Date: Sun, 5 Aug 2001 09:55:04 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: m/m college "My Darling Joel"

			     "My Darling Joel"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 Boy wild, willowy, and wistful he was. And they broke
him. So he came to this winter cabin. Snow sheets falling. Grip of
coldness that was black angry night sky. And piles of drifts that
rushed first one way, then another in the grip of a wind hungry
and whistling. When weather has soul and form and breath. When
weather makes itself known as a beast that is living and is toying
with those of us considered so superior.

 The cabin was warm, however. There was a warm puppy
brisk fire in the fireplace. Orange and jumpy and filled with bright
shadows. That was what the boy needed. Bright shadows. And
himself by the fire, on the bearskin rug. Naked was Joel. Naked
and small and boned deeply and lying on his stomach, still a bit of
pout to it though he was now 19. His hair was the color of the fire
that danced on his skin, reflecting himself in himself.

 He was a mirror glass. He stretched his leg tendons. He
propped one foot, the left, upward. He grimaced. His eyes became
suspicious and sliding around from side to side. He smiled
warmly. He smiled wanly. He held his upper body up on his arms
before the heat that felt so good on his naked body. His thin
comma shaped body. As though he was a sleet thought in
desecration on the waves of the white foamy fabric beneath him.
This synthetic bear skin rug. This boy on it making it more
synthetic. Making himself more unreal.

 The wooden carved bear head that he held to and put his
face on and toyed with this momentary beast of a jungle who
would like to see him and feel him. Feel the boy's hard cock
rubbing against it. Feel him mimic fucking. The hairless chest.
The thin chest. The sweet smell of him as though he were always
just out of the bath and just dusted with talcum.

 For he was a gentle caring boy. He was the boy everyone
picked at school. His emotions rode too easily too obviously in his
dark eyes. He loved and was loved in return. That was the
problem. He had long thin arms and long thin legs. They knew
him. And he didn't know himself. Just the trapezoid he felt he
held secretly in his tummy. Just the way he wondered what he
looked like, now as he masturbated, from above. His hips flexing.
As he dug his dick into the rug. As he luxuriated in the heat that
was enclosing him in gold.

 A golden boy. Smart and well liked. And not them at all.
Not what he was supposed to be. When that was intended to be
the answer. And he was perspiring beside the fire. He was
expiring by the fire. He lay his head like a slow motion autumn
leaf falling off its branch, on the wooden head. His cheeks were
soft, face, and buttocks. He closed his eyes. He breathed his last.
His arms fell akimbo to his sides.

 He pretended to be dead. He pretended there would be
boys who would weep over his death. Call bird and come winter
sky and Joel not here anymore. How sad. How bad. And they
would cry in the night for him. For all the wrong reasons. He lay
there still for a time. Wondering if death heard. Wondering if
death would come.

 His hair was long full and reached to his bird soft small
shoulder blades. He was caught in the stillness of Canada. Caught
in a cabin made of logs and made of mortar. There were heavy
snowed fir trees all around the cabin in the forest which claimed
it, framed it and him.

 They loved him, this place, the trees, the fire. As he had
been loved all his life. Apprehending death standing too close by,
he flicked open his eyelids. He moved his legs apart, and put his
left hand to his cleft, then feeling his balls pressed underneath.
His body was molded with tight secrets. And his head with tighter
ones. Pale skin snow he was with orange pumpkin light within.

 He was himself. And the soft music on the CD player was
himself. And that was wrong. He was at the top of the world. He
could see the coldest deepest stars up ahead of him. He dreamt he
was swimming in space. He had been in the snow earlier this
evening. Naked, in the snow. Biting the cold and biting the
nipples of it and him. Strumming his cock in the cold and his
ankles deep in the white drifts, as he stood in it. Slightly bending
over. Being taken from behind. He shouted his name over and
again to the echoing dark.

 He was Joel and that was good enough for most. And the
thing was, that was true. In the snow a bit earlier this evening: He
felt the little down of eider on his legs and arms, out there in the
white cresting. and he felt the cold lift his dick and hold it straight
out. Like the hand of a cold lover was holding it. He felt his butt
cheeks pucker and shiver. He fell backward in the snow,
wondering as his body hit the softness, hit the delicacy, as though
he were falling into a water color whoosh of winter water color in
which he might swim forever, he wondered if he would make a
snow angel or a snow devil?

 He had laid there for a long time. The snow and wind
numbing his body. Making him feel divorced from it. Making him
feel as though he were riding a horse of deep and pure and perfect
winter. A horse like Pegasus perhaps. Or like a unicorn. Heading
with the great beast's hot back between the boy's legs, flying,
they were, out to space where there were candles of Winter on
every planet they passed by. But the boy would be choosy. He
would only stop at the right planet. The exact right one.

 He had laid in the snow and the snow of the sky fell on
him. Covering him. As though he were laying on a sandy beach
and was a young child. Being dusted and melted within and
covered by snow sand. And the waves he could almost hear. The
ferocity. The demimonde of them. As though he were, in memory,
and lying now by the fire a bright crystal cup, a delicately inlaid
crystal wine glass. To be pinged by the wind and by the fire. To
be pinged and to make this utterly pure sound. This perfection of
music that would forever be round him and protect him from the
world.

 But he did not need to be protected. He was well loved.
And they had broken him, so he had had to hie himself to this
winter cabin. Because he was leaking out of himself. Because
when he stood up from the snow he had laid in, he saw a beautiful
snow angel that he had made.

 And cried. Which? The maker of the angel imprint? Or the
angel himself? It was couched in moon lamp holding bright in the
sky. It was couched with that echo light forests sometimes give on
bright blue cold winter nights of long graceful bright moon blue
snow hills in the distance

 Joel was an echo. He had made himself hold his hard
shivering penis as he stood above the snow angel. It was all he
could do to keep himself from peeing on it. It would have been
like peeing on himself, and everyone would be quite angry at him
if he did that. For no one could stand to see the desecration of Joel
Haden. Say it loud. And there is freedom for them. Say it loud.
There is no freedom for him.

 He had come back to the cabin. Shivering. Iced up. Like
he was turned almost into a snow boy. And the ice came off
quickly as he lay by the fire. He shook the snow from him. It lay
in his hair and on his chest and some flakes on his pubic hair. As
he lay by the fire and considered himself a languid stretching
meowing cat. He luxuriated in the world that was himself. Others
saw the world as only himself. He had never been alone a moment
a second in his life. And he touched his shoulders and kissed the
fingers that had touched the shoulders. He shook his head back
and forth to make his hair dust against his shoulders. It was such a
sexy sensation.

 He was proud of his skin, of his body, of the way it
swayed and was like a willow tree when young and in a spring
breeze. He loved being naked with himself. He hated being naked
with others. They wanted to fingerprint him with their love. They
were sad and lonely no matter how boisterous and drunk and high
they were at the time. They wanted him to be their circus, their
merry go round, their fun fair. For he was festival. For he was the
boy the others clumsy and ashamed and loud and shy and delicate
and fake and real and too lost danced around him. Circled him
and starved him for himself, because, they gave him themselves
and took as much as possible of Joel away from Joel.

 Clear pool on distant day. Boy on fake bear skin rug, was
the boy fake too? after all? Boy rubbing his chest and abdomen
and crotch on the rug. Boy feeling the softness against him, the
fine fuzziness almost like that of a soft bath rug beneath him.
Rearing upward and sighing. Putting the tip of his tongue out of
his mouth. Touching it to his lips that were open a bit. And
sighing. As though he were being fucked by the greatest lover
there ever was to be.

 Feeling his strong veined candy cane warm penis sticking
straight out, confined by his hot stomach pressing down lightly on
it, feeling his balls start to crawl upward. Feeling the fire in
himself and the fire without himself. As he wondered if he might
vanish now. As he might vanish as though he had never been. A
great icon to his friends. And his friends were legion. A boy who
was all sexuality. Who used his right hand and caressed his soft
sweet butt. Who took a finger and inserted it in himself. Finding
the hot hole small and snug and dry.

 He loved being fucked and sucked at the same time. He
loved having one boy kiss and bite Joel's tits, while another boy
was sucking Joel's cock, while another boy fucked Joel, and lost
Joel in the stars of himself. Lost Joel in the sweet soft slumber
that was him. The languid boy. The boy who was wise and kind
and shy. Even in the paroxysm of sex, he was still somehow shy.
As though he shouldn't be here with these boys--in dorm rooms,
in the quad at midnight, in an empty midnight classroom gotten
into through jimmied opened windows, in the town cemetery as
the summer moon shone down on the boys, their bodies naked
and glowing bone white.

 All hail Joel. All hail the boy who scuttled out of his
clothes so quickly, who teased so easily, who kissed so
unashamedly, with the legs that opened easily and the legs that
would perch so lovingly on your shoulders, as you sucked him or
placed your penis inside him. Who sighed accordingly to each
centimeter. The boy who was the sea of snow and heading to a
distant shore. Joel, who talked little, who kept to himself, while
he was giving himself away. Who needed the feel of lips against
his. Paint me with your lips, sometimes, Joel thought, so that at
least a part of me will last, will never go away.

 They took pieces of himself away--with love, with
gladness, with humility, with devotion. Until some day he
thought, as he rubbed his warmth and felt the sexual glow and the
coming storm clouds of sperm rain inside him, until some day I
will be like this synthetic bear skin rug with the wooden bear
head. Totem Joel.

 Joel by himself. Moaning now. Sighing and feeling the
trills running through him. Lost in magic that was him. Lost in the
unbounded sexual lust he felt now. Now that he was not thinking
about anybody but himself. Not performing. Not proving anything
though he had nothing to prove. It didn't matter, he still thought
he did. Joel's toes curled and his heart throbbed. The veins in his
high forehead pulsed. His whole body was a drink of sex. The
machine of his penis felt so good. He put himself in its saddle and
rode it. This time truly unashamedly. This time truly giving into
sexual passion. His whole body filtered out to his dick so
tumescent thin and tall and on a strong straight stem, the pistil of
it rushing almost beyond Joel's hand could rub it as it now did.
He was left handed. On that wrist he had a thick clock watch.
Time was Joel. Sex was a way of stopping time.

 Adore me, Joel said.

 Adore me, and he rubbed his penis hard. He rubbed the
little head of it and felt the slit and he felt the volcano inside him.
His body had not changed much since he was 14. He still had only
a light dusting of blonde pubic hair. His balls were small, but the
boys said they were glad because they could hold both of them in
their mouths at the same time. He rubbed himself by the fire. The
fire rubbed him too, as though it were making love to him, as the
snow had earlier this evening.

 He rushed his hands over his hard thin chest, over his
inward turning abdomen. He stroked the staves of his ribs that
were coverings for all the secrets within the hot house known as
Joel. He was a comma in a song, he was the pause of breathe that
such a wondrous boy could actually exist on this planet that did
not deserve him. His cock was jerking by itself. He felt his balls
and their  heat, as well as the extreme heat between his legs. He
closed his thighs over his hand and he worshipped the sexuality
he had been blessed with.

 He cried out and he cried tears and he rubbed his penis
and he covered it with both hands. He held to the center of it and
the center spread out to the entirety of his body. He was within
and without- one gigantic penis. He loved the word "penis". It
said childhood and it said daring and it said pure and it said fine
and it said all the wild sex that he could find with it and he found
so much with it. This amazing device that could grow from its
flaccid state into this hard proud gifted love tool, this exhibition
of sexual turn on that made the boys know Joel was so excited, so
ready and sexually devised. That nothing would do but rutting
wherever they pleased with him and wherever he pleased with
them.

 He thought of snow angels and he thought of snow devils
and he heard the cold wind blowing, howling, outside the cabin.
The fire groped and sparkled and sparked and crackled as though
it were a soft silk whip against Joel's stomach and his back. As he
got into the final stretch of jerking himself. The delight at the
words, kid words and naughty words but presaging, hiding, the
deep seated pleasure and giving away and taking to sand inside
him that rushed in tidal waves. That wanted to settle him down on
a distant shore of some other far away planet no one else had ever
heard of.

 His legs were scissors open now. When he masturbated,
he always did it on his right side, always had his left leg in the air.
He never knew why, just the way it worked best for him, so the
boys he had been with, who loved to see him jerk off, would kiss
the inside of that soft downy leg, that soft bunny feeling of it, and
they would kiss him at the ridge between his legs. They loved to
lie there with him and feel his hand on himself and feel
him--explode. As he was lost then as now in his coming.

 As he was lost now in crying out to no one at all. And he
pulled his cock hard, twisted it just a bit. Pulled on and pushed on
his balls. His tiny balls that a boy mouth could take inside all at
once. He put his right hand to his mouth. He kissed it and felt his
eyes close with it. His hips jerked and pushed in and out. His
whole body was going wild. He was the snow and its trajectory.
He was the snow and its willful destruction of the world of winter
Canada. The world of maple leaf and sled dogs and Sgt. Preston
of the Yukon and Leatherstocking and snow masks and snow
hiding and snow be me, Joel, snow be me and let me stay naked
here forevermore. Let the patches of dark sky push the stuff down
on me. Let me fill my mouth with it like I did as a child with
snow cream. Let the blue night take the always sad blue of me
and fill my cock with power and pleasure. Even more than it has
known before.

 Joel felt alight from the tip of him to the full body of him.
He pulled himself and he jerked his hips in and out. He fucked his
hand and he growled like a bear. His chest was heaving and his
ribs were almost breaking he was so thrusting, so turned into that
crystal glass about to be pinged, about to be shown the loveliest
sound, the most haunting sound, the note the plaintive piano cord
that would break the night and the sky and him apart. That would
find him pushing into himself and his body that was geared
almost to the point of giving his left leg a charley horse, though
the pain made him go further. Reach into himself. Pull out all the
magic that he had had hidden all these years even to himself.

 His right hand felt the pimples on his face. Only a few of
them. But enough to make him even sexier as he rode some other
college boy's cock, as he rode him and the boy plowed up into the
hidden secret part of Joel. Into the warm tight hole and Joel
feeling the cock up into him and never getting it the right distance
into him, always too short, always too unsatisfying, for he wanted
to take in more and more. And the boy on the bottom feeling
Joel's cock and holding it and reaching up sometimes and trying
to kiss it. Trying the deepest kiss of all time.

 As Joel sprang now, as his body jack knifed and he shot
his silvery thick stream into the direction of the flames which
blazed brighter and the wind howled more mightily and the snow
came down deeper and harder and in a frenzy. The exact same
frenzy Joel had just released from his body, as though it were a
golden tiger leaving him now, spent and tired and flopped on the
rug as though he were a straw doll who had just had all its
stuffings pulled out of it. The golden cord that had held him
bound so tightly, found and cut and done with. For a time at least.

 He lay there. Perspiring. Gasping for breath. One hand
rubbing all over his body that was still trembling. His left hand
filled with his come. He in time put his hand to his lips and ate of
himself. It felt salty and dewy and sweet clean all at the same
time. It was hot and from the depths of himself as though a
monster that had risen from some Japanese sea a long long time
ago. He was not himself now. He was flying. He was in deep dark
space. The piano note sounded from him again and again. It took
it strove it turned into a parabola of perfect pitch it shattered and
it glowed bright and red and gold as though it held an autumn
heart within itself.

 This crystal glass note rose from Joel and took itself away
from the cabin. It dwelled in the dark night. It was an arrow of
music. It was the saddest and the sweetest sound there had ever
been. It came from Joel's mind and heart and penis and balls and
it whispered so loudly, "love."

 It spread its iridescent wings about itself and it took off to
the forest and through the white dark growth of the trees, it
bounded and bounced in firm form and firm decision and
unashamed and it strove through the forest and through the bitter
cold china sky it touched to a village far away from the cabin and
to the people asleep in their beds. Who, though they did not wake,
felt it, felt the conclusion, felt the inclusiveness of it all, felt how
lonely they had been all their lives regardless of how un-lonely
they had thought they had been. Regardless of their lovers or
husbands and wives or their children or their good jobs or their
firm grasp they thought they had on reality and how they had
learned to contain themselves within themselves and considered it
fully and completely their duty to wait for God and their reward
coming in full bloom after they died.

 And it broke them. It made them dream of shimmery
beautiful hearts high profound dizzingly angled and constructed
architecture of new castles new worlds on which were never
before seen golden limbed and so excellently formed aliens with
eyes the colors of color that had never been seen here before,
aliens whose bodies human words could never describe--only this,
this is what the body should be, this is how we should look, this is
how we should feel. That we will never ever be. And the dreams
caused by the crystal glass of Joel pinged just correctly, just
rightly, made them ashamed of their lives that they had always
been proud of before, that they had always been sure of before,
those who had been proud and sure. And know then in this dream
moment what a lie it had all been. What a sham.

 As the children in their beds felt all of this as well and a
sexuality beyond what they had felt before, as their bodies rubbed
crotches on their beds, as they groaned as they felt their pubes
with their hands and dreamed of mouths on them and needed so
much, needed so much, hungrily, no matter their parents heard, no
matter if they were found out, the itch of their bodies before this
paled before the fullness of sexual lust that was agape in them
now.

 But the parents did not hear them, for they were rutting as
well, and all over the village, and the next one, and the city many
miles away, and through out the whole country, then throughout
another country and the whole world in time, everyone felt all of
these things. In daylight and dark time. In city streets. In
restaurants. In beds. In fields. In the middle of the day. In schools
and in boardrooms and in banks and on mountains and on ships
and on planes--the plaintive note of Joel spread and had its effect
and the sexuality of Joel was known. Not its depth though. Not
the full wonderment of it. They mimicked him as best they could,
without their knowing it. But they were only badly mangled
copies, dim and uncounting, when compared to Joel.

 For the vast complex poetry rooted in times not known on
this planet, the longing, the crush and the demand of it, the way it
signaled all the stars and turned their faces straight to him--these
things only Joel knew.

 And that made him alone. And here in this cabin he could
have sex, could feel that warm rush, that undenied giving away,
but only alone. Only with, he thought, no one else in the world
ever knowing.

 Joel then, this night that he started this chain reaction,
falling to sleep. The naked faun boy, flamed by yellow and red as
though autumn had caught fire and shed its glory on him, drifted
off to dreams of castles and excellently formed aliens that only he
was to know in full. The howling wind and the feel of snow fall
lulled him. His last conscious thought was-- everybody loves me
and that is the problem.

 Oh my dear darling once and future king, Joel, you don't
know the half of it.

				    end