Date: Fri, 17 Aug 2007 15:16:22 +1200 (NZST)
From: Nick Cramer <antinous48@yahoo.co.nz>
Subject: Aaron: a prose poem daydream

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 ...