Work Text:
Claimer of my apple, the reason for the way of my lips, and the tenderness of my body- evocative and erotic, that was what Darling Damond was. Darling was soft, Darling was an esurient question. Darling was a harvester.
Even when I was a girl, a stupid one, prior the budding, his voice was a cold water to my dirty body. In a stupid way he was the sweetness to my disgusting nudity and falsity of myself. Darling was a protector and I caved into it, bones and all and equally- with his naivety and his voraciousness that came with. He’d bite my fingers, his eye in his mouth, as he watched me with his tongue- loud and languid.
And my roots were soon ingrained into his flower bed, silently calling for his attention- and he in return would examine me.
Even now in our early years of maturity- like yesterday, like always, his name would roll onto my tongue:
“Darling Damond.” Da-rl-ing Day-mond. The syllables taint my tongue every time.
And always, like the yesterdays, he would appear up at my doorstep, as he had for the past ten years- apricating and consuming the sun, no matter what I had done.
Even if I had deformed and changed- and stood as a man at the entrance; he seemed to be entranced all the same.
Visually lambent at that moment, such a photo had become ingrained over the years of our shared youth and friendship- and at times a foolishness within me squeals his name and begs to make love to the image.
To make love to him. Oh, Good Looking Boy!
And for him in return to repeat all the sweet-nothings and the crude jokes of our jejune infancy; and with this excuse I shall then respond with a clawing at his chest and cradling of his face with my lips- watching his mouth that continues to hold eyes, a appetence understanding that was ours- mine.
I amuse in him, letting him consume on me through the tips of his fingers, watching him snarl and chew. Never in a sexual manner however, no; he is too good for me for it to be ever lewdly carnal in the first place.
More so to just kiss his skin and luxuriate within it, to smell his hair once more as if a child again- drowning into him as if I was fruit growing within soil. To be honest, I don’t feel grown.
Eroticness- the word itself wasn’t of sin. The act wasn’t of sin either. For to be erotic is to be passionate, but that never means sexually of course. Why can’t one not be erotic if it isn’t sexual? Such questions swarm my brain when people raise eyebrows at my statements in scorn, or in saccharine. The way I assumed eroticness was to be passionately drawn to one, arms and how they do the holding of you- one’s eyes and how they see you.
Eroticness was what I regarded Darling with.
I feel as if a child given his childhood after a rotting of a bitten apple, the seed of it left untouched. Naked. And stupidly enough I’d gladly be possessed by it daily- I am, enamoured by it daily. Oh, good looking boy!
And constantly, even now as a man; I glance to stare at him all over again in the dirty meadows, all at once he sees me- and all at once I see him.
His body- almost gentle in its beauty I shall bask once more- like the yesterdays we are again five, and I am finally a seed that has been touched, touched by a planter who seeks to see me grow. Darling, he was the one that stopped me from shrivelling away from my radiance long ago. He is both my wants, and my needs.
I see it now, I see it now, I see it now, I see. I loathe not seeing it before, and I was deaf to it, foolish and pratting. But I am here now, and as I gaze at his naked body, clothed yet nude, basking in the sun on my porch, no matter the sins and how egregious they were, no matter what I have done. I see it. A god? A deity? An angel to guide me and protect? No, it was something else, something that of which I argue is far more deserving of one’s devotion.
Darling Daymond. Dai-mond. Darl-ing. Daiy-mon-d.
Singularly alone, it was a name, but typed, and written, and painted and sketched, whatever, it outlined and showed my boy all the same. That something else that was deserving of adoration was him, my Darling. A muse to me, amusing in me. This was it, I could make love to the mere noun of him. Oh, good looking boy. OH, You, you don’t understand! For I can, and I have made love to him, and he has made love to me, in every verb, noun, and memory.
And so with Darling, I shall grow, for love had conquered me whole.