Desert Moon

He wakes up hot and bothered and bathed in cold sweat. He hide his burning face in his trembling hands. His heart is beating too fast. The house is quiet. Too quiet. The sound of his irregular heavy breathing is deafening. The eyes. The lips. The perfect body. The perfect kiss. He feels like a 16-year-old in love for the very first time. He remembers his passion, his hunger, and his raging desire. He pales and suddenly feels afraid and scared. Where does reality end? Where does dream begin? Was it really a dream? Was it a message? Was it a trick of his sad depressed mind? Does he know the difference between love and lust? Is there anything wrong with him? Is he sick? He sits in bed for a long, long time, and then finally gets up for a cold, cold shower. Maybe the icy water will make all the unpleasant problems and questions go away and help him out.

He stops dead in front of his closet and opens the doors with sweaty, shaky hands. He looks into the mirror and stares at his naked self. Knotted brows, worried eyes, and stubbed chin. Hairy chest, abs, thighs, back, ass, and arms and legs. The scar in his brow. The eagle tattoo on his chest. The early sign of a developing beer belly. The dark lonely face of a middle-aged man. Very slowly he runs a hand down his lean muscled torso. Does he need to question his sexuality? Or should he question his sanity? He asks himself and recalls the texture of that flawless Mocha Latte skin. The smoothness. The warmth. The power lying beneath. The stark contrast renders him speechless. The raw emotions he felt makes his knees go weak. He has heard stories. Stories of men whose lives took an unexpected turn and thus helped them accidentally found their true identities. Is he one of them?

He turns away from his reflection and covers his mouth. He can keep his silence but he can't deny the possibility. He stumbles into his bathroom and turns on the shower. He shivers under the cold water and quickly soaps himself. He tries to shut down his brain. He tries to forget. But the images imprinted in his soul keep coming back. The lady in red. Shine so bright. A little romance. Given half a chance. The lady in red. Tries as he might he just can't get the beautiful inaudible music out of his mind. He gets out of the tub and goes grab his old-fashioned razor and shaving cream. He spreads the shaving cream on his chest and starts shaving. He ignores his single drop of tear. He tries his best to smile.

They are perfect together.

He's the lady in red.

~The End~

Author's Note: LOL.