If I was to invite you, I would be gentle and you would be scared, despite so many, however many years of experience with women, and it would be strange to be scared, and that would scare you, and you would be talking to yourself in your head and telling yourself that it was ridiculous to be scared, of what? It made no sense, none, and still… you would be scared. I would like it that you were scared, and would not give you comfort. I would have you stand with your hands behind your head and look you over, walk around you, touching gently, maybe speaking quietly to you about what I am touching, the sleeve of your shirt, your hair, your belt, your cheek. You would find it odd and awkward and maybe a little silly, but you would stand there quietly anyway, letting me look and touch and comment. And maybe you would be prompted to say something into the void to reach out to me, it would slip into the room, fail to seek purchase, drifting awkwardly away when I ignore your words, and slip my fingers under your shirt to touch the skin of your stomach lightly, and maybe you would suck in your breath and close your eyes, and I would tell you to look at me, boy, and you would and I would watch your face while I touched your skin gently and you would watch me watching as I circle you and trail my fingertips over you. A touch, an exploration, a claiming.