He snores softly beside me, exhausted.
His pale skin is marked, crimson and black, tawny and gold. There are red rings on his chin. His pale pink nipples are a burlesque rose and still taut. There’s a touch of blue beyond the rose. It suits him.
There’s a tawny arrow on his belly pointing straight at his cock, where it darkens to richest red. His hands are filthy, a ceremonial mix of black and ochre that paints the plain tattoos on his forearm. There’s a smudge under his lower lip from licking my tears.
Even his eyelids are painted.
He’s glad to absorb all the pain and fear, all my years of unspent passion. Gladly, he whispers in my ear when I shiver to pieces on top of him, night after night. Gladly.