstration of their power: he raises his right arm and clenches his fist. A solid mound of muscle stretches tight the sleeve of his shirt.
Now suddenly he is poised to fight. His voice is hard: 'Friend or foe?' he snaps. Your heart beats faster. He glowers, his forehead lowered, his parted lips protruding in a fierce pout. In front of you is a young superhero, his tense body geared for action, his arms and hands ready to attack or to repel attack. How can beauty be transformed into a personification of challenge, of threat, of danger? Aaron shows how it can be done. A blond whirlwind of wiry strength and lithe athleticism: provoke him if you dare!
Then he relaxes, laughing, tossing his head back. 'Don't worry, I know you're a friend!' You feel his arms around you again, this time hugging you close to him. You feel his right cheek, this time not with your knuckles but with your own cheek. Your hand touches the back of his neck again, then explores downwards. Through the fabric of his shirt, you feel his shoulder blades, the hidden muscles of his broad back, the curve of his spine. Then your hand travels up again from his waistband. This time it burrows under his shirt, stretching it tight. Aaron grins mischievously, his forehead pressed against yours as, with clumsy impatient glee, your other hand struggles with the remaining buttons. But at last the crisp fabric of his shirt falls completely open. At last, as Aaron clasps your waist, your fingers savor his whole magnificent torso and the delicious contrasts that it offers: the hard bone and hard muscles underneath, but on the surface such satiny smoothness ...
Aaron smiles and sighs, his lips parted and his eyes half-closed, as if mesmerized by your touch. Then his arm muscles again demonstrate their power: they squeeze your body against his, tenderly but inexorably.
Are you strong enough to push Aaron away? No. But anyway, do you want to push him away? No!! This commanding, insistent embrace ... when have you ever felt so protected? You feel on your back the strong hands of the young singer-athlete, stroking, caressing, gentle but firm. All is in slow motion (oh so slow ...!). You remember, gratefully: 'Choose Aaron if you want it all to last a long time ...'
A long time later (or at least it seems so), Aaron drops his arms and stands back. You see him full-length, standing tall and proud. You knew already that he was an awe-inspiring young man, but seeing him now -- it is as if your eyes have been waiting for this sight all your life.
'Say, we ... I mean, you and I ... would you like me to stick around, huh?' he asks. He is smiling but anxious.
'Oh, man,' you say, 'need you ask? YES!' You reach out and run your hand through his blond hair.
'Yeeehaaa!' Aaron yells, leaping into the air, his face radiant, brandishing both fists above his head. His whole body expresses triumphant jubilation. Back on terra firma, he stands for a moment with hands on hips, surveying you with a happy, dopey grin. Then he come closer and rests his forearms on your shoulders. His smiling brown eyes gaze straight into yours. 'So we've got all the time in the world! What more could two guys want?' And, clasping your face between his hands, the slightly scuffed angel (as someone once called him) draws you closer again ...