Worshiping Part 4
I remember, vividly, the feel of a black shirt under my hands. I remember how the material felt as I slid my palms across it, across his chest. Reverently, my fingers sought the buttons. Nervous, I fumbled. He was patient. Starting at his chest, at my hands, my peripheral vision could just make out the gentle smile on his face. A curl of lip, more pronounced for the dark swath of goatee. He didn’t help me. This was my task. This was my honor. One by one, I undid the buttons constraining his chest. Bit by bit, the cloth receded and I could see the skin of him, dusted with hair. Once I’d unbuttoned all, I stood there – unsure if I should reach for his pants, unsure if I should take it upon myself. Again, he read my thoughts, “Go ahead, finish with the shirt.” I reached, hands slightly trembling, to free the shirt tails from his pants. To do so, I reached around him. I drew so close to his chest tha...