He lies on gray sheets, a black pillow under his chest, his hair tousled. His eyes, staring at vacant space, are filled with the marvel of intense pleasure recently experienced and now slowly fading. His right leg lies extended to one side, knee bent. The crescent line between his buttocks curves down to his scrotum that, flattened on the mattress beneath him, outlines each tender oval encased within. His belly, tight and flat when he stands, protrudes as a gentle roundness, for his whole being is relaxed. Imagination supplies the rise and fall of his breath.

After making love in the morning light, I stayed inside him, tapering my kisses and caresses till the hardness filling him had withered to a flopping dangle. Then I withdrew, and he gasped when my now pliant knob passed through the ring that gripped it.

I went to rinse the slime from my genitals and empty a bursting bladder. When I returned, he lay in the same position as when I left him. He hadn’t moved, not so much as a toe. That’s when I snapped the picture.

If I had lain any longer on top of him, the sweat that welded our bodies together would have made us both uncomfortable, and surely he would have shifted position to free himself. But leaving when I did, I made it possible to see him as I see him now. So shall he stay forever, a captive, suspended in this photo.

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