The Pleasures of Fear

    We played a hiding game，

    the son of my mother's friend and I，

    until he chased me into the toolshed

    and bolted the door from outside. It was there，

    in the secret， moist dark， the child's game changed

    to adventure. As I listened through the splintered wood

    to his ragged breath， his weight pressing down

    on the thin wood， making it groan， waiting

    while I stood on the other side， I was

    caught in time， thrilled and afraid by his power，

    by his power to strike， and mine to yield.

    I crouched close to the ground

    inhaling the sour-sweet potpourri of rancid oil，

    rotting wood， old leather， and rust. I could have died

    right then and there， of anticipation，

    and become one with the molecules

    in the laden air. I was deliciously afraid of all

    the invisible creeping， crawling dangers inhabiting

    the luscious ground where I squatted to pee，

    allowing impulse and need to fully overtake me，

    inviting all the demons that reside in dark damp

    hiding places into my most secret self.

    Not since then has pleasure and fear in the dark

    been so finely tuned in my mind， except perhaps

    in moments of passion when all we know

    is surrendered to the demands of skin and blood.

    Then the pizzicato of the predictable afternoon shower

    on that half remembered island， rain every day at four，

    and her piercing voice， growing nearer，

    the cutting slash of light. She had caught the boy

    peeking through a crack at me doing what？

    She did not want to know.

    I was sent straight to the bath， as if

    the delectable stink of danger I had discovered

    could ever be washed off with plain soap and water.