Date: Wed, 04 Jul 2007 20:19:55 +0000 From: Timothy Stillman Subject: Snowfield of Grant Snowfield of Grant By Tim Stillman We gradually got used to being naked in front of each other. He said I was his mirror. And I said I was his. I was 30 when we first had sex and blissed out each other. We were quiet and shy after the first time. We had dressed hurriedly, turned from each other, but I could still taste his cock and his cum in my mouth. I had drunk of Grant. And he promised soon to drink of me. He was wiry, had a mumbly deep voice, and was dark haired and darkened skin. He had a lunatic for a mother. He came to me because he wanted to be held, because quite honestly, he never had been before. He was in fistfights often and right was on his side. But with me, for the last six months, we had gotten to holding each other and laying our hands on each other's thighs. He would lay his head on my shoulder when we watched TV, or when we just talked. I talked of old dreams and books. He talked of old dreams and movies. "I'll live short and hard and fast." It was a cowboy line, for that was what Grant aimed to be--a cowboy. He was to get cowboy boots this Christmas, his first. Not the expensive kind, because I couldn't afford them, but I so hoped he would like these. I had fancied a buttery leather jacket while we were in the mall. Grant said he would buy it for me for Christmas. I knew he couldn't but I thanked him for being so generous. He said, "no, Tim. I'm buying this for you, cause you're my friend. And friends do stuff for each other." I had put my hand on his shoulder as he looked up at me. I smiled a soft smile down at him and he caught it with his own. It was now two days before Christmas. Vacation had been going on for a week now. Grant's mom was who knows where trying to pretend she was happy and perhaps this time, she could coax that shadow into herself. For a time. I had Grant all this time. On up to New Year's. Tonight, looking at the silver Christmas tree, a small one, on the table beside the couch, glowing color bulbs festooned on it, silver streamers, little packages--the boots were to be a surprise Christmas morning..It was snowing heavily and white and thick outside. This would be a four to five inches sticker come morning, with more promised tomorrow afternoon. We were comfortably naked. Grant was curled up on his thin legs beside me and leaning his closed eyed head on my chest, touching my left nipple with his warm moist mouth and playing with my cock as I was playing with his, hefting his balls, as he began to heft mine. He said, "I love you, Tim." I wait for the rest of it, tense. He looked at me in a well what are you going to say? Way. "You didn't finish it, Grant." Who looked puzzled in the darkened room with the drapes closed and the doors locked, though no one came to see me anyway, but Grant, but we always took the precaution anyway. His mother after all would pop up at the worst times. She had never caught us though, and Grant knew why she never would. But that's another story. I took my hand from his hardening dick, and put it on his head. I said, "--like a brother. You didn't say `I love you like a brother--you just said `I love you.'" He tongued my hard pink nipple and said, "No, I said what I meant. I love you. And I do." Then he cuddled into me and put his mouth on my abdomen and then for the first time ever, he took his tongue and touched my cock with it. He touched his tongue to its slit and then ran it, rough and textured, down each side of my cock..I lay back and spread my legs. He got off the couch, onto the floor, and took me in his mouth--I sighed and moaned and felt so indescribably good, not like with a Mounds candy bar (sorry, couldn't resist that ad slogan) but kind of with my Mounds candy bar which did indeed feel good. He put his hands on my crotch and played with my pubes and he put one hand on my balls and sucked me in totally and I felt this completion, even more than when I had sucked Grant's cock. I felt as though there was finally a place where I fit, that I wasn't drifting anymore. That I remembered when I was nine and in the summer had accidentally jacked in the bath tub of a Saturday night and how truly wondrous Christmassy it was inside me. But this was like that, with one addition, I was with Grant now, and he had not been that far behind in his years when he had first started to jack. We talked about it often but now I was getting sucked off by him, and his head bobbed industriously, I could imagine his eyes so straining, for his back and shoulder muscles were tensed and balled up then let out and then tensed again--he had lost his cock sucking/cock being sucked virginity to me and now I was losing it to him. And he squeezed my dick and rammed it into his mouth and he tickled it and made it seem like it was in a vacuum cleaner of a boy as he brought me to the edge and dropped me over fast and slow and my dick like a huge long pipe that had just been activated for the first time in my life, and I shot into his mouth and he held it in and took all of it, as we were made different colors by the pinwheel of light revolving onto the Christmas tree. And afterwards, he put his sweet face next to my penis and said, "You taste so good, Tim." And I smiled, feeling so sex satiated and so exhausted and so wearily happy and I played with his hair as we fell asleep that way. It was late in the night when I woke up and found him asleep on the floor, crumpled between my legs, so I knew it was real and truly real. I managed to move him a bit, getting a cramp in my left leg, and lay him on the floor gently, looking at his impossibly beautiful body, squarish and boxy hands but still very much a child, though he was a tuff kid and could defend himself against any enemy. I dressed and quietly, taking a cigarette and lighter, to the porch, closing the door gently. I lit up and leaned against the wall of the porch, really just a slab of concrete at the front of the house. I felt my groin muscles aching a little. I felt my dick still a bit sore, but a most happy sore. I felt the need of Grant. I thought I would always feel the need of Grant. Not just now, but for all times, and knowing he was not to need me after a time. That he was a shadow of rainbow in my life for a small time. That I should capture him with every bit of film footage in my brain. Not with a camera. For I knew that I would become captive by video of him or a picture of him, and I would get lost in the past. And what had once been that could never be again. Which would sit there and mock me till the day I died. Which would in a very real, very important and valid way, happen when he said good-bye. Which I knew would be soon. So when the arms came round me, he had sneaked out the door, to scare me, so I yelped, pretending I was shocked, but he was with me always, and I was not shocked at all. He was dressed in his daytime clothes. He hugged me from behind and put his warm body next to mine. I could feel his crotch and the heat of it on my leg. My God, how I wanted to feel his penis against me. To remember how I had sat there a few hours earlier and had watched and felt this lovely boy of grace and style and depth and wisdom suck me and look up at me and smile, my cock moved from cheek to cheek, as I had moved his. And now we stood here with the snow and wind blowing cold in on us, and he said, "It's awesome, isn't it? I think this is the first snow I've ever seen in my life. I mean other than TV and movies." And it was. Snow was a very rare commodity around here. As was Grant. He asked me if he could have a puff before I put my cigarette out--I said sure, handed it to him, and he finished it. He was a smoker of tobacco and grass since age 10. He also was a drinker that long. I tried to discourage it, till I found out what his home life was, then almost said, what brand of booze do you like, I'll buy a whole case for you. Though I never said it, and made clear that he could smoke an occasional cigarette, but no booze in the house, and he was not to come over here with so much as a beer, never plotzed or high in any way. Twice he had and I sent him, with him crying, back to his house, which was empty unless his mom had brought her latest trick back for business purposes. I hated like hell to do it. But he never did it again. And he forgave me after sulking a bit. "I'd like to do the other," he said. I was turned to him and we were kissing round the cheeks and eyes and mouths. "The other?" "You know...fucking." "You've never said that word round me--." His head went downcast; afraid I might punish him again. I put a finger under his chin and lifted his head to mine. "It's okay. I meant you say it only as a swear word. You mean, you--ah--really want to--." "Fuck," he said too loudly. "Christ, Grant, the neighbors." He looked out at the houses and the yards. "Ah, Tim, I don't really see anybody mowing their lawns or sitting on the porches, sipping tea. I think at three forty in the snowiest most blizardly day this place has known in the last two centuries, we're not in much danger of someone HEARING US!!!!!" I laughed and virtually tossed him to the door and opened it and we fell into the living room. Laughing our hearts out. Christmas morning arrived and I gave him the box with the new cowboy boots. I said I was so sorry I couldn't get the more expensive kind. But he rubbed his face against the side of mine as we sat by the little toy tree, drinking our boiled custard, and he said, "They're great, man, they're the greatest boots--man I'll wear these forever." And there I thought is the deepest heart of the problem. He put them on and since he was naked was truly hot with only those boots as he walked in them and hopped up and down in them--that was especially fun--and he lay on the couch on his stomach with his legs up in the air, showing his new boots, like a woman centerfold in "Playboy." God he was so beautiful from this view, which I had seen so little of. I sat beside the couch and stroked his hard small slices of buns, and he lost his smile. I took my hand away. Had I done something wrong? Was he to tell me he had a girl friend and was tired of me or.... He wasn't a boy for easy tears but this time they came and they came copiously. He took about five minutes to get the story out. He had been saving up for a jacket for me, not the expensive one I had fancied, but another one that he hoped made up for it. He had saved every dime he had had from his summer jobs. He had gone without, for his mother cared little about her son. How little she cared came clear when Grant, holding onto my shoulders, told me, with much shame, she had found where he had hidden the money and had taken it for herself. When he confronted her with it, she angrily denied and told him never to lie about her again, not ever. He didn't think I would believe him. He would think he was lying. There is such injustice, there is such cutting drop dead and gone away, there is so little place where a person can defend himself, at least as far as I know, and Grant was coming to know, and I told him hugging tight, I believed him. He said against my right nipple that he was breathing warmly on, she was a druggie and that's why they were so poor all the time and he was so sorry he couldn't get that jacket, that it wasn't what I wanted, but he did the very best he could--. I finally said, "I love you Grant Henley." And he said, "I love you too Timothy Stillman." Then he giggled and pulled back from me a little. His penis on the rise. "Can we fuck?" he asked, his mumbly voice in my ear forevermore. "I think we'll have to talk about that one, first. Here are some more presents for you," and he eagerly started tearing off the Christmas paper. I held his penis and I held his soul and I made him happy and God knows he did infinitely more of that for me. "You're my Christmas present, Grant." I kissed his abdomen and then, once more, we tore into his presents. Mostly DVDs. Horror. Gruesome. Gore. Violence. Nudity. Profanity. Hey, come on, after all, it's Christmas, and I think kids who get nothing but sadness and loneliness and hut all year long have bought the privilege of getting stuff they want on Christmas. Don't you?