me and madonna

sexual orientation: a middle aged woman leaning over a desk

Just Like a Prayer

He doesn’t know when it started. He can’t put an exact time or date to when such blasphemy entered into his very thoughts. Can’t even lie when the belt bites into his flesh and his mother calls him a sinner once more. No, no, he can’t lie about this. He doesn’t want to.

Maybe it was following their third meeting that Credence began to pray for the stranger once more. Thanking him for treating him with kindness and charity in his nighttime prayers. Or maybe it’s after their seventh meeting, when, Mister Graves is his name, stiches up the broken skin along his back and palms. When Credence says in whispered tones under his breath thank you.

Maybe it was following their twentieth meeting when Percival cups Credence head in his palms and brings their lips together. So wickedly soft and sweet that there is no way that something such as this could be wrong. That this man was not a man but something divine. Maybe it is after the fourth kiss in a row, when Credence whimpers against Percival’s lips and thanks him over and over. 

Maybe it happened when Credence lost count of all the times they were together. When Percival kisses down his neck, whisper praises into his skin, and oh so gently makes Credence see stars. When he manages to weaken Credence’s legs and still kiss him with such fervor. When he tells him how good you are my boy, so good or that he was so gorgeous, could keep you here forever Credence and it would still not be enough time. When Percival leads him on shaky legs to satin sheets and shows his love over and over again. When he kisses Credence and breathes against his lips that he is special and wonderful and mine.

He doesn’t know when it happens; cannot put an exact time or date for when he claps his hands tight in prayer and no longer thinks of God.