Skirting the abyss

I had a close call the other day.

To cut a long story short (and omit any potentially incriminating details), a friend was staying over at my place, and it was late. About midnight. He was tired and had gone to bed. Which was, incidentally, not two feet away from where I was sitting, surfing the 'net. He stirred a bit, and I glanced at him.

"Look at him," said the Dark Passenger. "Doesn't he look hot?"

I was silent, not wanting to reply. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Sure, try and ignore me. You and I both know what you really want. Plus you're still staring."

I turned back to my laptop hurriedly. Surf, damn you! Focus on the screen!

"Take a gander, boy. Feast your eyes. Just a tiny look," the Dark Passenger crooned.

I could almost see the devious smile on his face. I turned back, and looked again. Watched the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. Watched the curve of his body as he breathed. My eyes moved lower. Staring at the most forbidden of places, the whole time my mind screamed at me to turn away, to say no, to do anything but doom myself, to not give in to the Passenger's silky smooth whispers winding their way into my mind and enticing my libido.

"Reach. Reach and touch. Caress. Give in," he whispered, almost hissing.

I reached. The air in which my hand moved felt like an infinite space, and every pounding heartbeat throbbed in my temples and made my head spin. I reached. Felt fabric. Heat.

And jerked my hand back. I shut my eyes.

Jesus, help me. Help me to say no. Help me to fight it. Don't let him take over. If possible, let him pass me by. God! Please help me. I don't want to do this.

And God did. And I didn't.