Date: Sat, 16 Jun 2001 05:33:16 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: M/M, college  "On Fucking Joel"

			     "On Fucking Joel"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 It's winter snow that comes to my mind most often, and Joel
in it, light and fair and long of yellow hair, with eyes that smile
greenly like those of a cat's. I remember him in college when he and
I were one man. That first time I saw him, and followed him blindly,
heart thumping, from the first time I saw him walking, ambling
easily over to the English department building, in his gray hunting
jacket, though he did not hunt, save for my cock late at night, two
days after we met, for we were love fanciers and had been lonely a
long time. The heft of those winter days back there that were pewter
beaten skies and white chalk snow piled on the ground in clumps
and bushes and love was ours because we believed in each other,
because we could believe in no one else.

 The heft of that first winter of ours and Joel's place in it like
a memory of dimension and worth caught in a glass winter snow ball
that I try to break into, to rob it of its night star, to hold my hands
again to that flat chest and tickle those pine board ribs as I called
them, which made Joel laugh and he laughed merrily, freely, and we
were in each other's arms every night for the next two years of
college and then the world stopped and life remembered.

 And memories of sucking his candy pink dick, how he would
rush to me in the dark of evening with a candle burning shining light
onto his face, from below his chin, and he would tell me chipmunk
stories that involved all the penises he had held when he had held
mine, and the sole one I held when I held his. With the candle light
burnishing up to his face, he would come to me like the winter wind
in our too warm dorm room and I would fall at his knees and stare
up at him, at his naked thin body and his penis hard and firm and the
balls little sacs of miracles that I loved to touch with the tip of my
tongue.

 How he would put the candle on its holder shakily down on
the desk beside us as I lurped him up and as I felt the wash of
sexuality go through me as though Hans of the Silver Skates were
with us, were feeding us sexual candy and Joel putting his long
fingered hands, that felt always like cool clay as though he was in
the process of forming his own world in the beginning, on my wire
hanger shoulders and he would sometimes rub his fingers through
my long brown hair and push me deeper on his dick, impaling me in
the sweet smell of Joel that could be nothing more than the fresh
farm sunrises he shared with his family before college and me, that
could be nothing more than the freshly churned butter and the
buttermilk he loved so much and the way the hills of his balls pushed
back at my chin, limbering me, loving me and loving my mouth on
him.

 We could have been witches or warlocks in those times, in
this precious two year skein of joy that we lived inside and thought it
would last forever and neither of us to ever forget, for winter came
and winter was our happiest times and we kept the pureness of it, the
intent and the hard razor edge in our hearts to last all summers
through. And I would raise my trembling hands to his dick, to with
my fingers feel it pushing in and pulling out of my mouth and his
dick was warm and hard with a covering of softness to it that was so
intriguingly contradictory, as he pushed his invex abdomen into my
face and I smelled the power of Joel as though he had just dusted
himself off with a powder puff.

 We tried that sometimes, more than in passing, Joel his pale
and pink body lying naked on my bed in our dorm room, lying on his
stomach with his surprise package, and it was always that, pushed
deeply between his legs so the tip of his dick pipe was sticking out as
well as his balls just a bit from between his legs, as I, with pink
powder and puff, powdered him down all the way along the graceful
dipping swan back of his, down to the cleft of his hips, and his
cheeks that held such rosy glow in them, from my slapping them
delicately, which turned him on so, so rose, in addition to a pearl
color for Joel was complex and so much of life, and bare there he
was a nymph who would pose--on his stomach, his left leg raised a
bit with his foot extended, and his face on its side looking up at me
with one exposed eye as though a radical egg catcher had found Dr.
Seuss's "Green Eggs and Ham" whimsy could be turned easily into a
20 year old boy and he was golden of heart and sweet of spirit.

 He would lean on his side, his hand supporting his cheek,
smiling teasingly at me. He would hold his dick and masturbate for
me and really work up a whole stage show for its and his presence.
He would model like the girls in "Playboy" did, hiding the good stuff
in the shadows of his modest then less than modest then gangbuster
positions and come to me, and come to me he did. My Joel, the face
unlined, the hair heavy wheat gold all the way down to his shoulders.
The pride of him and his always asking me to examine him closely,
to put down the camera of my eyes and touch him with the all of me.

 As I  said not yet, not yet, made him wait, that made it better,
as I powdered his hips, his cheeks would dip inward as though they
were drinking my attention, as he would hold my own bare body
next to him and suckle my cock as though he were a bird of the
morning winds taken flight into a too gray land and said banish such
grayness always and it was so. His spine was bumpy and I would
walk the powder puff on it, and dance my fingers an Irish jig on
those little stepping stones that led me to the castle terrible of Joel
and his whispery voice and his wispy world that treasured him as
much as it could ever have treasured a Christ or a Mozart, as he
would arch his spine after I finished dusting his back and kissing his
hips and his thighs and his legs, all the way down to his Glass
Slipper ankles.

 And I would lie half on top of him on the narrow bed and I
would feel my so incredibly hard dick pushing against his side and
his thigh and I would mouse run my hand under him to touch his
always tumescent penis, and he would then turn over on his back and
say, "Adore me, Barry" and I would bring my lips to his and kiss
those thin bloodless seeming openings to a mouth that was small but
a tongue that was generous that loved dueling with mine.

 He was everything and he was the snow most of all, so
whether I was sucking him off in the dark room with only the
flickering candlelight brimming on us with flame and then falling
back again to rush forward once again before retreating, or whether I
was holding his penis while he was on his back, his ankles boldly,
casually crossed, "do me" he would say, command, as he looked up
at me with  eyes of Barnum and Bailey glitter of untold promises
headed right in my direction, this lovely boy of menagerie and myth,
as I dusted his dust of golden pubic hair and touched its softness, in
comparison with my own dark wiry hair there, and I watched the
tensile of Christmas in him and the tree of Joel stretch tighter and
tighter till it seemed he was growing gargantuan in my hand as I
patted him pink powder and he asked me if he could do the same for
me.

 But I shook my head no, this was for you only, no one else
need apply, and to that he looked a bit saddened, which made me
happy for a time, until I realized what the sad face really
meant--whatever we were doing to each other, sexually, or out in the
cold snow, throwing snowballs at each other in the hard to see blue
days or building a snow man with the biggest schnwacker known to
mortal man and running beside each other, our breath caught glass in
the perfect glass of the day round us, then it was all of us that we
knew how to give to each other.

 As the hand of Joel stroked me and brought me to climax, his
eyes fastened, clamped on me as mine had been on him, this shadow
boy, the moment behind the day that everyone else was always trying
to find, always trying to bring forth, but only we had found it, I had
at least and he was most kind to share it with me for as long as he
did. His tits I loved so much. They were little pink aureoles, they
were the sky the way I imagine it gets in Greenland this  wintry time
of year--vague watercolor rainbow promises of sunrises and sunsets
if you could get close enough to study them, soft to the hand and
tickling to the touch, little places of Joel that served no purpose
other than to gratify him sexually, and me as well.

 College dorms are places of loud music and louder shouts
and the smell of all kinds of noxious things from  stale food to
clothes that are piling up too long in the corner not yet taken home to
Mom to wash. Smells of beer and vomit and sleepless hours
crowding for exams, smells of hands when the chemical spill starts
and you hope your dorm mate won't find it on your bed (why would
he be looking there?, unless interested?, or just wanting to give you a
rough time of sorts?) to know that you've emptied yourself onto
yourself again and no one there otherwise. Desperation dates with
girls, or boys, pimples that won't go away but get worse, hearts that
thud down in the mail room when your grades are due and you open
your box to face what you know will be.
 And we had enough stale spoiled food in our own room and
didn't take our clothes home as often as we should to be
washed--there were rumors of a Laundromat close to the college but
we never were sure there was--we had other things to do, and that
included Joel's trembly legs standing as I sucked him and sucked the
life from him and into me and the other way round as well. How my
tongue loved the little head of his cock, how it loved the feel of it
like early morning in early childhood when you know summer has
not passed by and you have been allowed to join in with the clouds
over the next green rise of the day, letting you too, when no one
before Joel had let me, when no one before me had let Joel.

 So in the din of Black Sabbath and "The Who's Tommy" and
Joplin's cracked screamy crazy broken hearted voice coming at us
from all sides like arrows set on fire, we took our supplication
silently in the winter island with the snow outside and in our minds
as well, mental white files of magnetic rush that towered us to each
other, that made me eat Joel like he was all the tomorrows there
would ever be. To devour a boy's cock, not in a restroom or in a bar
or in a dark street or in a parked car with cramped and narrow seats
and crowding in steering wheel and the fear of a flashlight peeking
the white judge of the law in the window just at the zenith of the
moment.

 But here in comfort, here as he asked me to fuck him, as I
gracelessly slid to the floor, like tile fast buckling because there was
no way I would waste a second when Joel Haden said he wanted my
cock in his ass. He helped me down and he circled my throbbing
dick with his tongue and sucked on it a bit, then he did the most
wonderful thing, we had never done it like this before. He sat on my
cock, his butt cheeks home made bread loaf just from the kitchen
warm, on my crotch, as he located his trajectory hole and put my
dick in contact with the best winter moon there could have ever been
in the history of all time, and he pushed my pole up him and into
him as he sighed and though I couldn't see his face well, I thought
that he grimaced, something I had not known before for in the past
we had fucked by only taking each other from behind, and I was in
this naked boy who sat on me and whispered and told me to fuck his
ass hole till he couldn't stand it anymore.

 And he was Anderson and Grimm fairy tales with their sad
scary sick in the night child edges smoothed so comfortably down,
and he was the golden silver ship of winter docking, he was a
towering behemoth of boy up from above me as though he was
growing out of me, as though I had birthed him and he danced down
on my dick and he pushed his hands onto my sides and he felt
himself on me and it was so warm, it was hot and the friction was
telling and the friction was incandescent as the candle light seemed
to wax and flourish and wane and sea breathe on us at the very exact
time of our rhythmic music of movement.

 It was like fucking for the first time, the taste of Joel on my
cock that rammed hard and harder still into him, the need of his
body in me as mine in him, and he was summer sun against my cock
and he was tight and dry and it was like a caveman returning to the
fire that kept him and his family warm from all those vast snow
reaches of dark that turned the world into a woolly incomplete beast
which did not know its own lacking, its own breadth of possibilities
and the cave man was supposed to be silent on these things, to
pretend that he did not see, but Joel and I did see, the first time he
noticed me, in the humidity of the school cafeteria, two tables apart
from each other, and he was with friends, I was alone, and he smiled
at me, like a camera taking my picture, I was inside his mind at that
moment, every bit as much as he was inside mine.

  It was like a fine old Flemish painter had taken our pictures
and made them more and less than reality, had made them full of
colors that read desire, that read lust, that read love and tenderness,
as we each night for two years would sleep in each other's arms and
we would feel each other and we would dream the night away, in the
snow and cold that made it warmer and finer, and the sky in those
days then was always blue.

 It was like I was raping him in a way. It was like he was
raping me in a way. That night he sat on my dick and I ran myself
into him, and the way he held to me as though he were tentative and
unsure and I embarrassed because of this new way for us of doing it,
as though we had coats on and were in the bedroom where the hats
and winter coats were draped across the bed, while a massive party
was going on inside the living room, as we made our way under the
winter garments on the bed and on us, to the garments of our own
flesh and our fingers hungry and eager as we took off each other's
peelings, that was how it was with us as I asked him if he was ready
to come, as I felt his muscles and interior all round me like a great
heavy hot glove that needed me and only me, as I stroked his dick
and pressed it down to my chest, to my middle, as I grasped his cock
with one hand and he grasped it with another hand and we were a
conflagration, we were whatever we wanted to be and mostly what
we wanted to be was ourselves, but only with each other.

 I wanted to suck him at that moment, for his rod was close
but not close enough, so I played with him and I watched him and I
felt the sides of Joel,  like a rearing a fish, caught up high in the
August air, suspended, his flesh and his muscles contracting,
lengthening, in counter point to each other, as he leapt up and down
on me and I lept up and down getting more and more into him. The
Who's Tommy was singing from the room next door, "Hold me, feel
me, touch me, heal me," and that was what Joel and I were doing,
healing, and though I can't remember if Marvin Gaye's song "Sexual
Healing" was before our time or after, but regardless, it fit, for we
were healing, we thought with the exuberance of youth, each other
for all time and breaking the mirror of conformity and explanation
and defensiveness and hollowness and pain and shame and the terror
of others finding out our love and passion and caring and mixing it
in with their cruelty and manipulation and shallowness and
anonymity that even, in itself, was most vague and blurry eyed,
which somehow and for some tacit reason they pronounced good and
right.

 Joel huffing on me, my hands rubbing every inch of the
naked flesh of his chest and abdomen, up to his face and hair, to his
mouth that kissed my finger tips, then down to his tits, as though
turning on Captain Video, as I breathed for my friend, and he rode
me and begged me to make him shoot the same time I did, so I held
the head of his dick that in my vast inventory of memories of him,  I
could see pink colored coral, and I told him, get ready, now, now!

 As I shot up into him and he shot down to me and his cum
just accumulated like hot shaving lather on my stomach, some on the
upper part of my chest, a bit on my chin as he squirted and squirted
his one of a kind can't live without it Joel cum on me, as he reared
back on my shooting dick, as he reared back and stove me to greater
heights and I came gallons in him and he was so strong, and his
penis was giving over and over again until it seemed he could not
stop, and I wanted to tear through the fabric of the world, I wanted to
tear through the fabric of the winter snow and the gray cold low
cloud skies, I wanted to reach up to heaven and burst through it,
break it apart, and reach up and grab God's lapels and pull his
ancient censoring mean as a snake face toward me and shout out
"What's wrong with you, you sonofabitch?, this is how it's supposed
to be, you holy cowardly self righteous bastard, this is how, and Joel
and I will live together forever." And Joel and I stopped moving
after a while, and I felt the spunk of him mostly on my chest, wet
and thick, as I was still hard in his hole, as my come started to run
out of it, down my dick, to my crotch and filigreed matted hairs. I
touched to his cum on me and licked it from my fingers. The essence
of Joel. The secret parts.

 As Joel leaned forward on me and lay his body on mine and
kissed my mouth, as he lay in his come and in mine, as my dick
softened and pulled out of him, as the moon shone its own path into
our room and the candle on the desk had guttered out completely.
The pages of winter were the pages of Joel. We were an ever
expanding story to each other. We never got tired of wondering and
imaging what would happen next. We had our time and then our
time had us and we parted because things happen, because time
loves this sort of thing, eating at us, not in pleasure or sport or
happiness or giddiness, but because it is an evil mean cancerous
mother and it doesn't give a damn about anything but the going away
of everything.

 We lay for a time and I felt his ass cheeks with my hands and
he said to me that he thought I was going to split him apart, which
worried me, for I never wanted to cause him pain, and he never
wanted to cause me pain either, so I cupped his delicate fine china
chin in my hand and asked him if I did, but he brushed the smile on
me that I could see even in the dark and said no, he loved it, he had
never felt so held and so cared for and so very important.

 At 20 is still a boy. Still remembering boyhood. Still
believing the impossible is around the next corner and the world and
all the time in it is endless. At 20 you can have sex three, four times
a day or night, and mix and match as you choose. I stroked Joel's
body, his back, his legs and he pushed his soft cock into my stomach
and we reached out into a world of destinies and stars and moons
and nerves that did not stand straight up and be afraid all the time,
because a pale boy named Joel once loved me and dressed me
warmly for winter, as I did for him also.

 We saw "Summer of '42" that first year of ours, snuggling
against each other at the back of the theatre, as Hermie danced with
Dorothy and in such sadness and tenderness, she held him and went
to bed with him--remember me. We read all the books college
students in those years read. We took in some concerts. We both had
trouble with Math. Our other subjects we did okay or well in. We
wore sun glasses in the snow each day. We did a bit of weed. Drank
some. But never to excess. We wanted to make love naked in the
snow in the nighttime hours but were too frightened to do so. He
liked me to take him from behind, to rush up against him when we
were in the dorm room, when he studying or in bed sleeping. He and
I always showered together, the sexuality of hot water pelting us and
we holding each other close in the summer rain of it.

 I liked sucking him the best of all we did. We 69ed some,
though it was awfully confusing, and one time we were having sex
that way. When I came, in my paroxysm, I let his dick fall from my
mouth and dwelled on having just been blown. But he broke my
heart right after by telling me he had just been ready to come, that
we could, finally at long last, have come in each other's mouths at
the same time if I hadn't been so damned greedy. It was the last time
we 69ed. We still had sex, and I'm not going to say that one stupid
mistake of mine, I definitely did make others, ended it for us, or
started it on the road to ending, but it didn't help, that was for sure. I
shall remember the good times, the walks in the snow, the songs we
sang to, all the pizzas we ate and all the beer we drank and how
carefree it all was, old enough to appreciate it, young enough to see
its significance all the more.

 We loved Leone movies and had debates about which of the
Morricone scores was better. Joel said, "The Good, the Bad and the
Ugly." I said, "close call, but 'Duck, You Sucker.' is it."  We
wa-waed that great music all the time at each other.

 And I loved him and for a time he loved me. It was Joel with
his dancing clown dick in my mouth that made a parade of the best
carnivals in the world going past my eyes, all the spirit and all the
spittle and all the coming and all the pre-cum and all the world
dressed up in a deep blue dark package, with firelight making it a
warm hearth, and snow soft and cold and white standing guard, just
in case, that made the firelight just that much cozier.  Joel as he
licked my shaft and Butterfly kissed the tip and put each of my balls
in his mouth one at a time, just giving me the rush of dangerless
danger.

 I wish beyond all else that I had Joel's mouth on me now as I
write this, as he takes my jeans down and my dick flips out at him
like a lightning rod and he rides me with his mouth, hello home Joel,
and lays his head in my lap, as he pulls up my shirt and kisses my
stomach, and he the golden sun down there, the boy from the farm,
from the summer grass meadow that he ran through when he was
small and believed in everything unashamedly, comic books, and
science fiction magazines and novels, and movies about anything;
the delights of solitary masturbation, and the falling in love with
boys he never dared tell, and then the magnetic fillings that pulled us
to each other.

 I can feel Joel's busy mouth on me now and he encircles me
and his hands play with my balls and tickle the ridge between my
legs as I push back further and further from the computer, as my
spelling gets incredibly bad, worse than usual, and I am deep in the
flannel winter pajamas of his mouth and I have to shoot my cum into
him, even though it's summer as I write this, hot and sticky Southern
summer, as one hand plays with myself and the fingers of the other
press the keys as best they can and that isn't saying much and I will
come in a moment. Yessss. Tickles of feathers up and down my
cock, then when least expecting it, the grab of its shaft hard, right at
the top, to hurt a bit, to strengthen and feel good all the more. It's
how Joel did it to himself when masturbating and what he taught me
and it works perfectly.

 And as always and forevermore, this is for Joel with love.

				  the end