Date: Mon, 07 May 2007 20:40:28 +0000 From: Timothy Stillman Subject: Steven Steven By Tim Stillman as dictated from A. Gadfly There was power in Steven. There was British strength to him. There was prepubescent toughness there. Something that defied and if one were submitting to pages of stories, one might do well to observe Steven at the act, the art, and craft of being himself. He had muscles and was muscular, but not overly so. He had eyes that were slits of narrow. He had tough-minded words and he shot them off with tails of spittle as often as not in his hearer's faces or that or thereabouts. He was hopelessly gay and anyone who wanted to take him down would only do that after a fight of strong proportions. Steven had a grace and poise, like a pencil mark that dug into the souls of those lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to come into contact with him. He was sexuality. He made no commandments. He was always the meanest kid at the boarding school. He--excelled. Not at his grades, which were of no matter to him. He--excelled at being constantly sexual, most overtly so, and denying from his first appearance here that anyone who wanted to tangle with him would beat the stuffings out of him. He was a danger and he had long arms and he could plow into the other boys and everything he did was a fight of dimensions. He had an anger at the world and the world at which he expressed his anger was never at himself, which someone clever, might have ascribed it, though the teachers and proctors here were not sufficient to confine him, to nail him down-psychology wise. It was all to interesting to see him and his smolders, to see him and his leering, to undertake his lifted arms in the beds that night, any night, and let any boy suck on him, his hard steel cock, as long as they liked, for five minutes each exactly then, then Steven would put his hands on their heads, each in turn, and send them to the floor, so the next lucky or unlucky winner could have at him. Steven came only when he felt like it. He was a magnificent boy come man. He was not a dreamer. He did not care for books. He did not care for any teachers' dirty looks, which is why they only did it, when he was not looking, and in the midst of it, he would turn round, or round the corner, and invariably catch them at it, making them into harummpphing foolish versions of Mr. Bumble. He was not a puppet, not Steven. And he serviced whom he liked and when he liked. Everyone was at his power and his range of targets, for many times, having sex with him, more like the phrase should be he stooping low enough into the primeval muck, in order, thanks to his big big heart, to let you bring him off; that and having had fisticuffs with him were seemingly the same thing, in certain be jangled crew cuts that were outdated even then, but something the powers in their flowing black Mr. Chipping's robes took to be the lesson of suits of blue and ties of gray for boys who were too hardened to be at any other more posh, more dontcha know, boarding schools, and this was salvation here, for the likes of Steven, though there were never more the likes of Steven, Steven so believed, on the face of the planet Earth--which was a donnybrook kind of place all these misfortuned children knew about to the core of themselves, at least, they had thought they had, in their cold dorms, their colder beds, their dreary classrooms, their spooky chapel, their Dickensian Bleak House of a school building and all the barns and shacks on the grounds. There was no cricket here, no squash. The only squash was served like vomit on the plate in their dank and equally dark dining hall. All hollows, before Steven, and all hallows during Steven. To think the prelates had thought they should not have allowed such a boy to enter here, because he was so openly queer, because they feared for their and their charges' safety, but they decided to, for his parents were gone and dead, and there was no bed sitting room even for him, the age he was, and discovered an hour and a half, give or take an hour or a half, that they need not fear for his precious little psyche, for he was a right'un right off the bat, or more to the point, a wrong'un, they would be bound. Terror took his name or Steven took terror's name, and there were no cloddish children here really. They had all been knocked about and did their handiwork with their fists before him. And they gave him anything: whatever cookies or candies or other foodstuffs relatives sent them; they wanted to take their midnight turns with him. They wanted to feel his cock, for it had made them, as they had been lancing it like a boil in their mouths, and speaking of that cock in mouth habitation, who would be the lucky boy this week Steven would pour himself into?, which lucky mouth would catch the ring toss of the spun Steven rainbow, and did not have to feel the ultimate sadness of Steven coming in his hand instead and laughing all the while. He had a great prong, though there was only a little fuzz around it and his large balls in a tight sac, and he was for all intents and purposes, insatiable. He was one for himself and if he actually sucked some other boy, and that would be a lucky boy indeed, that boy would have to pay penalties for the largess of Steven that would fry the hair of a seasoned dock worker, but gladly they did, and gladly they would do so again, even at the end of the day's punishment, and before the punishment continuing for the following day, until it was all worked out of them, and they at the back back and further back of the line again. So, did Steven get his due? Did someone finally beat him into beef stew? Did someone grab him by the collar of the neck, and tell him he was not so grand as the Arch Duke? Did love come along and sail him away from the land of invincibility? What then, in this setting of loose change boys and prison schools, in the land of Jolly Olde, did happen to him and was he ever caned for his courage and his, let's face if, meanness, for he loved to see the littler kids cry, and cared not a whit? For if he was in view and tactile range of the cane of justice, it was he who used it on the boys and on a proctor or two who got to sex some with the magnificent Steven. Did he finally grow out of it, one fine day? It was that kind of a world that accepted Steven whole--well, not heartedly--but that found him accessible in his inaccessibility, for they saw themselves in him. He was never to know a kind word, a soft hand, a pair of eyes that were happy to see him--coming--in all the phases of that so-charged word--he was selfish and startling so, to a fault, and it was never his fault, that fault, but always someone else's. So Steven grew up, at least grew taller, and gained more hair and was a decent looking man, who oddly enough, became a gentleman of leisure, for he found society's pure society ladder easy enough to climb, for all the hard work, all the spit and polish work was to be done by others eager for his ever more impressive dong. I wish I could say otherwise, but he, who had no stomach or interest for writing or for reading, became a writer, in between being sucked and fucked round the town, and he wrote about his boarding school days and his days before, and all the sex he had had, at any time of the day or night. He, very oddly indeed, became a best-selling writer with whom all his female readers, and more than few male readers as well, became so enamored. His book signings at London book shoppes were mob scenes, which the police had to frequently disperse. His books by now were in the hands of children, sneaked out of secret places, nooks and crannies, behind tallboys, etc. where their parents hid them. There were quite a lot of Steven **** books. And he became a man of leisure and of letters. He became quite wealthy and lived in a tony part of London, during the age of motorcars, thank the Lord, because horseshit even in the roads of the tonier parts of London smelled the same as in the less proper locations others chose to live in. Steven was to have many followers among the children who read his books and masturbated like crazy doing so, by themselves or with each other, and eager to find out more sophisticated things to do--turn the page, please--and they did so with alacrity. So England created in itself by its citizenry many new Stevens over the long period of history to this very day, and this is the story of the original of them, that cold gray gleam of England, where cruelty and snobbism and cold cutting hurts and slices of heads given to one when one gets on the bad side of a Steven, and indeed, many male children were named Steven by their parents, wittingly or no, so they had to be what their literary ancestor was, to carry on the up hill tradition. You can see them growing their still. And this is the story of their progenitor. I thought you would like to know. Now, the Steven House museum is closing down and it is time for all guests to leave, or I shall bloody every Scotsman's nose I can find. Ah yes, good for a laugh. Like to keep them laughing. Makes it less likely they will think. The egress is right over there. Thank you so much. Do come again. Little tyke, put down that bust of Master Steven--oh, yes, I see, then as I am aged, Master Steven, with my own master's blessings, take and your fist out of my face and go along and thank you all yet again.