TUESDAY
24 OCTOBER, 1990
DORIAN

               I'm copying the phrases Mr Henriques wants us to translate when a balled-up note lands on my desk. I check that Mr Henriques is occupied with someone else before I unfurl the note. Unsurprisingly, Isaiah's elegant handwriting greets me.

"Deus me salvet?" it says, the translation for the first of Mr Henriques's phrases: may God save me. "He's mocking me."

I glance to find him waiting. The flutters in my chest birth a summer tempest and, rather than be forced to suppress it, finally, I can let the rain soak me. The tingling in my fingers and the soles of my feet that I've had a deep aversion to for years turns out quite pleasant once I surrender to it.

I'm learning to surrender to it.

It's been twenty-three days since our kiss. We've kissed only a handful of times since then (there's no rush, you keep reminding me, we have all the time in the world), but now we know all we need to do is ask, and that makes all the difference. Now, I can sigh at the perfect loop in his y's and g's or how he never accidentally combines letters despite writing in cursive. Now, I don't have to disguise the yearning it wakes in me. Won't you tattoo them into my skin?

I scrawl my response under his. "Me servavis. Me servavis. Me servavis."

Reading it immediately, Isaiah bites down the smile that pulls at his lips (let me bite it). He looks up with a star in his gaze that says: I remember. He remembers. I won't ever forget.

'What have I told you two about passing notes?' Neither of us notices Mr Henriques until he plucks the slip from Isaiah. 'Surely, whatever it is, it can wait till after the lesson.'

He has to read it a second time, then a third. It must be nonsense to him — to anyone but Isaiah and I. We've perfected semi-telepathic communication nobody else can decipher because they're missing eleven years of context.

'Just working on our conjugation, sir,' Isaiah says.

It takes only five minutes for the bell to ring.

As always, we allow everyone else to leave before we do. Bumping shoulders with anyone in a race to the door is repelling to me and his unrelenting risk of dizzy spells or muscle spasms doesn't beckon Isaiah into crowds either. 

On our way out, Mr Henriques hands back our assignments from the previous week.

Isaiah beams and shows me his perfect score. He slips it into his backpack and retrieves an apple-flavoured Chupa Chup as a treat. He's so eager to tear off the wrapper, I swallow my comment about eating sweets on our way to lunch.

Perhaps I only want to puncture his joy so he sinks to my level. (Selfish!) I frown at my assignment. There are several red markings across the page. My mood is quick to sour.

'What are you thinking about?'

'Something my brother said.'

Isaiah tenses and I realise he must be thinking it's more about my future marriage options. I hurry to explain.

'About how I use different pronouns to talk about God. He says I should only use male ones. But it says in Bereshit that "Elohim created humankind in the divine image, creating it in the image of Elohim — creating them male and female". And. That means HaShem is both male and female, so doesn't it make sense that you would use all pronouns for Them interchangeably? I mean, surely, God, the creator of everything, transcends gender–'

Horror strikes me silent. Can't I manage a single day without being a total weirdo?

An apology is already on my tongue when he pulls the amber sweet from his mouth and says, in full earnest, 'Gender don't make sense in the first place. Sod that.'

It takes everything in me not to collapse. How was I blessed to find the one person who greets my passionate nonsense with equal nonsense just as passionately? (Thank you.) It moves me so deeply my frustration is forgotten underneath the urge to kiss him.

'You wanna taste?'

My brain short-circuits. 'What?'

'You wanna taste?'

We've stopped walking. Isaiah holds the lollipop to my lips, so close I can't distinguish its outline. We've shared food before but this is something quite different.

Hesitantly, I part my lips to let him place the candy in my mouth. I've always found apple-flavoured sweets more reminiscent of soap than fruit. How wrong I have been. It would be a quest to find anything more heavenly.

Isaiah returns it directly into his own mouth when it's still coated in my spit. The sight twists something below my belly button that's simultaneously abhorrent and wonderful. 

He watches me stare until he grabs my hand to pull me down the corridor. I let him guide me but when we shove through the door to the empty assembly hall, I have to ask, 'Why are we going in here?'

'I want to pray.' But when I go to collect tefillin, he directs me to our regular row instead. 'You won't need those.'

'I'm confused...'

Isaiah casts me a grin that says he knows, he's doing it on purpose, he enjoys my confusion, but not to worry, he won't torture me forever and be patient. Still, when we take our usual seats, he leans back without a single word of explanation and he sucks on the remnants of his lollipop.

Questions soon leave my mind when I find his mouth to stare at. Knowing I'm looking, he pulls the candy from behind his teeth to encapsulate it with his lips and rotates it to lick away all the flavour before releasing it with a quiet pop. Then, he's leaning in.

My heart beats behind my adam's apple. He's so close his breath tickles my cupid's bow. 

'Wanna taste?'

It's all I need I slot our open mouths together. This isn't like our previous kisses: our tongues meet within seconds and, rather than bless me with the peace I've learnt to expect, it alerts each and every nerve in my body.

Though I like coffee, I've never been able to suffer the aftertaste. To get rid of it, I have to brush my teeth or chew gum only to be attacked by the stubborn feel of fluorine, which I'll chase away with lemon and, in turn, become plagued by the bitter film instead. Life is a never-ending domino chain of circumventing one aftertaste with the next.

Isaiah introduces me to the first flavour I don't want to sanitise. On the contrary, I never want this to wash out.

It sends currents directly to my groin.

With a shrill yelp, I shove him away and hug my knees to my chest. Isaiah barely reacts. He settles into this seat and suckles the fragments of hard candy while studying the Hebrew script embroidered on the stage backdrop.

It's minutes later when he turns to me. I have no choice but to reciprocate and reluctantly lift my eyes to his.

There's something in them I can't name but I know he's the only person who'll ever look at me a like this. He's the only person who I'll ever want to look at me like this.

'Can I see?'

(No. Why?) I lower my feet to the floor. (How could I ever resist?)

Isaiah stares at my erection, obvious through my trousers. There isn't a hint of humour on his face which is instead saturated with utter compassion, a gesture that only makes it harder to persuade my body to get rid of it.

'Can I touch you?'

I nod, but when he gives no indication of moving, I force my voice to work. 'Yes.'

He studies me for a moment longer. Slowly, he unclasps my belt and, even slower undoes the button of my trousers.

When his fingers find the zipper, my head snaps to the door. What if someone comes in?

But I know no one will. Not even cleaning staff come here during lunch; they eat at the same time so they can enjoy the food when it's fresh. Besides, our seats are so far to the edge of the curved auditorium that they're not visible from the door. If someone were to come in, we'll have time to snap apart.

'D'you want me to stop?'

I shake my head. 'I want you to continue.'

My lip curls when I realise the threat of being caught increases the thrill (because isn't that a bit sick?) only for all thoughts to be wiped clean from my mind when Isaiah slips his hand into my briefs.

Isaiah holds me in his hand as though weighing it which is all I need for my erection to become full. He stares at it with some impossible mix of emotions I doubt even he can fully decipher: compassion, lust, fear, adoration, disbelief all mixed into one.

When I manage to catch my breath and my vocal cords relax, I speak. 'Sorry. It's a bit wonky.'

He snaps from a trance. A knit in his brow, he looks at me. 'What?'

'When I get hard, it tilts a bit to the left like that.'

Isaiah does his best to cling to a poker face but the smile tugs stubbornly at his mouth. 'Yeah, I don't... think that matters. Like...' He licks his lips and finally sweeps all traces of amusement from his demeanour. 'At all.'

I whine with longing when he pulls away. His tooth gap teases me when he smiles again before hollowing his cheeks as though still suckling sweets. Then, he licks his hand from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers. Touch was enough to stir me, so when he moves, sensation overwhelms my body to the point I grapple to stay conscious.

I've masturbated a total of two times in my life, and even then, it was more due to a sense of obligation than arousal. (You'd laugh if I said that out loud — "Just say horny!") I always thought of sex as something I prefer to opt out of. If this is what sex feels like, I take it back.

He pumps me slowly while his other arm drapes my shoulders so he can caresses the skin right behind my ear. My head falls into the crook of his neck. 

I have to hold my breath or I'll make enough noise for any passer-by to rush in. Only on the brink of passing out, I gasp for air. The scent of moringa is intoxicating but nothing compared to his natural musk which fills my head with a pleasant mist, like morning dew that hovers over the plains and orchards when Suffolk is still groggy. I sink further into him.

Just as I surrender to the pleasure, he stops.

I open my eyes (when had I shut them?) to search his for an explanation, but he doesn't bother meeting them before he folds his blazer to cushion his knees and gets on the floor. My jaw unlatches when he draws my trousers and briefs to my ankles so he can better spread my knees and position himself between them. 

'What are you doing?' 

He half-heartedly fights a smirk, a routine he seems well-rehearsed in as he allows it to grace his face at precisely the right moment. 'Praying.'

'You don't have to do that!'

This is too much for me to bear. You'll melt me if you continue. There might be tears in my eyes unless it's sweat stinging at the corners.

Isaiah pulls without easing his grip and looks up at me. Don't look at me like that. G-d.

'I want to. I've been masturbating to the thought of you since I started masturbating.'

His eyes flicker to my cock and darken. Don't look at me like that. Please, yakiri, don't look at me like that. I've never been possessed by my senses like this before — no painting, no poem, no opera, no orchestra has ever done this to me, and I'm terrified of who I'll become if I allow matter over mind.

'Don't say that.'

'Why? It's true.'

This time, there's no doubt it's tears that blur my vision. How else could I express my gratitude? I never imagined anyone would do this for me. I'm sorry, but not even you. I'm sorry for my lapse in faith. (Maybe that's why I'm crying.)

'I want to. If you want me to.'

Suddenly, Isaiah seems as terrified as I feel. This risks everything.

'Do you?'

Do I? The only thing I want more is to return the gift in kind.

'Yes.'

I watch with equal parts amazement and terror as he leans forward until his lips meet flesh.

The pit of my stomach vanishes; even as I flex my abdomen to the point that muscles threaten to snap, I don't manage to clutch a hint of stability. It's the same feeling I get when overcome by a sudden panic I might have lost my keys and have to frantically check all my pockets. My fingers claw into the blue velvet of the armrests. If I let go, I'll float or plummet. I can't tell which is worse.

Summarily, he takes me into his mouth.

I jerk involuntarily and he gags. I lurch as far back as I can and pray to be turned invisible, but the moment I'm out of his mouth, Isaiah smirks, a thick strand of saliva connecting me to his teeth.

He breaks it to speak. 'Give a warning first.'

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

'That's criss. I liked it.' Ignoring the whimper that testaments my total mental shutdown, he places my hands on the back of his head. 'Pull my hair.'

I don't need to be told twice. His braids are perfect for me to grip onto and soft as down from the castor oil he massages into his scalp. My palms will carry the scent now too. My palms will forever smell like you. That alone gives me enough pleasure to carry me to the brink.

The sound of Isaiah sliding me in and out of his mouth builds my orgasm twice as quick as the feeling. He keeps his tongue flat against my flesh, cushioning his teeth. My breath rattles at the back of my throat as my cock touches the back of his.

Everything else ceases to exist, the school, Halsett, the world — even my own body, which consists not of atoms but of the sensations coursing through them.

'Isaiah.'

He pulls away with a licentious noise that makes me tremble. Entirely unfazed by the lather of his own saliva, Isaiah wraps his fingers around me and smiles as he feels my heartbeat. 'God is your salvation,' he mutters. The words are icy against my wet skin. 'Say it.'

'God is my salvation.'

My grip tightens on his braids when he places delicate kisses along the length. Timid all of a sudden.

I exhale slowly. 'Yesha'yahu.'

Modesty disappears as a wicked grin grows in its place. He seizes my gaze. 'Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam shehakol niyah bidvaro.'

That's all it takes for me to fall off the edge. Being exactly what he planned, he takes me into his mouth so I spill onto his tongue. My head collapses over the backrest and his name leaves me over and over again. Isaiah.

Isaiah. Isaiah. Isaiah.

Isaiah...

God is my salvation.

With pins and needles, my body slowly stitches back together though it takes several minutes for me to register the heavy breathing that echoes in the auditorium as my own. When I regain awareness of my surroundings, Isaiah is standing, shrugging his blazer over a slightly rumpled shirt.

'We should get to lunch if we wanna eat sum before class.' His eyes glint when they find mine. (I enjoy you making fun of me a little too much). 'Unfortunately, I don't reckon I'll be stay fed long on this.'

I haven't settled into my body enough to laugh when he does. Still blinking regularly, I stagger to my feet and pull my underwear and trousers up. He's wiped me clean. With what?

'I can't believe you said that.' I'm not referring to this conversation but the Hebrew berakah spoken before eating he recited to summon my release.

Isaiah only grins and turns to leave.

I grab his wrist. He knows the question before I ask it and looks at me with pleading I don't understand. 'What about you?'

'I'm good. But I am hungry–'

I stare at his crotch. 'You're not hard.'

'It's not you.' Voice high and unsteady, he hurries to explain. 'It's my meds — or maybe it's the fibro itself, or could be the anaemia, or constant physical injury, or general malnutrition. Either way, it don't always work. I'm sorry.'

'Why are you apologising?'

With a pinch in his brow, he watches me. 'Dunno, now I think about it. Actually, yeah, never mind that — I am not sorry. Probably a good thing or I'd be walking round with a rager every time I thought of you.' He shoves me and I stagger, too stunned to hold my balance whilst Isaiah laughs all the way to the door. 'Come on. Yalla!'

Notes

Tefillin (singular: tefillah) and shel yad: Prayer boxes. Black boxes that contain scrolls of scripture that are tied to the body with straps. There are two: one that is born on the upper arm (shel yad: lit. of the arm) and one that is worn on the head (shel rod: lit. of the head).

Berakah: A blessing recited before doing certainactions, such as eating.

Yalla: Let's go.