Chapter One: Sing for the Crescent Moon
He had the voice of choirboy, possessing a pure and flawless tone quality that God's favorite angel would have been shamed by the performance. The ancient music seemed to resonate from his very soul, lyrics manifesting themselves into a reality of passionate vocalizations, revealing the tale of a legend that I had long forgotten.
His stage presence surpassed any entertainment I had ever laid eyes upon. Soft waves of chocolate colored locks covered his ears, flowed over his neck, then ended at a point between his shoulder blades. The dark strands had grown since I had seen them last. Previously, they barely touched the base of the neck, but now--they were simply breathtaking--in all of their medium length magnificence.
Those eyes, sapphire orbs lush and fluent in values of emotion, flared with wild wonder, mirroring the dreamy state of a mystic searching for enlightenment. Glittering with the untamed beauty of a nomad, they gazed confidently ahead, poised with the inward vision of happiness. They appeared relaxed, completely unperturbed by the idea of amusing several spectators. Admirable of him to have conquered shyness, or equally commendable that he was capable of giving the illusion of contentment...
Nothing fascinated me more than his sense of fashion. Although his costume was one color, the simplicity of the outfit made a significant impact on me. Accompanying a pair of dress pants was a shirt, conveniently buttoned slightly above his abdomen, which permitted the spare material to brush against bare midriff. If that was not enough to tantalize my sight, the realization that he was adorned in white satin made me come closer than ever to swooning. Tearing my sight away from his exposed frame, I commanded myself to focus on his other attributes. That was not an easy task, for I found that my eyes were somehow acting on their own accord, scanning the entertainer's body with interest and intrigue.
A silver hoop earring dangled from his left lobe, metal shining innocently in the spotlight of the room. That was the sort of characteristic demanding to be touched and fondled, licked with a ready tongue and played with by questing fingertips. Blushing at my suddenly provocative thoughts, my cheeks became uncomfortably warm and I squeezed my eyes shut. It would have been a miracle if the thought of having sensual intercourse wouldn't prance before my mind's eye, but I could see no avenue to escaping my wanton desires. Helplessly, I watched as my imagination created the startling image of the singer and me together, locked in an intimate embrace, chanting the melody of our love to the heavens as we drew close to personal bliss. Rapidly shaking the image off, I re-opened my hazel orbs, only to be tortured by the elements of suggestive movement.
Keeping perfect time with the tune echoing in the arena, he molded his structure into that of a dancer's, twisting and turning his limbs with the greatest of ease, gliding across the platform with intense actions that had me hypnotized. His hips swiveled back and forth along with the Spanish beat, demonstrating the aura of a gypsy who based their earnings off how well they could perform. There was no doubt about it--this was a professional, renaissance male of the arts, born to be spirited and free in the essence of clever creativeness. He was so talented, wonderfully gifted, an inspiration to other aspiring artists, making me bow my head in envy and despair. How could I ever allow myself to fantasize about holding someone that stunning? This amazing teenager was clearly out of my league, a boy who functioned in a different plane than me, a person that deserved much better than what I had to offer--
Lightly, a set of fingers wrapped around my bottom jaw, raising my head up. Before I could comprehend the events unfolding, I found myself staring into the brilliant eyes of my pop idol. That visage-it was as if a water nymph were gazing back at me-and I felt the heat in my countenance return. Without shying away from me, he raised his other hand and ran the back of it across my cheek, fascinating my face. Softening his expression, he displayed a look of rare affection, persuading his lips to rise in a small smile. He seemed so innocent, yet so mature as his vision drank all of my features in with unblinking sight. Idly, he swept his tongue across his lower lip, emphasizing my already too erotic daydreaming. This is no lie--his flesh was tinted like the identical shade as a sakura blossom, leaving me to ponder if his skin would flare a hot rosy shade in the throes of lovemaking. The thought of pressing my own mouth on top of his nearly drove me mad. Oh, how I wish I could discover the joys of dueling in French-styled kissing with him--
Leaning in close to me, the siren of my demise rubbed his nose against mine, bathing my skin in the steamy bath of his exhaling. I didn't pull back, nor did I attempt any physical contact. Still, I couldn't believe that he was here with me, stroking my flesh, willing me to return his alluring gestures. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead and slid over my features, plainly showing my nervousness and anxiety. Oddly enough, the stress-related symptom did not discourage him at all, and I was grateful for that favor. Ignoring the little waterfall, he traced my lips with his fingertips, passed his tongue over his own mouth once more, then let his eyes fall shut and--