F is for Fuck

Copulation.

"No one will make love with me again" he said. "No one will ever find me attractive."

"I find you attractive"

I found him attractive. It was not entirely about the visual stimulous, although I was indeed visually stimulated. He had lost a fair chunk of himself to the disease and it was easy to see why he had concerns, but he still dressed smartly, and I saw the lack of skin and bone but I saw his style staring boldly through it all and I was aroused by this.

"Would you make love to me? This may be the last time anyone makes love to me."

I would have made love to him. I could see his point, feel his urgency. I was aroused by him. But there was that promise, that unshakable vow. "I want to but I can't." I wanted to but I could not, and it wasn't a lack of desire. I was desirous. He was, indeed, a beautiful man.

We parted with regrets and a possibility between us which was never again mentioned, but it was in his half-faced smile, it was in my small sigh on parting. I thought of this through tears that threatened to spill out into the silent crowd. I ached for what I could have offered up but didn't.

They were surprised to see me there but happy. He had a way of making friends. So many friends that it would have been impossible to keep track.

I saw him into the ground and my skin felt sad for the touch I could have offered to him but didn't and I wish that I could know that he had indeed made love one last time at least, but I am afraid that he didn't. I am sad that he didn't. I am sad.