Date: Tue, 3 Sep 2002 12:45:04 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: Son of the Morning

			   "Son of the Morning"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 Golden Alton lay on his spring sun morning golden bed,
and this was Day the First. A splinter thin boy, who slept naked
in the warmth of perfection and the day that was an aura that
blessed his tender hair and made him immortal and young
forever more. Alton was Atom and Atoms, not love, make the
world go round. Display on his naked bed with his pillow under
his small pink ass, as he bucked and rode his left hand up his
cock and made it twitch and surface and submerge and do all
manner of wondrous things. For Alton was loved. Make no
mistake about that.

 As he pinched his little brown nipples to hardness. As he
closed his green eyes and held his body fucking the sky which
was just a little way above his head. The sky that was always
blue for this boy who lived and laughed and had friends. Who
everyone waited on. And believed in. He was the hallway of
plenty coming down to meet the lonely kids. And this spring,
this afternoon, that would include his10th grade English
teacher, who was, not by coincidence, me. Alton of morning
jacking. Alton of freedom of spirit and pushing himself into his
hand and pealing his dreams with the other. All for sale and all
for sale of the presence of one particular item for this Atom
boy, which was in short the other person's soul. A commitable
little deed. Not commensurate with anything in this small
Tennessee town. Nothing of import or reason or civility or
sophistication. Just one intractable wish.

 Which was the soul that belonged to Alton Atom
anyway. For this was the First day. And the English teacher,
hello there, was hopelessly smitten by this boy of long wheat
colored hair and neck that was smooth and delicate like a
flower stem, by eyes that could flash sex at me from his front
row in my class, while not looking at me at all. The class which
I gave many written tests and essays to, so I could sit on the
edge of my desk and stare down at his jeans, at the crotch in
those jeans. At the Midas jester that was corralled inside them.
The jeans needed to be taken off, pushed down and away, and
all my tides would come in. And I would give him one
perishable item I had no use for anyway. Which was not
important, only that Alton come unto me and give of himself.

 Alton Atom of a morning, five thirty or so. The farm
smell of his world. The edict that said there is nothing more
than a banner of a boy stretched out on his toasty warm bed,
with his legs spread, and his mouth open and closing like a fish
under entrancing fairy tale water. And his slightly buck teeth
biting his pale lower lip and all of him a metronome. All of him
a device of pure sexuality, as he rubbed his right hand over the
light dusting of pubic hair, as he dwelled on how he would face
the day, the last day of school, the first day of me. And the
warmth that had a purpose, that had the sun in every atom of it,
that had a face and on that face, features. As feather soft hands,
now, roamed over Alton's prick, and it stood steel still as
though it were looking over a horizon no one else could ever
fathom. Not even its owner.

 A boy of comic books, Marvel, never D.C. A boy of
light dreams who luxuriated in the cradle that was himself.
Who knew how to handle love lorn teachers who were of the
male variety. Who knew certain tricks of seldom heard, that
spread his legs wider in English class while I looked down at
them, as he made his cock get hard by willing it so, so willowy
summery he was, and to see it molded just by accident by his
hand, as he studied his paper and thought of what to write next.
As he stuck out the tip of his tongue and held his head over his
paper and pen, so closely, so intently. Knowing all the time
what he was really studying. And what he really was studying
was by no coincidence me.

 In warm, hot, air conditioner free morning, with the sun
kicking around dust particles, showing them who's boss, Alton
was inside a dream, and Alton thought of those blurry blue eyes
behind the glasses that I wore, and Alton sensed in tidal waves
the lack of laughter in my bones and the heaviness in my heart,
and Alton did not love me or desire me. He just wanted me to
suck him and he wanted to do the same to me in return. Call it
charity if you will. I'm not too proud to accept charity. If there
were adagios, if there were plenitudes, then come from the
morning and make this Day One of the rest of my life. That
would always have the dick print of Alton on it forevermore.
My own Mann's Theater concrete impressions that would keep
me longing the rest of my life.

 Alton's hips thrusting. His groin going to town. A very
wonderful, exciting town to be in, where the parking place for
me was atop my desk and watching what could never be mine.
For Alton was a boy looking for himself and Alton and his
family had moved here from Chicago at the middle of the school
year. Alton made friends easily, and he had many of them,
powers that be praise Alton. Because he knew what they
wanted to hear. Because he was sincere enough to know they
wanted to hear nothing but insincerity, which takes a kind of
talent to wage and to tightrope walk with. And in the morning,
Alton Atom Boy picked up the crumpled Kleenex beside him on
the bed, his hand skirting soft drifting against his hot bony hip
and he put the Kleenex to his dick that was milked and milked
and milked some more. He loved to see his cock erupt with
sperm. He loved to see and feel the stickiness of it. To revel in
it ejecting from his body, like fluid in a needle shot into the air I
know not where. Alton Atom and where he came into being.
The soft hard push of himself.

 And nighttime would never descend.  I dreamed of
Alton every night in that year, and in many more to come. And
Alton was the reason I got through the day, thinking of jacking
off, him and me. If there were more reasoned reproaches than I
used against all of this, I can still not think of them. Wrong and
wrong and he did not spread his blue jeans of legs for me. It
was just a natural habit, and if I watched his bottom as he
walked out of class, if I saw the little twin pups of them jostled
in just such a way that I knew the honeybuns were worth any
gold in this world just to touch for a minute, if I longed to put
my hand to his dark perspiring trail shirt back, and feel the
grace in there, the powerful little animal animation inside him,
the whir of power motors in his boy body--

 Dreams last forever. And Alton would never go away.

 And on Day One, Alton created sex. For the first time
he would have it. Make it. Do it. Not for laughs or kicks or
spite or revenge or curiosity alone, though all these things
would be added to the mix. No. Alton would have sex with me
because he knew things. Supernaturally knew things. And this
jack off session at an end, his Kleenex holding a shimmery dewy
load, his hand holding the Kleenex, falling tiredly to his side, his
flat stomach breathing in and out hard. His dick still
reverberating with the warm and the need and the justice of a
boy being able to do such a thing. And send his dynamos
thrumming. Humming the songs inside him surely no one but he
ever sang.

 Pillowy Alton needed a pink canopy bed, not this bland,
just barely serviceable, off the assembly line narrow little boy
bed he had had since he was a little boy and fit snugly in it. His
long legs made his feet and ankles hang off the bed into air. His
long arms were cramped against the wall and headboard, when
he tried to stretch them and always, when lying there, he had to
cantilever them above his head. His face was a narrow one.
Almost a fox face. The kind that holds a sort of sublime cruelty
to it, though Alton was never cruel. You could trust Alton. He
could be believed. His word was his bond, and if he had hung
around places in Chicago (down here it was always pronounced
Ch-car-go) where boys shouldn't hang around, pool halls and
the like, he was always innocent. Not just appearing so. But in
actuality so.

 He loved to be wanted. He loved to be wanted by men
and boys and women and girls. He was his own lollipop. His
own all day sucker. Who made everybody else his would be
suckers--don't you just wish? Who wished his cock was long
enough he could do it to himself. So near and so far away, and
the clouds inside Alton's heavily breathing eyes, now, were
back again, and his whole body was releasing its pre jack off
tension. He believed that the days were good and little stair
steps and he was the Messiah come down to earth to reveal
what wonders heaven would hold to this man, to me, who
would taken my hand, by Alton, the author and finisher of my
being, and say come here and I adore you and please say the
same to me, Alton Atomic Fizz Boy would say. Someday.

 Which would be today. Which would be Alton
instructing the uninstructable. Which would be Alton lying by
my side and taking my hand and kissing the back of it. Lying
next to me and holding me like no one had ever held me. Alton,
this morning, which he invented, himself and the morning, with
the warm sweaty pungent scent cross wires that he would
extend in help, his body sticking with sweat to the hot sheet,
even though a small fan was blowing on him, the fan that only
tossed the stifling air from the open window and the room
around, which just made it all the more unbearable.

  For that one pointless commodity he would require in
symbolic payment. If the Son of the Morning was anything, he
would be this nocturnal boy who seemed to carry sleepy night
with him wherever he went in golden glowy. Who was one for
cambric shirts and tight jeans, no socks, even in winter, and the
latest fad of teenage shoes--fat heavily treaded ornately made as
though there was an architecture of houses he was wearing, the
gingerbread kind with the dormer windows and the cupolas
withstanding attics of much summer layered heat, these things,
instead of mere tennies. With the marshmallow soles, so thick
and cushiony and reverberating, that could make him spring up
so easily he could almost fly.

 And Alton, sperm turning luke warm in his Kleenex,
thinking, wouldn't it be nice to just have everybody in class
turned on at the same time? Smoke a little dope. Undress each
other. Just have a go at each other like the hot humping beast
has had enough of confinement, boredom, containment,  and
away with sleep that comes like a kicker at the end of tedium,
that shatters nothing, forgetting there is even a door there to
wild abandon right in ourselves. Hot summer air school. Long
narrow windows open and the hummingbirds of heat beating
against them. All tired out and tied up and making like morning
was the same as afternoon when everyone knew it wasn't, he
wasn't, for sure, after all.

 Alton, naked, standing beside his bed. His hand
caressing his soft drawstring of a penis, his eyes looking down
at it, at the little wisp of hair and his little blue veined shaft that
evolved into a fascinating spongy pink head with a slit that he
now held and opened a bit, looking into that little incline that
his sperm had such fun climbing upward toward. And then the
party of its making it outside to the world and there were bells
and gongs and happy smiles and party hats when it did so. But
my god was it ever sad that no one but this boy, its progenitor,
was the only one who ever saw it do that. Till this afternoon.
After school, in the smell of chalk dust, and unwashed
blackboards, and sweat still lingering smell from kids and
adults. That school smell, in other words. The rotten egg smell
coming from the science class down the hall. Those headachy
green walls of the English room. Tenth grade. Who could forget
it? Ever? It was like you were born right there. And parts of
you never left.

 "I think you're trying to seduce me, Mr. Eysman," Alton
would say.

 And that would be enough. I would take him then and
there, regardless of who walked in on us. I would take him to
my arms and we would talk those little umbrella bubble
descending rain words that I read people talked in such
situations. When the masks came off, and the party had died
down, when the drinks had worn off, and the night was long
and ragged. It would be funny and baroque and sad and
melodramatic and silly and over the top, like a Valentino silent
film, The Sheik, or something, and we would kid around, and
explore and laugh more than a little. We would find the single
party of both of us would love to attend the mutual party of the
two of us. And it would be the last day of school. I would not
see Alton again. I would not be back next year. I was to move
far away. And always stay here.

 The sadness would hurt. But I would remember him and
the territory of him that I charted, as we would do all we could
think of in that school room after everyone else had left for
home and the root beer stand and the fast food restaurants and
for work and for the lake and for the day that said freedom from
teacher's dirty looks, and summer is forever too. The same way
dreams are.

 And Alton stretched his arms upward long ways. And he
had a little tuft of blond hair in each arm pit. He observed
himself in his door mirror. He stood sideways. He reached up to
the back of his long hair and partly closed his eyes, as he looked
at himself, and radiated out of himself. Girls would kill to look
as beautiful as he. His dick was hardening again, little devil.

 He tossed the heavy pelted Kleenex to the trash can
which he would empty into the kitchen trash can and take the
bag outside, after he had breakfast, his morning chores, the
taking out of the trash, and the eating of breakfast, though the
breakfast was the biggest chore. Because he did not like food.
He did not like the idea of putting these foreign substances,
which were laced with all sorts of poison that no one seemed to
mind, inside his stomach, that would act like a combine, a
machine, a mill, grinding the stuff away and then having parts of
it eliminated. No, he did not like to think of his body as a
machine. To demean it as such. He ate as little as he could get
away with.

 He smoked dope in pool halls in Ch-car-go. And he
went to gay clubs. Where he was not supposed to be
because--we don't like kids in there--cough, cough, wink, wink.

 Where he was the smoky drunk center of wayward
attention, so carefree, but so unobtainable, like a Greek godlet
descended from the skies. Not toying with them. Giving them
benediction, more like it. A word or two from him. A smile
tossed vaguely in your direction. This was considered a
bestowing a rare and valued gift on you that you would
remember the rest of your days, that could never help but make
you smile, no matter how wan you were to get. No one ever
forced him to do anything, even when he was potted. They
asked, and when he said no thanks, it was almost the same as
yes, please. Almost. Close to the sun. Wings of love still intact.
And the next cock you sucked, the next penetration, no matter
how hot, no matter how fulfilling was nothing more than
painted backdrop against the sweet blue sky confetti raining
down in memory, that made a poetry lost and needed
desperately of "no, thanks."

 The walls and halls of still and dark. And Alton Atom
Sun Boy to light it all up.

 I masturbated every morning. I never ate breakfast
because I didn't like to think of my body as a machine. I
masturbated furtively, with only the index and middle finger of
my left hand, directly underneath the head, because it was less
pleasure that way and that was always the way I did it. It
seemed more instinctive, rather than a choice, and I had never
questioned it. For a time I had masturbated thinking of Joel. Of
Jimmy. Of Randy. Of my first girlfriend, Jo. But they were gone
away, and now there was nothing in my dreams but Alton Atom
Ant Boy. And I knew what he was going to do this afternoon
after the last bell rang.

 I knew it because it had to happen. We had talked little
to each other this last half of the school year. I had been no
kinder to him than to the other students to whom I was always
kind and who returned it in favor. I was in love with Alton and
he knew it, because he never looked up when I struck my bold
heat rays on his crotch, as I sat on my desk while my fifth
period class wrote those endless essays, which I had to read!,
(see what I go through for you?, just to see your legs spread
and your dick harden as you unawares outline it with your
hand?). But he had to know. The thing in my brain said look at
me, Alton, hold me, Alton or I think I shall surely die. He never
looked up. Not once. I had lost my feverish excited terrified
fear of his doing so. We knew. He would not love me. But he
would let me. My god. Boys know what is going on. I don't
give a shit who says different. It's so. Don't you remember?
Amnesia has set in maybe?

 I thought of puns about the atom as I drove to school,
as I awaited my boy and me and the seas we would plow
together on the floor in front of my desk, and he would open to
me and hold his naked legs round my naked waist. We would
grapple with each other. We would jack each other off to the
almost point of non return, non refundable, and then we would
stop and we would feel the heart, each the other. We would
place our hands everywhere. The hands that would drink from
each other's body. It would be a dwelling place, a sod hut on a
vast and lonely no more prairie, humid of human moisture and
thirsty leaves of desire and sun up at the top which was to be
always where we swam toward. And toward meant away from
each other. Though I would willingly drown in the shadow
straws of his pink lean limber body. And I would leave him one
little thing of mine when we parted. Knowing he required it.
Requested it. My son of the morning.

 Our bodies sticking to each other in the hot burden
afternoon heat, the thick moisture, the laden smells of school
rooms that are not like the smell of rooms anywhere else ever in
the whole world. Our lips caressing, our tongues licking each
other's nipples. Alton's leaning upward on his elbows as he
watches me suck him, as he puts his soft dreamy orangey hand
to the back of my head and I go up and down on him faster and
faster. As he moans.  And smiles. And closes his eyes. And
reels. Drunk with my taking the all of him in my eager wet
mouth. The slurping sound of it. My tongue tickling his little
slit. Tasting boy salt. Jesus, I'm hard now.

 As he takes his hand to my own hard penis and
massages it, as he feels the pressure in him building up and up
and then exploding like a building laced with dynamite and
cracking half the sky out with its exuberant force field stunning
Fourth of July High Thunder fireworks, hooray for the red
white and blue. And the gold of Alton, too.

 Debbie of the big breasts sat next to Alton. She had a
crush on me. She hung round me and she always found excuses
to talk to me before class, after class, before school, after
school. I had entertained the image of kissing her, of feeling
those large breasts under the sweaters she always wore to
emphasize them, of seeing her kissing Alton and then the both
of them kissing me, feeling them up, and their doing the same to
me. Alton on his knees, sucking my cock, while Debbie put
those too full too red lips on my nipples and made the electric
show up there as well, sparks a flyin', as her cushiony breasts
rested against me.

 But it would be private this afternoon. I would get rid of
her when she came by after the last bell. I would be with my
boy who would stand in the doorway to the room. Who would
stand with his body weighed on, say, his left hip. He would be
sultry. Magnanimous though. He would be wearing shades.
Yes, I had forgotten he liked to wear shades a lot. Made him
COOL. He would be unbuttoning his cambric shirt. He would
put the tip of his red tongue out of his mouth, studying me, not
some damned test or textbook or essay. He would smile, come
hither. He would pull his shirt from his jeans, pull it up to his
chest, letting me see it and his navel and his tits already hard.
He would lean against the doorway. He would be, as Buster
Poindexter so aptly put it, "hot, hot, hot."

 He would pull off his shirt, shrug out of it, letting me
see his stick thin body that somehow seemed larger, more of it,
now that he was removing his clothes, than when he had them
on. I've noticed that oddness on several occasions later on. He
would rub his tits and he would look at me, and he would say,
"hi Barry," make it sound like a song, and he would beckon me
to come to him and I would unfreeze, walk to him in awe, then
in sureness, and, before my Lord, I would kneel on that
concrete floor to him, and I would take his big buckle belt and
open it and pull his zipper down,  as I reached one hand to his
tits, while my other hand was feeling his radiator hot hard on,
and then put it back inside, and pull down his jeans.

 The extraordinary thing of my love naked before me,
with his cock hard, his firm nut balls in my hands, as I look up
the length of him and he smiling down. We would kneel down
together. He would start to take off his shades. I would stop
him. The eyes behind would be mysterious and hidden
throughout all of this. Boys with shades or glasses, and naked,
are an incredible turn on, I've discovered..

 We would take off his shoes that were like Victorian
mansions instead of shoes. We would kick Queen Victoria and
all of that repression out the damned window. And he would be
naked beside me, and I would come into his open inviting arms
that weren't kidding now. And at that moment, at that exact
happy moment, I would pay the piper for this time of supreme
happiness. He would take my soul into his perfect mouth. It
would, my soul, look like a little blue ball of Blue Horse
notepaper. He would press it with his front teeth. It would emit
a tiny electric spark and that was it. Not a big price to pay. Not
even when I think about it later on. That way, he would always
have a part of me with him somewhere, somehow, even when
he had forgotten I existed.

 I got to the school. Walked from the car to the back
door of the building. Walked the empty dark halls to my class
room. I put my briefcase on the desk. I sat behind the desk. I
only had to pretend I was an adult teacher who knew something
or other and deserved to be listened to, for those indefinable
reasons authority figures are listened to, especially when they
have no idea what they are doing, one more day. Which
saddened me immensely. I was 25 then. The time of Alton. Old
enough to be seen as adult. Young enough to be seen as still a
boy. A magical, difficult time, for me, neither one thing nor
another. Still in the process. In effect, being neither.

 I waited for the bell to ring admitting the students into
the school. There was a wild cacophony of voices and shouts of
teachers to quiet down and stop running. Fifth period was
forever from now. The students came bounding into my room,
ninth grade English. I looked at them and they chattered to each
other and to me and I chattered right back. I would wait for
fifth. Then I would wait for this afternoon. And after Debbie
was gotten rid of, even if I couldn't help not sparing her
feelings, there would be Alton and me and Valhalla. What more,
on this First Day of Creation, and the Last Day of the World,
could anyone ask for?

				  the end