Everything about you is hard. The warrior arms and thighs. The solid planes of your chest, the stark flat belly, all straight lines. A smile reaches your lips. Here there is a curve. Sensuous. I imagine the kiss of a prince, your mouth on mine insistent, your tongue a probe against mine: the first but not last stage of opening me to your will. And still my fingers gently slide, tickling, twisting up and around the shaft. Veins of silver in the moonlight. Ridges of gold for me to find, and touch, and worship.

Slide quietly into shadow. That must be my plan. Instead, and within a month, I will buy The Pearl Garden. I despair, utterly despair of this thread of impetuosity that runs within my nature.

The next boy emerges from the pool like a spirit of the water. Deeply submerged and then slowly rising at my feet. He knows what he is, this boy. Knows he draws the eyes of the whole courtyard as he stands, water cascading from the fine muscle of his chest.

Shaded in black, hidden behind veils, he nevertheless commands all for many miles around. The way he holds himself. The way he walks. I admit it is fear too, fear of what he is.

He follows me to my tent. Fleetingly his hands are on my chest as he reaches down to kiss me. His body is huge as he holds it against mine, his arms strong as they wrap around my shoulders. The hair on his chest is so fine, bleached so golden by the sun that I almost cannot see it.