TOUCH THE SCARS

I didn't ask him this time if he was ready. I didn't need to. That was one of the things I loved about Kenta. He may not have been very strong, physically, but he had lots will power, and he was always strong enough to tell me to stop if he wasn't ready to . . . "go to that level". So I continued to touch him, and this time I didn't resist the urge to run my fingers across the cuts and scars on his arms; the little secrets he usually kept hidden under the material of his long sleeved shirts.

I watched him squirm and I couldn't help but smile as I realized it wasn't completely out of nervousness. It felt good to him, and he was probably unsure of what to do about it. His innocence often amazed me because, before I met Kenta, I had no idea that anyone could be so pure. But Kenta was an angel fallen from heaven. He was a miracle, and I cherished him above all else.

The radio played low as we kissed slowly, a soft backdrop that accompanied the feeling growing within our bodies anf hearts. The song that played belonged to a band called The Used and the melody of it fit the slow, gentle atmosphere in my bedroom. I recognized the song as "Yellow and Blue". I'd heard it often and really liked it, but my mind wouldn't focus on those all-too-true lyrics at the moment because the music wasn't important to me then. What mattered to me was the soft moans and whimpers coming from Kenta's throat. The sounds he made as I kissed a trail from his neck down to his bare chest were sweeter to me than any music I'd ever heard.

I realized that Kenta was trusting me to give him what he needed. He had come to me in need of comfort and protection. He was once again using me to hide away from his abusive mother and the memories of his once suicidal older brother. And I didn't mind at all. I'd protect Kenta with my very life . . . because I loved him. The fact that Kenta relied on me for those things gave me an odd sense of purpose. I felt I was the only thing standing between him and death, that I was the only thing that kept him fighting for his life. And that was the only thing in my life at the time that made me feel that I was worth something more than the money in my parents' bank accounts.

My fingers trailed down his chest and stomach and he whimpered again. I leaned closer to him, pressing my lips lightly against his ear, and whispered that I loved him and everything would be OK. I was there for him, to keep him safe and warm and I wouldn't let anything

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