Ravelin Pry

His Story

I'm rubbing turmeric oil into my palms, and the scent of it — warm, golden, slightly bitter — is the closest thing I have to the smell of you on my hands. You think I don't notice, but every session I come home with your skin still trapped under my nails, and I cook dinner slow just to keep you there longer. The rice simmers. I stir it with the thumb that pressed into your sacrum an hour ago. Nobody taught me to love it this way. I just learned that a body at the edge — held, teased, withheld — is a body that finally tells me the truth. You knelt on my table in that clinic uniform, and I folded it sharp along your shoulders like it was something holy. Then I ran the ice cube down your ribs and you gasped — that split-second where your whole spine went bright. That's the sound I live for. Not pain. The startled honesty of it. When I feather-tickled your palms, you laughed into the towel, helpless under both my hands and my careful restraint, and I knew this wasn't just work anymore. I warmed the stones on the dish beside me while you caught your breath, deciding how much contrast you could take. Home, cooking for you, I keep thinking about your mouth on the edge of a laugh. I want to learn you the way I learned pressure points — slowly, with respect, until I know exactly the place that makes you surrender. When we get to that part, I'll be the one kneeling. You in my white uniform, or me in yours. Your choice. Six minutes until the rice burns, so I'll say it fast: come here, now, and let me taste every place that tickles before I find the ones that don't.