(from something that doesn’t exist at the moment)
Sam has just made love to a boy on the beach. A golden, long, and languid boy with lazy lips and hair curled to his shoulders; too long hair, ending in golden tips. A sand-dusted boy, warm to the touch, as though he’d been buried in white sand for a thousand years and had been delicately brushed and uncovered by experts.
Not a boy at all, though. Sam was a boy at that age, elbows, knees and unable to string a sentence together. This was a young man, man enough to smile, man enough to know what he wanted, man enough to pat the sand beside him; and to smile, smile.