The Boy with Black Eyes

Nathaniel was not so much a man as he was a muse. From happenstance introduction to romantic intrigue, our relationship blossomed almost as quickly as my infatuation; I was awed by his articulate tongue, inspired by his indefatigable spirit, seduced by his sexual finesse. Yet despite my being completely and wholly enamored, there persisted a nagging fear that something was awry. Occasionally, I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words, feel it in his embrace a darkness. There resided within a sickness for which, as I soon came to discover, no cure existed. In retrospect, I should have gotten away when I had the chance; I should have withdrawn, retreated, disengaged. Instead, I cherished, fantasized, and idealized. I was foolish; I allowed him to break me. What I'm about to reveal is as much erotic as it is endearing, as ruinous as it is reassuring; it's the tale of a me I so dearly miss; an account of tender torture, stifled sadism, graceful guile; it's my memory of the boy with black eyes.