Will you be my Verlaine? - 1. Chapter 1

You are there in the morning, like a dagger still sunk into an open wound, your arms around me. I feel your faded heat, tepid now, drained of its violent passion like a lanced boil. Smells rise from beneath the blankets, scents of activities you desired the moment you saw me seated at my desk, my scribbled notebooks placed under the shadow of the irregular verbs table pinned to the wall.

What will they say if they open the door and find us entwined together like puppies, our naked sin on display, my until yesterday undiscovered nether odours lingering on your breath? Does it matter? Your hands have changed me, torn me from my adolescent chrysalis. Your nails, sharpened by desire, sunk beneath my skin, tearing flesh in search of the sinewy wings of pleasure only you knew lurked there. You found them ready to carry me far beyond the pale nocturnal self-pleasures that until then had been the extent of my knowledge of the delights of the flesh.

A shudder runs through you, and your grip on me tightens. I want more, but for now I will lie here, warmed by your embrace, your soft, coiled virility dozing against my lower cheeks. Desire returns as I clench and unclench, the way I did last night lying on my back, your face framed by my skinny knees. The pleasure furnished by my youthful body is clear in your widened eyes, the twirl of wrinkles running down your nose and the blasts of hot of air that poured from your lips when you leaned in to kiss my cheek.

We spent the afternoon in close proximity, breathing the same air, our knees bumping from time to time. You took me into the world of rebellious poets, wild and passionate. You gave me access to the untranslated words of geniuses and my heart. You told me of their passion for each other, their desires that pushed everything else aside, leaving no space for anyone else. And pretty soon I found myself longing for the same. Every time our knees touched under the table or our hands collided in the small working space, I imagined you following it up with a kiss.

When you slipped out to the bathroom, I wrote a note and slipped it in your jacket pocket.

'Will you be my Verlaine? If so, come tonight- I'll be waiting.'

After you left, I had no idea if you found it. All I knew was you had left me a note too- instructions for homework scribbled in the corner of my paper. 'Verlaine + Rimbaud, compare and contrast.' I will keep those words forever, like an academic love note in an admirer's scrawl.

So when you rapped at my window last night, dragging me from bed where I half-slumbered, 'A season in Hell' spread open on my chest, I knew you had found my note. I opened the window. Your wind-whipped hair looked like a halo as you clambered over the windowsill.

Awkward as strangers in a stuck lift, we stood staring at one another, you in your jacket and shirt with unbuttoned collar, me in my pyjamas. Slowly, we moved closer together until I could smell the alcohol on your breath.

"You're the same age as Rimbaud when he took the train to Paris with Verlaine's money," you said, taking my hand. "I am much younger than Verlaine when he bowed to the altar of his desires but what does that matter?”

You kissed me then, and I let myself fall against you, your yearnings as evident as mine . You stripped me of my clothing and then stripped me of my innocence, our passion muffled in the darkness. Nerve endings I had never known about thrust their fiery heads to the surface of my skin, woken by your silky fingers and roaming tongue. I let you into me in every way, lay myself open for your pleasure, and bathed in your kisses.

When we finished, we clung to one another, your spent desire pooling out from between my buttocks while mine settled across our bodies like a thick mist. We snoozed, our faces touching, your hands around mine. Then desire returned, thick and wooden, and we started again, slower and more gently, but no less passionate until spent, we fell asleep.

I can hear noises down the hallway, the morning chorus of sleep-sodden greetings, the hiss of the coffee machine and the hum of an electric razor. If I don't get up soon, they will come in and discover us. I twist free from your arms, kiss your cheek, and clamber over you.

"You have to go," I whisper in your ear. "I have class."

You moan and mumble, and then your eyes open. You smile and kiss me.

"Out the window, my love," I murmur, and you nod.

We find our clothes piece by piece where we flung them, and you let me dress you. I need a wash, however, and so remain bare.

"You are my Rimbaud," he says, as I pull back the curtains.

"You are my Verlaine," I reply, as he opens the window and slips out into the quiet garden.

I close the window, then take a towel from the cupboard, open the door, and walk to the bathroom. As steam fills the room, I close my eyes, savouring your smells one last time. Then I step under the hot stream and let the water run over the invisible scars of your touches and kisses, the remnants of our tryst flowing across my chest, over my groin and down my legs- down, down, down.