Naked before him in the bath, I undressed him. Kneeling at his feet I stroked down the insides of his lower legs, closed my fingers around his ankles, lifted him off the ground and loosened the loafers off his heels. Much like lifting the hooves of a horse. I felt his eyes resting on my bare back. It wasn't sexual, just personal and private.

I carefully and orderly put his shoes aside before rising to him again. Slowly but without hesitation I continued with the buttons of his shirt, first the cuffs, then the buttoned panel. I pulled the white fabric out of his waistband. Walking around him I took it off his shoulders, slipped it off him, one sleeve at a time, never leaving him, my fingers gliding down his arms as the shirt revealed his skin inch by inch, touching the destroyed areas on his elbows, his lower arms, his wrists.

It was silent in the room. No-one was speaking. Nothing could be heard other than our breathing and the rustle of clothes being removed.

I put the shirt away and went on with the t-shirt that he wore in place of an undershirt. It didn't cling to him like an undershirt would have, but it had a fairly narrow cut. As I pulled the soft, warm cloth from his pants and slid it up his body, I felt the firm muscles of his back and stomach under my hands.

His back was almost unaffected by the disease, his shoulder blades moving under his coffee-coloured skin as he slipped the t-shirt from his arms. But in and around his arm pits all the colour was gone.

He had it on his chest, too, around the nipples, in random places across his ribcage, his belly. I put my hands on him, touching all those areas. Looking at them closely, they weren't so bad, just skin with no colour. But his heart was beating fast.

I went down on my knees again, slipped my hands into his pant legs taking off his socks. His feet were like his hands, the colour of his skin torn at the joints and around the nails.

When I touched his belt he took a deep breath. I briefly looked up at his eyes, then back down at where my hands worked on the buckle. I put my arms around his waist to pull the belt out of his pants. My face came so close to his that our cheeks almost touched. I felt his breath on my skin, the warmth radiating from his chest, the firm leather of his belt between my fingers. But it came loose easily, and he watched me roll it up and lay it down next to his shoes.

Then I put my fingers inside his waistband that was tight against his skin and opened the button. I carefully pulled down the zipper, revealing his undergarment. Slowly I pulled his slacks down the length of his legs. Obediently, he stepped out of them. With his knees it was the same as with his elbows. It seemed as if the dark of his skin was but an outer layer, a fabric broken, paint splintered and rubbed off by use.

When I touched his undergarment he closed his eyes. He looked defeated. Gently, I removed it. It was as he had said. He had it everywhere. His groin area was affected, as well as his private parts.

He stood before me naked. He was a grown man, altogether well built, slender and muscular from doing a largely physical job, so in itself that wasn't really a big deal. But he was more naked than any man should be. He wasn't only bare of his clothes - I could even look through his skin.

He wasn't looking at me but up at the far corner of the bath, his jaw was tight, his eyes were glistening.

I came near, near to his face, his jaw; I touched his shoulders and felt them rigid. He still looked passed me.

"Michael..." I whispered.

"I know it!" he hissed between clenched teeth. "I see it every day. I see it getting worse every day. It's terrible. Horrible!"

"Michael, please," I begged, suddenly afraid he might bolt. "Michael, please. Please, don't run. Please don't leave me here. Please, don't do that. Not now. Michael." My voice dropped to a whisper again. "Michael, I slept with you. I had you inside me. I have your sperm inside me now. Don't run from the room!"

He turned his face and looked at me hard. "You hadn't seen me yet when that happened!"

"It happened because I liked your smile, I liked your charm, not because of... of..." I took a deep breath to clear my head, "not because your skin is one colour or another. And I've seen you now."

He looked down the length of his body, raised his left hand and looked at the display of discolouration there, then suddenly he covered his face with his hands. "What am I to do? Lord in Heaven, what am I to do? It's happening inside me. I hate myself! It's happening, and I hate it! What will the world say when they find out? What will the press write? Ohh..."

"I don't know," I admitted, helplessly touching his arms and shoulders, looking at the hands, one painted an even brown, one torn and flaking. Then I pulled them from his face and kissed him. It was a weak thing to do, but I couldn't think of anything else. He was taken by surprise but didn't resist. I moved my body up to his and felt his hands on my bottom and on the small of my back.

"Let's take a shower," I mumbled against his mouth. "And then, let's see."

He moved his head back to be able to look at me. "You know, I don't normally do this..."

"Frankly, I've never done this before myself. You know, gone home with a stranger like this... But I think this ship has sailed on the carousel."

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. "Good point," he admitted with eyes closed.

"So it doesn't matter now."

He looked at me from the corner of his eye, then smiled at the floor. "Okay, shower..."

Under soap and water the makeup rinsed off his right hand as well. It was unsettling to see part of his skin seemingly wash away. I didn't ask about his face again after he had been so upset earlier, and he was paying attention to keep it away from the water. Instead I enjoyed the rain shower, never having as much as seen one before, let along used one, and rubbed soap onto his chest and arms. Leaning against the tiles, arms crossed in front of his chest, he watched me as I delightfully rinsed my hair.

When I noticed him I smiled, "This is heavenly!"

He moved away from the wall, staying just outside the curtain of water drops pattering down on me. "Do you want to see my face?"

Wiping my hair out of my face I stepped towards him out of the artificial rain. "Do you want me to see it?"

The steam from the shower rose around us, the loud noise of the water making the space even smaller. He looked down at how it flowed and played around his seemingly flaking toes, the skin of his body shining with wet. "I'm scared of your reaction." There was a pause. "But I'm craving relief, too."

"I'll probably be shocked. But I know I'll get over it," I said and hoped that it was true.

I hadn't noticed he was holding the soap in his hand until he held it up to me. "Then wash it off," he said tonelessly.

Carefully I put soap on my hands and started with his throat that became colourless around his Adam's apple, then moved up to his sideburns and ears, his temples, his forehead, then his chin and cheeks, his mouth and nose. The makeup came off under my fingers, leaving his striking face stained. Finally, as he raised his head under the stream of water, I washed over his eyes as well.

"So," he said wiping the water out of his eyes, "that's it. This is Michael Jackson."

It was shocking. The cheeks under his eyes were partly white, on the right side the area stretched up to his temple. The left wing of his nose was discoloured. There were white spots on the lower part of his chin as well. At first the uneven colour made it hard to make out his facial features, his expression seemed distorted. But the longer I looked at him the more I had the feeling to be looking at something precious. With the makeup gone, it also became more obvious that the skin on his cheeks was uneven and scarred. But the dark eyes, the fine bone structure, the sensual curve of the lips, the perfect teeth, all that, that made him look like a prince from the Arabian Nights, was still there. And it was real. He was stripped of everything, and it was still there.

"Is it that bad," he asked in a low voice.

I put my wet fingers on his lips, gently parting them, then moved in so close that there could be no misunderstanding and kissed him. Warm and wet from the shower, his belly pressed into my stomach every time he inhaled. His hands lightly held my waist. Stretching out my arm I turned off the water. Suddenly it became quiet, there was only our breathing, loud in the confinement of the shower.

"Let's dry off," I whispered, still close to him.

He made no move. He just stood there, looking through my cheekbones. "You're staying here tonight, aren't you?"

"Yes, Michael," I said, copying Ola Ray's innocent, girlish tone, quite aware that it was a quote from the Thriller video. It seemed to catch him off guard. Being as close as I was to him I could feel him shift slightly as he looked up at me, briefly smiling. Then he looked away again.

"Would you stay here... with me? I mean, up here. In my room..."

"M-hm," I breathed against his face, smiling gently.

"Yeah?"

"Yes!" I nodded reassuringly.

A smile that displayed all his brilliant white teeth spread across his face. "Let's dry off."

Michael offered me his bathrobe, but I didn't accept it. Although I had seen him undressed, it was clear that he wasn't comfortable with his skin. In the fluffy, white gown he visibly relaxed.

Sitting on the counter in front of the mirror that went along one side of the bath, wrapped in a bath towel, I watched him rake a comb through his largely wet curls.

"Is it your own hair, or is it extensions?"

"It's my own," he grinned shaking his head so the wet locks danced around his face, "and a pain in the ass!"

"I'm sorry," I made a face. "That's my fault. I should have been more careful with the water."

"My hair manages to be a pain in the ass all by itself. That's not your fault! - Well, it's mostly my own," he added after a moment.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I had an accident some years ago. My hair caught fire and burned my head badly. Skin with third degree burns can't grow hair anymore, and with me it almost went through to the skull. There is an area about the size of my palm," for demonstration he showed me the inside of his free hand, "that will not grow hair ever again. So part of the hair you see is fake."

I looked at him in utter shock. Slowly he lowered the comb.

"I'm sorry!" he said confused, "But the accident wasn't exactly a secret..."

"I know. I know about the accident. Third degree burns."

He nodded silently.

"And I know the effects of burns. But..."

"But?"

"But... I just... I just wanted you to be whole," I said helplessly.

"Okay, let me get this straight: You have taken my skin disorder like nothing's wrong, and when my burnt head doesn't grow hair it bothers you so much?"

I nodded with a tiny motion. "Your skin... That's no-one's fault, you know? It's just happening. Nobody can do anything about it. But this... It's an injury. It came from the outside. And the damage done can never be repaired... I'm so sorry..." My voice was just as tiny.

With a soft smile Michael put the comb down on the counter and came over to where I sat. He gently pushed my knees apart and stood between my legs. Sitting on the counter my thighs were at the height of his waist, and I was thus sitting too high for any immediate sexual intentions. He also didn't push near, standing hardly any closer than my knees. But to feel his firm body there, just at the entrance to a most private space would have been distracting under any circumstances; being naked under the bath towel it was thrilling, and no pun intended! Sideways bowing his head to me, he touched an area above his left ear. "I think you can feel it better than you can see it."

"Michael..."

"It's okay," he smiled softly, "it doesn't hurt. You can touch my head. You can touch me anywhere you like."

Reluctantly and carefully I put my hands in his hair, felt the wet curls and the part below the perm close to the scalp, where his hair was dense. I loved the feel of it, it was so strong, and it was his. He obviously enjoyed my touch. Head bent, eyes closed, he was slightly smiling, his hands resting on my thighs.

The hairpiece felt alien in comparison, but it was lying tightly on his skull, firmly woven into his own hair. His smile widened when I touched it. If he was scarred I couldn't feel it through the cover of the hairpiece. The curls felt just like his own. "It's not so bad, you see," I heard him say.

Bending over him, I kissed the top of his wet locks. Then lifting his head, holding his face, I kissed first his brow, then his mouth, that mouth that had sung all those songs, those lips, those teeth, that tongue that had formed all those words, all those consonants and vowels, that had set the world spinning never to be the same again. I felt his fingers fumbling for where the towel was tucked fast, felt it come loose and fall around my hips. Stepping out of my legs and sliding one arm under my knees, he lifted me off the counter letting the towel slip to the floor and effortless carried me from the room.

~~~~~

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