You wear the air of the sexually approachable without ever realising that it means you will be approached. Curt looks at you. You look at him, and your eyes hold. Oh child, oh young one, the birds of your youthful dawning have long since chirped their last, the clouds of your discontent yet to brew their storm. This is your day, and it is not a day for thrift-shop trousers no matter how shiny they seem under starlight.
Whatever Curt sees in your eyes, it is enough that he wants to climb out of the darkness behind his own and into yours; that is what your eyes say, come to me, come on me, come on, come on. His fingers are between your waistband and your skin. His gaze is dark as wine, his hair is a veil; he reeks of a smoke-bound frontier that you could never cross before, of burning all bridges, of leather and lust. He might be Curt Wilde, but he does not want to be Curt Wilde tonight, and you're an obliging lad; he can be nothing more than your first given kiss, tender and fumbling and desperate.
His touch could have hurt you, if you had cared to be hurt.
You smile against his cheek, you laugh into his mouth; thin-lipped, you are - and that's got to feel strange for Curt, you're not like what he's used to kissing, that lipstick-stained lushness. You're cheeky, no gamin or androgyne or witful wordy creature descended from some gods and monsters; you're a lad with sparkle in your eyes and all through your hair because you put it there, and Curt's rough, and you tumble, and you're laughing for the bruises, the both of you.
Without a glam-and-clash spotlight, you discover nevertheless how to hold your audience's attention. Bow, Arthur Stuart, and flourish your non-existent triumph of rouge and velvet. On this rooftop, you will wield your sexuality like a sparkling sword, lad, you'll laugh as you slice each coming stone, every word that ever wounded or confused, into dust! - glittering stars! - into shimmering glass shards that spray champagne into the air, this is a celebration! Homosexuality, bisexuality, you don't give a damn what they're going to call you, and you're so proud of you. Arthur Stuart is not like that: you lick your sexuality from Curt Wilde's impossible lips and you, Arthur Stuart, find you needs no more word than that right now, sexuality, no unnecessary prefix or poetry required.
After, you are lying on your back, singing a song that isn't one of Brian's, kicking your heels. Curt listens. An eyelash curls on his cheek, a shooting star up above; such a waste, where there is no immediate need for wishes.
Fill: Stars in Your Pocket Like You Picked Them Up and Put Them There
Whatever Curt sees in your eyes, it is enough that he wants to climb out of the darkness behind his own and into yours; that is what your eyes say, come to me, come on me, come on, come on. His fingers are between your waistband and your skin. His gaze is dark as wine, his hair is a veil; he reeks of a smoke-bound frontier that you could never cross before, of burning all bridges, of leather and lust. He might be Curt Wilde, but he does not want to be Curt Wilde tonight, and you're an obliging lad; he can be nothing more than your first given kiss, tender and fumbling and desperate.
His touch could have hurt you, if you had cared to be hurt.
You smile against his cheek, you laugh into his mouth; thin-lipped, you are - and that's got to feel strange for Curt, you're not like what he's used to kissing, that lipstick-stained lushness. You're cheeky, no gamin or androgyne or witful wordy creature descended from some gods and monsters; you're a lad with sparkle in your eyes and all through your hair because you put it there, and Curt's rough, and you tumble, and you're laughing for the bruises, the both of you.
Without a glam-and-clash spotlight, you discover nevertheless how to hold your audience's attention. Bow, Arthur Stuart, and flourish your non-existent triumph of rouge and velvet. On this rooftop, you will wield your sexuality like a sparkling sword, lad, you'll laugh as you slice each coming stone, every word that ever wounded or confused, into dust! - glittering stars! - into shimmering glass shards that spray champagne into the air, this is a celebration! Homosexuality, bisexuality, you don't give a damn what they're going to call you, and you're so proud of you. Arthur Stuart is not like that: you lick your sexuality from Curt Wilde's impossible lips and you, Arthur Stuart, find you needs no more word than that right now, sexuality, no unnecessary prefix or poetry required.
After, you are lying on your back, singing a song that isn't one of Brian's, kicking your heels. Curt listens. An eyelash curls on his cheek, a shooting star up above; such a waste, where there is no immediate need for wishes.