Date: Sun, 10 Jun 2001 03:09:20 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Are You Horny Ba-by?"

			 "Are You Horny, Ba--by?"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman



 I awoke in the middle of the night with Jeffrey sucking my
dick, tickling the head of my erection with the tip of his tongue. I
moved with him, had been moving with him, in his hot mouth and
with the touch of his tongue on the slit of my cock, even when I had
still been asleep. I was a river of deep night, this late Fall when the
brown leaves were blustery wind blown down in the night below.

 His hands were tenderly caressing my stomach and his breath
was hot on my pubic hair, as we lay in his bed in our dorm room, the
heat coming in strong and making us both perspire a bit. We were
naked. We were both 19 and we were in lust strong and true with
each other. Here, for example, in the dark with the parking lot light
glow and a dim moon through our oblong wire mesh window being
the only light to fall in on us like a shy clown. Which was what I
referred to Jeffrey as. His sexual skill and his winsome eyes and his
extreme diffidence seemed to make a certain beauty that was of him
and beyond either of us at the same time.

 I spread my legs a bit on the narrow bed that made us so
close, the covering of it under us as I dug my butt cheeks into the
mattress and he put my entire cock in his mouth as he masturbated
himself against the inner thigh of my left leg. It was so excellent
being naked with him. Feeling his body hard and supple against me.
As we moaned slightly, always careful to keep our secrets from the
other boys in the college dorm. His hands pushed their delicacy up to
my chest, to my nipples that he made hard with his fingers. There
was a giggle from me as he seemed to take my entire self in his
mouth.

 As my hard as rock cock was pushed against his tongue that
tangled it and his teeth like huge boulders that were the boundaries
of this raft trip I was making. The eminent gush of cum to come and
the need to feel him swallowing me. The need to feel the bracing
push of the itch in my cock head, my balls bouncing on the
underside of his chin. It was a kind of worship between us. It was a
kind of praying to each other.

 I wanted to turn on the lights. To see this thin reedy boy
whom I had met in our freshman year here. To see his naked ass
pearl shaped as he dug his cock into the inner of my thigh, as his
head bent in supplication on my dick which strained into his mouth,
which was the object of our thoughts, but to be here in the darkness
and the moth flame of night and feeling him as though he were a
strange knight errant passing by on his way to enthrall a kingdom of
red velvet and mossy drapes, and stayed by my hand--the fantasies
within the realities have always been so important to me. And to
him.

 Somehow I had wound up cantilevered across the bed, my
head hanging down a bit, as his tongue took a last long lick of the
underside of my cherry red shaft, and then he pulled me out of him,
like a baby pulled screaming don't go let me stay please out of a
womb. Then his tongue lathed my pubic hair, caught the gold of it
and licked through it as though he were a wayfarer walking
determinedly through a crop of autumn golden rod on a hill in a far
country.

 As he tickled me and as his tongue came to my navel--an
innie, like his--and he touched it and kissed it and the whole of me
was like a ripe young wet package that he could do with as he
would. The stern countenance of teachers in classes I was having
problems with went quite well away. The dorm mates who played
their hard rock records too loud were out the window of our minds.
It was late night or early morning, I didn't know which. And he was
ravishing me as I put my hands in his thick long black hair, and
wove the webs of it round my fingers. His tongue was a most
distinguished fellow, a most talented minstrel, and wanderer which
probed every opening and aperture on me as my far more clumsy
tongue did on him. He was at my chest now, licking the flesh against
my sternum. With his larger cock, almost seven inches, against my
own. Our cocks moving onto each other, laving each other. As
though he were the ship's captain who had come down to the ocean
of me, turned from a lake or stream at the beginning of this, into a
wily current tossed sea of winter. And he to tame me, he to make the
currents wilder, to make me more sea tossed. As I stroked his butt.
As I moved my left hand to his cleft. As I pushed him further and
further into me.

 And he came to my chin and nuzzled it and I felt the bones of
his face with my other hand. I could remember vividly how his body
looked from our love making of a few hours back, but Jeffrey
insatiable. Jeffrey who had had sex with me in: a deserted classroom
at night when the students and teachers had left the building for
home, though there was always a chance of a janitor or someone
walking in unexpectedly; in one of the study rooms of the college's
library on the second floor, the door discreetly closed but with glass
walls around us as we sat side by side at the end of the table and
jacked each other off, coming as we often did at the same time, our
eyes closed, not touching each other above the table though
(hopefully what we did under the table could not have been seen--for
we weren't suicidal, stupid maybe, but we had to protest the bigotry
somehow, besides it was fun, and protesting was just an excuse)
when we opened our eyes still in post jack off ecstasy, a boy and girl
were standing right at the glass wall of our room, looking shocked at
us, which made us laugh mightily, until the boy turned red faced and
stormed away, and the girl smiled at us, giving us a thumbs up sign,
and walked away; at night, late under the elm tree in front of the
English building, as we kissed and thrust into each other and came
inside our jeans with our hands in each other's Jockey briefs, how
wonderful to feel the other's cock hard and wet with sex out in the
summer evening and the stars and moon shining down, saying it was
okay, it was all right.


 Jeffrey asked me if he could fuck me and I pulled him into
me as I spread my legs further on the bed which was his bed.
Sometimes during the day when he was gone to class and I needed
him, I would lie on his bed and smell the aroma of his body, the
cologne he wore, the musk of him, the breath of his beautiful hair
scent on the pillow, and he now, no dream, here and now, opened
me and pushed my legs up in the air and prepared to fuck my ass
hole. He had used KY on me in the beginning, (I always used it
when I fucked him--it was an ego thing for me) this boy who had
such difficulty in speaking even to anyone on campus whether he
knew them or not, including at times even me, who though
intelligent in the extreme, had trouble answering teachers' questions
even though he knew them, for he didn't want to be pushy or make
anyone else feel badly for not knowing. Jeffrey who had never had a
cock in his mouth, had never had his cock in anything but at
different times, his hand, his briefs, his jeans, and in summer his
swimming trunks (he has these lovely legs that just seem to go on
forever, imminently kissable, delicate downed, soft and creamy and
just absolutely perfect), until he met me.

 Until I kissed him one day right after biology class when the
rest of the kids and teachers were headed over to the Student Union
or the Hearth for lunch. The class room had high wide windows to
the left of us and he pushed back against me, for an instant, and then
he pushed toward me, our tongues going crazy, tackling each other
like in the football game to be played later that autumn Saturday
afternoon in the middle of college browns and blues and nature's
golds and reds. We walked hard dicked to our room, and we
explored each other's bodies like Cortez and Magellan never
explored anything at all even worth mentioning. There was such heat
between us this night, as he pushed his finger inside me. I no longer
needing being lubed up, for his dick seemed to have been born just
the right size and shape for me, and he entered me easily and
quickly, like a hand pushing expertly inside a glove.

 I put my heels on his shoulders and felt Jeffrey's cock in my
ass hole. To think the words. To say them just makes me hard as a
mountain right this minute. He held my thighs with his hands, and I
remembered how his back would look from the time we put a mirror
behind him and I saw his butt pushing back and forth mightily as he
fucked me, his legs moving fast and hard, the all of him as though he
wanted to score inside me and go into the interior of my cavern and
hide and never come out again. It was so good to feel his hard cock
inside me.

 My muscles, especially my sphincter, my nerve cells, my
prostate, all of it could see his dick like they were reading it in
Braille. I had left off being the ocean to him, and he had become the
ocean to me, as my dick rubbed against him and he took one hand
and massaged my penis, and we were cuddled up in a sort of
moment that made all the cold weather outside, all the stairs we had
climbed up and down, all the homework we had done, all the
longing looks we had exchanged, secretly, and not so secretly, across
the class rooms we shared, made the need for Fall clothes and heavy
and heavier jackets, all the times we ate at the Hearth and the pizza
restaurant, all the Fall lanes and summer hills we had crossed and
climbed and then went away from again, made it all a song, a
delight, and it would always be like this, always, with nothing to
change it ever.

 How it was like to be turned over like a Greek vase, and to
have his penis and balls and hands and body all of which seemed to
feel as though it were made out of pure velvet, exploring me as I
explored him as best I could while he was banging me, while he was
thrusting in me deeper than he ever had before, for he was lost in the
sexuality, he was down in the forest and the trees and the kudzu
grass that was wrapping round him and pulling him into a magical
forest where there was nothing sexual that could not be done and no
one to whom he could not do it to or who would not let him do
absolutely anything. Grinding-it-into-me.

 And I came. I unloaded with tremendous force on his sheer
cliff chest. I burst the wine skin almost, it certainly felt like it. I
came over and again, one cough of sperm after another, and it
affected him like this--he plowed into me, he whispered my name
over and again as he kissed my chin and my mouth as best he could
since we were both rocketing in ecstasy. And he whispered that he
adored me and I whispered the same to him on our rocky sea ride
that surged against the mountains of this most sexual spermy night
when he then exploded in me, as I felt his sperm a heavy wall
battering and his penis stuttering and firing like a finely oiled, finely
chiseled pistol that hit its target dead center every single time.

 As my legs went straight out on his shoulders, my ankles on
them, as his body moved off the bed along with mine, and we in the
air shivering and wet and sticky and full of ourselves and each other,
and he stayed in me a long time. I ass gripped that still hard dick in
me. The dick that had a little curve right at the head stem. That was
flanged out and had this little slit of pink on it that always made him
giggle when I opened it and tickled it with the tip of my tongue. The
veins of it that would stick out a bit when he was hard. The balls that
were large and the pubic hair that was thick but not too thick, and
black wiry. And we crested and the ocean emptied out into the cold
autumn we were protected from, and we fell into each other as
Jeffrey's penis began to go slack and he pulled slowly out of me,
which rushed me yet again, and then we tired, and then we slept in
each other's arms until morning came.

 We woke at nine, hugged, brushed our teeth, kissed, explored
some more like little kids exploring and we made each other hard
and promised tonight, count the minutes, fireworks. Then most
grudgingly he dressed and headed out for his nine thirty chem class.
I was lying on his bed, still naked, still feeling him, and how he
kissed my dick hard and rubbed it for a little while after he dressed,
right before he left the room. I was filled with him and said his name
over and over again, and like Tony sings in "Maria," it truly was the
most beautiful sound I have ever heard.  How to languish, and how
to wait one more hour till Jeffrey returned all enraptured by the Fall
day which as I got up and went to the window on my side of the
room, which I saw had had frost on the ground and trees and cars
during the night; the white rime still there, and Jeffrey who would
bring the season inside to me, and I would do the same when I got
back to the room. We would be deliciously cold and we would have
that pure edge of scent and promise on us, for such an odd thing,
autumn means dying, autumn leaves are dying and trees and the
grass beneath us, and the sky is mournful, save for those rare China
blue days so bright the sky light hurts your eyes. And in the midst of
death, our cells dying and changing and aging as well as the world
around us, we found life. The crazy quilt mix of things that makes so
many exact opposites at the very same time.

 I stood at the narrow window for a time and rubbed my penis
that longed for Jeffrey's hole and stood up at attention at the thought
of it. I told Jeffrey once that the most private place he had was his
asshole. That I could see it and everything about it, the pucker of it,
the downy sparse hairs of it, I could open his cheeks like he was a
girl modeling for "Hustler," spreading her legs for the beaver shot,
and he never knew what he looked like back there, no amount of
contorting for a mirror glance, or having a picture taken could make
him know what this very intimate spot of him truly looked like.

 "And, ah, how does it--look?" His breaking voice. His throat
scratching voice, not unlike the raspy whiskey sounding voice of
Rod Stewart's.

 "Truly beautiful. But I love your cock the most, because it
stands up and purrs for me. And how does my ass hole look to you?"

 "Dark," he said so disingenuously, so seriously, and I fell
into his arms and unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out my dick from
my Wrangler jeans and rubbed myself hard on his tits, as he brought
his hands to my dick and pulled it up to his mouth, and soon and
soon we were 69ing each other, he and I watching our cocks getting
sucked at the same time as sucking, as he worked on the v of my
crotch and I worked on the v of his and our bodies were glass
windows through which we could see vast horizons of tomorrow
happening and when we came, taking the delighted sparkling spunk
into our mouths, feeling the cum sticky on our teeth, and then
lumping it down our throats, we were the only dreams in the world
we would ever need.





 Tom Jackson, who lived in the room across the hall from us,
hated queers. He had long hair and he had a comma for a body and
he was always making the peace sign, had a peace sign sewn on the
right hip pocket of his jeans, never wore shoes except out into the
cold day or night, drank like a fish, smoked and sniffed and did
every kind of drug but heroin, had the correct Janis Joplin posters on
his wall, the equally correct poster of "War is Unhealthy for
Children and Other Living Things" which used that phrase,
composed in a pretend childish scrawl over a thin green flower stalk,
next to the Joplin and Hendrix posters, had incense burning in his
room day and night, played all the right rock albums, went to class
when he felt like it, didn't when he didn't feel like it, said "man" a
lot and "power to the people" a lot. He pretended to like Blacks and
Jewish people. But he hated queers. I know this because he would go
on all the time about it when he came to our room some nights to
have a beer with us and to show us his new love beads. He never
asked us what we were. He didn't have to. He knew. For that matter,
pretty much everyone knew, but it was easier and less scary to
pretend that we had been far more secretive about it than we had.

 He always had with him the paper back book of Eldridge
Cleaver's "Soul on Ice," in his hip pocket or curled in his hand or
stumbling reading from it. He read to us and to anyone who would
listen, especially the less than flattering things the most unbigoted
power to the brethren Cleaver had written about homosexuals. He
wanted us to laugh when he read it, recited it; he couldn't memorize
three words from anything else, but those passages he knew by heart,
even when he was at his most drug hazed bleary eyed. Once I asked
him if he had read any of Kurt Vonnegut's books (Vonnegut was
especially hot around this time) and he said of course man, I dig
Vonnegut. So I asked had he read "Mother Night." He said, oh yeah,
about the dude who was a double agent for AMERIKA in WW II. So
I mentioned what Vonnegut wrote is the moral of the book: "We are
what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend
to be." To which, Tom, sitting on my bed, gulping from a
Thunderbird bottle, said, "I ain't gonna pretend to be a homo like
you two jack offs," but he didn't leave. He passed the bottle around
instead to Jeff and me, either sitting far apart on the floor, leaning
against the wall, or sitting far apart in chairs or Jeffrey on his bed,
me on the floor, Tom on my bed. Whatever the arrangement, Jeffrey
and I were far apart, around Tom, who got a big kick out of that too.
We let Tom do these things to us. We had no friends other than him.
It was just how it worked out. We didn't need him. And yet we did.

 So this morning, as I stood naked looking out the window at
the cold cold world, I heard the door of our room opening and
someone walking, the shadow of someone walking to me and
standing so close behind me I could feel the all of him like a feather
reaching out. He smelled like Budweiser this morning. He always
had a different liquor smell each time I was around him. And then a
slightly unsure hand was placed on my shoulder. I knew it was Tom.
And I was frightened but not too frightened for my cock to lose its
erection. My erect cock stands straight up against my abdomen
instead of straight out, and Jeffrey can hang towels on it or his jeans
or shirt, and my rigid dick will support them like its a hanger on a
coat tree. Even, in my frame of mind then, danger was fun. Sexual.

 "Morning, Tom," I said, only a small tremor in my voice. Not
turning around. Feeling so erotic, his being with me, and he being
dressed, when I was naked. I was so defenseless. So take-able. How
did my flanks look to him? Make him hard?

 No answer for a time.  Then, Tom said, his voice sounding
like brown shoe polish would sound if it could speak. "I just want
to--talk--a little and see... You know? See what it's about. If. You
know."

 Then he pressed his front against me. His hard dick tip
pressed against my right ass cheek. I couldn't place it for a moment.
I had never thought Tom had one. But he pressed it harder against
me. It was not a finger or a pencil. It was warm and I thought a bit
wet. Lubing himself? Or had he just finished pissing? Either was
possible with him, at the same time too, no doubt. He either had his
jeans unzipped or he was bare. If he had gone out into the hall,
naked, even for only a moment, even after being sure no one could
see him, headed to OUR room, then he was braver than I thought.
Even Jeffrey and I hadn't been that daring. It was a pretty kicky idea
though.  And he put his chin on my right shoulder. His beery breath
was brushed past my face.


 "I wanna know what you and Jeffrey do? Does it make you
sick? What's it like--you know?--with another guy? His cock?"

 I turned to him. He was completely unclothed. I looked him
up and down. My dick quivered a little. His eyes  were focusing
anywhere but in my direction. Later, I noticed, on Jeffrey's bed,
Tom's towel, that he had draped around his waist before he came to
our room, which was more like him. Still, a pretty gutsy thing to do,
though.

 He finally had to notice my condition and especially his
when I guided my wider hard on shaft right against the shaft of his
thinner one and pressed them together.  But he didn't. I wanted to
laugh. He was biting his lip.

 He was pretending he was quite fully dressed and doing
nothing more than standing on a street corner, waiting on a bus on a
regular day. What eagerness he had to possess him to take this risk.
What fervent desire he had to suck dick. How long he must have
been nerving himself up for this. What agonies had he gone through
over such a long period of time? Or maybe he thought, what the
fuck?, I'm drunk, they won't tell anyway, they won't dare, and I'm
drunk, that's all. You can do anything then. It doesn't count.

 Even when I massaged his balls and flicked his cock tip, he
still stood like a statue who wasn't sure what century he was in or
what planet he was on. However, he noticed, boy did he notice, as I
slid down him, my tongue washing over him ("I know when I've
been licked," I wanted him to say,) and he looked down at me, as I
took him in my mouth. He was so astonished. So amazed. This was
such an alien thing but not without interest.

 Tom's dick was uncut. It was, like the rest of him, not
washed recently. It also smelled and tasted of smegma. The long
foreskin was like a bumpy fleshy tear drop. Completely unlike
Jeffrey's cut, always clean tasting and smelling dick. Tom reacted as
though an electric arc had been jolted through his penis, as I began
to eat him.

 He breathed hard and fast and tried to pull away, but I held
him in and he began to move in rapture. I looked up at him, at his
head that was held back in unwilling ecstasy, at his closed eyes and
his mouth that was open and breathing in and out--hard-- at his
unbrushed long hair oily, and matted from a restless short boozy
sleep, at his face which was lean and hawkish (oddly enough for
such a dove who knew where the most propitious wind blew is all
any of that mattered to him, in time, with age it would turn from left
to right and he would follow that course with equal hypocritical
fervor) as he put his long arms beside him and, then, resignedly so,
kind of resignedly so, put his hands  on my shoulders and on my
head as I gave him head. It was exciting, knowing that he had never
been sucked off before except by girls, or perhaps then maybe not,
and his dick was  shoving hard and flat against my teeth, and my
tongue tingled it and made it shiver and with a little shriek stuck in
his throat, as, quickly, Tom came on my tongue in splattery little
silver droplets that accumulated like stored up rain from that distant
country of his own device and making.

 He was horrified, enthralled, wide eyed, as he looked down
at me, his hands at the top of my head, as I took in his wad; his face
was like a fish's with gaping eyes and gasping mouth with his the tip
of his tongue extended. He could not believe it. Just no way, man, at
all. Oh, yuck, what's it taste like?

 His legs almost buckled as he shot into me. He slid clumsily
down the floor to me, his body corded and tightly muscled and
packed, so unlike Jeffrey's body which was slim and delicately
formed and like an angel's with his slow slow eyes and his tender
winsome touch, but Tom's, more workaday, more like a laborer or
construction worker, as he asked if he could suck, you know, my
dick, so I lay down on the cold concrete floor for him--it seemed
some rough sex was in order for Tom, he just always seemed like he
wanted it that way; I knew this, from his constant talk about what he
did to girls and how eventually they got to like it.

 He, mid-gulp, grabbed me with his heavy callused hands, and
unceremoniously stuck it in his mouth--fast, that way it didn't mean
it was sex or anything--how did this thing get in my mouth in the
first place?, and who stuck it in there?, I sure didn't--and then he
sucked me in as though his mouth was a vacuum cleaner and he hurt
me and it pulled at my balls with that tug he made, so I told him to
slow down, not to bite it off, so he eased his hold, and with my
directions eventually got the knack of it, and when I started to come,
I pulled out immediately because I did not think he would want to go
quite that far, and his eyes were tacked to my penis, his body and
hands pulled far away now, like the sperm was radioactive or
something, as I fountained over and again, white creamy froths of
it--but not to fear, I would be more than primed tonight for Jeffrey,
and for--

 I fell, spent, to the cold concrete floor. Flustered, so
unaccustomed to being flustered, he was, believing that he had to do
something to explain all this, that he, without my asking him to, had
gone to the bathroom and had gotten some tissue paper. He cleaned
the sperm from my leg and the floor and the tip of my cock. The
latter he now touched so tentatively. All of this he did with
unaccustomed, halting, somewhat embarrassed attentiveness. He
would have killed me had I said anything about it. It was just being
buds was all.

 "You doing anything tonight?" I asked him, as I was on my
back, resting, gulping in air, as his naked body knelt beside me and
then lay down gruffly, with danger, beside me, flinching at the cold
surface of the floor for a moment. I said it like just passing the time
of day. Nothing special. Want to go get a hot dog at the S.U.? Want
Jeffrey and me to fuck our brains out tonight while you fuck one or
the other of us at the same time? Routine. There are all sorts of
positions. We would especially love to sandwich you. But, of course,
I mean in a normal, manly way, that has nothing to do with emotions
or self or anything. Hi ho.


 "Naw. Don't think so," he said. Trying for nonchalance. But
I could tell he was excited, for he knew what I was going to ask.

 "Well, Jeffrey and I--" I was milking this (so to speak) for all
it was worth. I could not stop imagining how it would be for me to
see Jeffrey having sex with him, and Jeffrey seeing me having sex
with Tom, and all of us touching each other in all sorts of places and
all sorts of ways, then all of us doing all this great sex stuff--"you
could drop over about eight, say? We could just--you know--sit
around and--talk. Okay, ah, Tom?"

 "Well," he tried to drawl, but his hand on my cock, stroking
it as mine was on his, stroking it, kind of made the words seem
stupidly coquettish, from another planet in comparison, "I guess.
Yeah. Maybe. I could--see. Can't promise ya. But. Well."

 "One thing, Tom?"

 "Yeah?" he said as I leaned over and hardened him with my
hands. He was once more in his disguise of standing on the corner
watching all the girls go by.

 And right before I took his mushroom shaped head in my
mouth, I said, "Leave Eldridge Cleaver in your own room this time,
will you?"

 I think he might have nodded or something, but I had gone
down on him by that time and we were too busy being the ocean to
each other. I couldn't wait to tell Jeffrey. He had been wanting a
threesome. Had mentioned in that self effacing elliptical way of his
that Tom would be kind of interesting for us if he wasn't so damned
bigoted. You really had to read between the lines from what Jeffrey
said. But that was it, and I knew this was to be a very very good
night.

 Tom had interesting looking pubic hair too. Quite a forest of
it. And his legs were pretty hairy as was his chest in that little tuft in
the center and at the nipples. He had dark heavy eyebrows and wore
his black long hair in a pony tail. We could pretend that he was a
delivery boy who was bringing something we've ordered to our room
tonight. Jeffrey and I busy with each other, only partly clothed, and
rampant, finding out which way we would grow this time, not
hearing the delivery boy's knock on our door, so he comes in and
finds us--shock, horror, intrigue, suspense, role playing, magic, a real
happening!

 So it goes.

				  The End