Date: Sat, 26 Oct 2002 22:02:21 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: An Unexpurgated Adventure of Three Children

	       "An Unexpurgated Adventure of Three Children"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman

The melody of Pamlee ran round in the heads of Mark and Jack,
as did the melodies of each boy, in lust with the other.

There was summer for Jack, heading to. There was winter for
Mark, heading from. Jack of dark raven hair. Mark of summer
gold hair. Jack of darker caste. Mark of cool gold glass color.
Each physical feature belying what was inside the boys, deep
and wide.

It was fun fair closing. And one last ride on the Ferris Wheel.
Pamlee in between Mark and Jack, arms round her, and her
hands on the top of their jeans belt buckle. Tall and slim and
fine and unbudded was Pamlee. Clever and wise and not a cellar
mote of sadness inside her.

Mark had enough for both of his friends. Mark kept the secrets
that were cantankerous crooks leveled in his bright blue eyes.
While Jack's dark somber eyes held to mischieviousness and
dexterity in being the art of a child.

All three had long hair. All three wore identical jeans and tie
dyed shirts. They were caught in effusion of laughter from
themselves and all the people around them. As the Ferris took
them to the top of the enamel blue sky, and brought them down
again, with their stomachs in their ears. And their hearing dead
and gone.

Colors bright. Colors lept and sang and surfaced in each of
them. Only not as much in Mark. Because he was thinking sex
thoughts. And for him, sex was not a good thing, but a
consideration of thorns. Something with nettles popping up at
the most unexpected places. And the proximity of Jack and
Pamlee to him, their arms unsorted, their legs twined about the
other, as though they were fish children suddenly beached on
too human land--

Oh Mark was a sex fiend. He had kissed Jack. And he had
kissed Pamlee. At separate times in the dark of different nights.
Jack's kiss was hard back and free of spit. Pamlee's kiss was a
bit messy and filled with the smell of lipstick of the red glossy
variety. Mark was a moment of being the youngest. 13 to their
14 years.

There to play with titties, old Mark had done that too. Because
Jack filled him with precociousness and Pamlee filled him with
ardor though he didn't know the name of the thing. All of this
because to them he was an infant. Who they had to teach the
ways of adulthood coming down.

And popcorn bag in Mark's hands, and Jack pushing out the
bag to go leapfrogging down and down the confetti alley ways
of air, down to the shrunken heads of little men and women and
children below, touched in the ways fairy tales sing old songs
before there are any new ones, or any need for them.

Keep the day mine, Mark thought. Make Pamlee and Mark
mine, Jack thought.

Make Mark fuck me and Jack suck me at the same time, Pamlee
grinned and giddied with glee. And they were children in a
world turn Fall. As they fell round and again on the Ferris, in
the stars to come later tonight, in the brisk Fall wind already
here. And children naked and ready for recreation, and erections
sprouting and elucidated, and certain smells that are those of
perception before eyes have a time to digest what is right beside
you.

Then Mark and Jack and Pamlee, and the open fish pond in
which they would swim. And together, and tightly little
rosebuds to come into manufacture of whatever dell could be
outside of town. Under the spell of late September and the
needful hands that would wrap fingers round penises and
against a vagina.

And taste and tease the magical wonderment of a sensuous
ethereal fun fair.

And happy all of them to be hairless or almost so, where it
counted. And happy all of them to be included, except Mark
was included less, though you would never know it, though
Mark knew it. Mark of dour dreams, and sad goodnights, and
lonely evenings when he cried himself to sleep.

Mark who was not long for the team. Who was tomorrow
without him in it. Who had to keep careful what he said, what
happiness he might feel, because then it would be taken away
from him.

And always in doubt. Sweating in his golden glass body when
he kissed Jack's boy lips and their thinness and their smell of
adolescence just creeping in and touched with a furtive slyness
that Mark knew was the most telltale sign that Mark was on his
way to exclusion.

And with Pamlee, Mark saw in her eyes other fun fairs, other
painted dogs to be won by her and for her at the shooting
galleries.

Jack was always to the morrow run. He kept summer hastening
inside him, always there, safe and protected and growing. And
when he had once put his hand to Mark's jeans crotch and
Mark grew unable to help himself from growing, he turned from
Jack. And Jack turned him around.

"You're too goofy, Mark," Jack said, parent to child. "You've
always been so damned--different--look if you don't want to be
around me, then forget it. If you don't want to be around
Pamlee, forget it."

And Mark turned and walked away because school corridors
would open again tomorrow morning and there would his lust
dreams be beside him because they could be beside nothing else,
right now.

Jack turning the clock and laughing as the hands sped slow and
slow. Mark was the ticking of the clock. He was the amber dial
of the clock that kept track of the very seconds of the Earth's
turnings. It is a terrible thing to be a clock. And to know it. Or
to know a little piece of it.

The ride almost over. The ground coming boiling, swirling
upward to them. The candy colored seats swaying. The world
growing up to them or they down to it. Dizzyingly. And
children walked and stumbled and almost fell, getting out of
their seats. And there was the run of line. And there were the
carny spiels. And there were the side shows to visit.

And pretend you weren't of their kind.

As the lights of the fun fair flicked on and the night started
wailing in as though it was a fish of huge magnitude that
brought blue winds and cold North here. And the children in
their jackets and sweaters took to the sawdust, magicked their
hands together, and pooled the rest of their money.

And were off like a shot. And in the tangle of young bodies, the
three were one, and the boys wanted to know the girl tonight,
wanted to explore her and feel how she moved, and how she
dreamed. And what she dreamed of. And if that meant making
Mark their little baby, then, lord, that was okay too.

Everybody had to have someone to take care of. And in the
cotton candy and the syrupy drinks and the stale popcorn and
the lights of the carny turned orange, and the sky backing away
from all of it as though it was shy, there was the need of a girl
to climb a boy's pole.

There was the need of a boy to put his tongue to where
everything human had come from. There was the need of being
naked with them. And Jack the coordinator. All right children,
welcome to the lesson on the hill of night, and tonight I think
we will examine each others' titties, what do you say?

And shirts would come off. And Pamlee would unhook her
needless wish some day training bra, and they would be naked
from the waist up. And Mark would be sun spun even in dark
night. And Jack would be a piece of the darkness surrounding
him, who, at one and the same time, had beaten the darkness.
And Pamlee would be the girl they would make it with. That
they would fuck. And who would fuck them.

And incipient children all round them, and they, themselves,
running in the tent pole legs god had given them. And they were
gawky and gawking around and at each other, even Mark, in a
fit of unpredictability. And the calliope was playing Boys and
Girls Together, and the world was a place of winter come. The
world was a place of delegating sexuality over everything--

--salt and butter on the popcorn. Extra butter please for me and
you and you too. And then the girl in the center and Mark on
one side, Jack on the other. Mark taking the girl's calm cool
hand. And Jack the other. As they ran and were their own
valentines. Were spirits when you get lost in childhood and
can't remember who you are, except maybe you are a
ghost--not of what is past--because so little of you has past--but
of what has never been--

--and most sadly what will never be.

And Pamlee had green cool cat eyes, and she had a smile that
would make a haunted house sing. She was stanzas the boys
played each night in their beds as they stroked their rampant
hard ons and came again and again, dry cum for Mark, wet cum
for Jack.

And all the trellis holds Pamlee could get on those poles of
theirs. As she climbed up to adulthood which of course was no
more than a lark. She could come back to childhood any time at
all, because you could visit adultland and be just that-- a visitor.
With the visors back here. With bones still melding. With bodies
still growing.

With the perks of titties on their way, please god some day
soon. With the boys who ran in musk and rusk and tusk on
either side of her. And tonight they would go to their hill just
outside of town and they would take off their clothes for the
first time together.

They would make a fish sandwich out of her. They would lick
her and tangle their hard ons and their balls with her front and
back. And they would be a warm dividing wall that no one
could get through without their specific permission. They were
their shooting galleries. And they were their prizes.

When magic comes into a person, because another sees what no
one has seen there before, it is a delight of skin and bones and
heart and mind, and Mark wanted to feel her ass, really feel it,
naked, for the first time, and Jack wanted to suck her little
titties still looking like boy ones, which was a-ok with him, and
she wanted to put her mouth to their abdomens and maybe just
maybe a little lower--

--to feel the warm stomachs of them. To put her fingers to their
belly buttons and see if they are innies or outies. To stretch her
long pink coral legs and to feel their penises against her thighs
and other places look away never look here always.

And they ran through the fun fair and out the gate. Mark of sad.
Mark of wondering when he would say the wrong thing. Weep
too much in front of them. Make too much of a fool in front of
them.

Jack thinking what if Mark and I are alone first and we practice
stuff and then Pamlee could get the benefit of our late night jack
off sessions. Peel the words of childhood and find summer
streets of night in them. Peel the worlds of childhood and find
winter wings and coldness trying to get inside your chill frosty
mittens. Peel the words of childhood and see a girl becoming a
woman and scared to death of the process, as well as transfixed
and transcended by all of it.

Hear the rides still, back there. Be glad you didn't fall over any
of the tent staves thrust into the brown grass cold ground. Here
the night coming on. Deep in Mark's heart, cold and desolate
winter.

 In Jack's chest though the night was a happy sound, something
to run to laughing. And Pamlee thought these two boys are
somehow my sons.

That they are fragile and unsure and so terribly delicate they
might have been mixed of spun glass and sugar and bravado
that was really as brave as the box top of a morning cereal, and
just as easily crushed.

Their hands in her hands. They stood in their own private fairy
circle. The lamp lights were glowing orange and yellow. They
were now in the concrete parking lot, where cars abounded,
waiting for their masters' orders.

Shadows tried to get into the ground but could not, were
locked out. And the shadows of these three children flitted
inside them.

For shadows have to go somewhere, and thus the three of the
children broke off from the world, got to their bicycles and
pedaled to their hill a mile and half a lifetime away. They were
still full of spun fun. And the patient crutchy fun fair rides that
needed more than a little oil. The rides that looked bad up close.
The bolts obvious. The steel and metal ugly looking and bent
and pockmarked.

The carnival is like love. Never look at it too closely, for it will
be seen as a cheat. And it will break your heart in half.  And
make you one fine day, forget you ever had one. That is called
"facing reality." No one does. They'd be dead if they did. Dead
as hell. That's known as "facing reality."

Three hearts riding their bicycles. Pedaling in easy cool winds.
Almost Halloween if you go by Jack's and Pamlee's clocks on
their wrists. Faster and faster still on Mark's clock, the one he
is, the one inside him. And not this Halloween but the next and
the next up there. For that was Mark, always doing his
homework way ahead of time.

Giving his friends mirth when the story or chapter or problems
he did weeks in advance were skipped by the teacher, and all
that fuckin' work had been for nothing at all.

See the dreams that children are.

 Imagine their sexuality burgeoning just under their clothes.
How they wish to get them off and get into each other. In the
hollow of the night to hold the hollow of their palm out and find
it full to glittering of the body parts of each other. The potions
written in flesh. Before they become poisons and reek and push
away and are filled with so many deep autumn bats you can't
bring yourself to even think about it.

But in the hollow of this night, what was directly up ahead was
the headiness of the fun fair. The heat of the lights. The heat of
all those people. And the machines that made hot dogs hot and
cider hot and whirligigs in children's hotter still hands, all made
by the friction of trying to tie down summer and bridge it over
to autumn. Always to fail. But not and never for want of trying.

And then in the coolness of the hill. Then in the shadow sticks
of each other. The tumbling of Jack and Pamlee. The off
standing Mark. As Jack and Pamlee explore and put hands here
and under the other's shirt, and inside the belts of their jeans.
And Mark content to watch them and jack off. Maybe they
would forget he was there.

To have kissed each at separate times. To have titty felt. These
were as far as he would go. These were the only landmarks he
would know. For they had been kidding him after all. They
thought they were so grown up and he such a baby. He was
happy with that. He tried to tell himself he was happy with that.

Mark watched the boy he loved pull the belt open of the girl he
loved. He watched them take off their shirts. And he watched
Pamlee take off her training hope someday soon please god bra.
And Mark saw two become one person. And his cock hardened
and he was glad it was night. Because he could only do this at
night when night meant alone.

Always in shadows, Mark imagined seeing his two friends
suddenly break out in hair and roaring growls and roiling
muscles and a wolf face smash through from inside the shells,
the hulls, of their formerly human ones. To split them down the
back and find them wolves for Mark's love and tenderness
alone.

And he closed his blue eyes. And it was like the sky had finally
gone out. He sank to his supplicating knees on the cool
unleveled ground and he pulled down his zipper and pulled out
his 3 and two fourth incher and he stroked away on it. And
thought please both of you, feel me now. Brother to the right of
me. Sister to the left. And you can make me warm. And you can
make me not a haunted house.

Let me smell the sex of you. The bodies of you.

Please.

But Jack was giving summer abundance to Pamlee. Jack had
pulled down her jeans to her knees. Her panties were pink lace.
He reached his tongue to them and circled where the v point of
her would be. He felt the touch of the material to his tongue.
Felt the little muskiness. Felt the way her flesh seemed so
smooth and precise and almost cutting to that tongue tip.

As she held to his hard on that she had unrestrained from his
zipper.  His cock stood straight up, as if looking at him and her
in wide eyed wonder at it all.

And it was as hard as he had ever been. It was a barber shop
pole. Like in front of the hair cutting shop down town.

She had touched him there before. But she had never held on to
him like this, and he pulled down her panties, which, thought it
was difficult to see much more than shadow and wish here in
the night, but to Jack, it was like a spotlight was trained all hot
and white glare down their--in the mystical regions of
girlhood--he felt like praying to it-- her smooth v and her little
slit made him almost come without her having to jerk him at all.
His dick throbbed in her hand. Her pelvis bones. The pathway
to...

He felt himself go all creamy and exploding inside. Much like
what Pamlee felt, only in her, it was more subdued. More
serious. More a campaign to be won.

But she did jerk him. Her hand wet with his white liquid.

As Mark jerked himself off.  As he watched, in shadow show
mime, Jack naked and his girl friend equally so. They were
under a moon glow. Under a moon spell. And Jack was
introducing to Pamlee boy smell and boy fever and boy delight
and boy running full out throttle over fields of a July hot muggy
night. And he was summering into her.

He was taking out the bitter phases of winter before the winter
got to her and froze things inside and made sad little pus
pockets in her that she would never get rid of, that would age
her before her time.

And she gave him the feel of mothering. The offering her
nipples to him, and Jack's touching them with his tongue,
smelling the girl smell, and she grabbed his five incher harder
and he felt a certain agreeable pain. They were together rolling
on the ground, legs against each other. Then hooked around
one waist, then another.

They were the seedlings of everything that had happened from
the first moment on. They were a stencil of whatever was the
best part of human bodies and the persons inside them who
wore those bodies. As Mark felt himself hardening again, and
pushed himself to another climax.

Mark and his hand.

And two friends who let him be close enough to watch. And
would not embarrass the hell out of him for doing so.

And against his better judgment, unable to stop, how could he?,
with the awesomeness of what he was witnessing, Mark
crawling to these two bodies. Still those of his childhood
buddies. But their bodies seemed more formidable now. Their
naked bodies, their feeling everywhere, all of it made them
intimidating. Like Mark was looking in to the future where the
summer world was frozen.

Where everybody, save him, knew exactly what to do, and how
to do it. And it would be hot at the epicenter of woman and
vagina and man and penis and the pulsating thrusting needing
parts of human bodies that thought with their blood and their
need to find the blood in another to prove they weren't, after
all, alone in this world.

And Mark beside them now. Mark in almost fetal position.
Mark watching Jack now, as Pamlee sat astride him, FUCKING
HER. I'm watching a boy FUCK Pamlee. And it's not just that.
It's I know them and they know me, and that makes it okay.
That makes me not a Peeping Tom. That means they will let me
watch.

Mark found this multitude far too much for him. He did not
know where to look first second third. He wanted to touch.
God, did he want to touch. Finally, more than himself. More
than little furtive kisses and gropes. He wanted the real thing.

And at that thought, a hand, perhaps Pamlee's, perhaps Jack's,
took Mark's left hand and put it on the base of Jack's penis as
he was humping Pamlee and Pamlee was rising up and down on
Jack and moaning and sighing and digging her nails into Jack's
shoulders.

Mark felt the glorious sexual colliding of each other. He jacked
with his other hand.

Jack too, panting. Grimacing. Forging ahead.

Mark's trembling sweaty hand felt the heat of both boy and girl,
and he felt the clock inside himself go haywire, go tilt, like the
test your strength measure at the fun fair. When you took the
hammer the strong man handed you and you half way wrenched
the earth backward to get a good slam at the striking surface.
As the measurer went up just a little height until it fell with
somberness again.

Jack felt like he was on a bike race. That he was going up a hill
and that hill resided with invisible peaks and valleys for him. But
he wasn't trying to gain strength. But trying to hold off coming
inside her. And he lay back and Mark's penis was right beside
his face. So Jack without a second thought, as Mark watched
the penis in the cunt, took his friend's dick in his mouth.

Which surged electric current through Mark. Who half jumped
away at the shock. And then lingered into it, holding his cock
base and slipping it in and out of Jack's hot wet mouth. It was
so deliciously incredible. The friction. The flesh. The most
playful tongue.

And made Mark officially a part of them. And their friendship.

And the great gray looming winter days ahead. When, though
he would always have a haunted house inside him, when,
though he would always have a furtive hunted quality to him, a
shy fearful painful thing inside himself like a beast wounded
from something somewhere, he would be transformed, from this
night forward.

Though even he could not say what it was or how it measured
the leagues in him differently than was measured for the others.
Perhaps from now on, he wouldn't have to. It is a terrible thing
not fitting in with anyone. Always being at the behest of
someone's mercy.

Together now, though.

Just Mark and Pamlee and Jack. Naked come and spent several
times. The golden coins of childhood. Which was of a peace.
And a piece of everything. Sleepy. Tired. Holding to each other.
Finding the fun fair in each of them


And perhaps Jack might take a bit of Mark's winter inside him.
And Mark might take a little of Jack's summer. A leavening
process thus that may be begun. Pamlee woke,cramped,
fulfilled, slightly embarrassed, before the boys did, in time to
wake them and tell them they should all be heading home.

But for a time before that, she lay with Jack curled up on her
stomach, and Mark beside her, curled also, and would you
believe? sucking his thumb!

My little boys, she thought, stroking her cool porcelain hand
through Jack's hair, and then Mark's. Who will be littler still the
other they grow.  She wanted them to do the sexy things with
each other. To watch. And then to participate. And the glue
that holds all of this together, gently touched the shoulders of
each boy. Gently touched each boy equally. Though she knew
they were not equal. And would become more unequal as time
went on.

All were goosebumpy cold from the night chill. And warm
as toast too.

There was nothing anyone of them could do about that. It was
outside themselves, as well as inside. Mark yawned and she put
her hand to his penis that had swollen up again. She kissed its
excited tip.

Jack also now awake put his hand on her crotch and then
reached over to Mark's penis. How sad when Mark was no
longer smooth down there.

Jack thought that. His own black pubic hair was light in
quantity. But he knew it would not stay that way.

Pamlee told them to get dressed, and let's go home. How they
wished to go home together. How Mark wanted to thank them
they had really and truly made him a part of them. How Pamlee
wanted to tell him he was not a part of them. Not anymore.
When he had come the closest, had been when he was
furthermost away. This was meant as a tribute to him and a note
of friendship that was melting quickly

She looked at Jack as they dressed. She was not smiling. In
fact, she was quite grim there in the moon light and the zephyr
winds of winter coming soon. Jack smiled his somewhat gooney
though endearing smile at her. He only saw summer up ahead
for everybody. He only saw happiness.

She felt a certain pity for him. There were so many things he
would never ever know. That was the price he would pay. And
pay willingly.

She looked at Mark before he covered his body with jeans and
shirt. There was a sensuousness to him. A certain deliberation
to him. When he was not on guard. She thought, Mark of the
long hair and the movie star boy body, you will do in the both
of us.

You will leave us in the dust. As you rush to graveyards
everywhere and record the rue and the mystery and the
dourness and the bone musty coldness of light and life when
they have no where else to leak out.

Mark was to win. She was sure of that. She and Jack were to
split up. She knew this without a doubt. Mark would not
remember. Jack and she would be the ones stuck with it.
Souring them both down the days they lived in.

In their separate worlds, wherever those world would wind up
being.

They pulled their bikes from laying on the ground, and started
on the road to home.

They were rising, sailing, flying the night streets. Together. And
nothing after them would ever taste as sweet and profound and
safe and happy.

The moon seeing everything, and unlike humans, keeping quite
about it, and considering what it had witnessed down there
where the boys and girls bloom and find it quick and fast but
wanting and disappointing far too soon.

The moon had some trouble laughing at that sadness. But it
laughed anyway. It had to. It was something of a code it was
helpless to disobey.

Humans had made up so much lore about the moon, that it
could only do as wished. Or pretend to. And string everybody
along. And safe the moon was, for nobody could ever string it
and its lies and duplicity up.

And  these children pedaled bicycles to their homes. And life
went on. Though everything seemed a little darker now, in this
night. But there was also promise of sunrise in the morning.  A
brighter sunrise than any of them had any right to expect.

So, if any of them had trouble sleeping, the next page of
tomorrow was there to cling to. And if anyone wanted to, they
could skip ahead and read it early on, before it's assigned.

Not Mark's fault if the teacher decides to skip over it instead.
What was wrong with alittle learning of something not thought
worth learning, anyway?