Date: Thu, 10 Aug 2006 14:13:10 -0500
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: "The Lovers of a Cottonwood Spring" (t/g mf mm mast high school)

		     The Lovers of a Cottonwood Spring

				    By

			     Timothy Stillman


They came to the Cottonwood Forest every Thursday afternoon, after school,
Timothy and Clemmie. They were in the eleventh grade. And here on gentle
spring days or cool autumn days or winter wind or snow or green summers
multiplied by every day of the week, they arrived. And they were beautiful,
and they made love, and they let me watch; for I was in love with the both
of them; they were in my dreams, and I had been so fascinated by them
especially the last year of them letting me watch, I so wanted to be part of
them.

To remove my clothing as they removed theirs. I did of course, but from a
cottonwood tree a few feet away, for they liked to pretend I was not
there/was there at the same time. A kind of smiling mirror kind of moon
arrangement, Timothy said, for he liked to think he had a "way with words"
and I would kid him back and say, "yeah, but I think your words keep losing
their way" and he would frog me and we would laugh, and I would love him in
my eyes for he was beautiful and almost identical boy wise with Clemmie girl
wise, except for the parts of their body boy/girl, but their faces, their
twilight eyes, their blush smiles, their slender bodies; they were separate
from me, but forever together for themselves.

They took their time this Thursday, for it was spring and close to the end
of school; things getting warm and drowsy; mosquitoes come to the woods
then, though not bad right now. I never was told they would let me watch. No
one ever said hey Tim wanna see something? Because that would destroy it,
like destroying a spiders web, while running through it, one June morning,
even if it had been Doug Spaulding, knowing for the first time he was alive;
and not thinking once of all the time that spider spent making that extra
ordinary creation that no human could do at all, just artificially like in
horror movies, but still, it was wrong to say anything.

I followed one day last October when the pumpkin smell was in the air and
Halloween tasted sweet apple cold; I don't know if you've ever had an
unfulfilled love. Maybe no one gets by without one of those. But have you
ever had two unfulfilled loves at the same time, and not being jealous of
one or the other, but wanting them so much to be together, wanting so much
to see Clemmie's breasts and small and red nippled and her stomach thin and
inward and her thighs slender and shaped like dreams you have where you are
so small and all the beauty of autumn dancers are surrounding you and you
are safe forever and never have to grow up. What a joy it would have been to
feel the heat of them. The texture of them. And I wanted to be Timothy's
hands as he touched her, as he felt her face and leaned his face to hers,
tracing both his own and hers at the same time, feeling the difference
thus--this a boy, and this a girl--and wonder what it would be like.

I liked to be naked watching them. I was not anything at all, a boy, a
little shadow you might see on a street corner, heading home after getting
his head all filled with the Capitol Theatre's Wednesday night movie of mad
scientists and unlucky men with hair thick on their faces and bodies, and I
knew they both knew and approved, because as it is the werewolf's lot to
fall in horror and away from love that could have been his had he not been
what he was, so it was my lot to fall into love and away from horror, but
love that was only observed, and thus I would one day envy werewolves
because they at least had the horror to run to, until his former true love
shot him with the fatal silver bullet; Timothy and Clemmie had saved me from
not knowing, the horror, but would never kill me with a silver
bullet--Timothy's penis--Clemmie's kisses--his entering her--her sighing gasp
shock all at once and every time; this to me bequeathed third or fourth
hand, and I knelt there in the cottonwoods by the tree.

I had taken off my clothes and was playing with myself. It felt right to do
this. I was never embarrassed. Never feared they or I would be caught. There
was an enchantment to this place. Because it was theirs. I never saw another
human being here at all. Not even any animals.

It never occurred to me to come to them after they had made love and were
resting beside each other, their feet and legs and hips sometimes pointed in
my direction. Sometimes this way I could see Timothy's penis soft again next
to the soft brown hair of Clemmie's vagina, soft lips? Magical opening?,
show me, oh please, I covet closeness to both of you, to see in glorious
piecemeal eyesight visions; it never occurred to me; my words get in the way
and go the wrong way and get lost on the way too and sometimes never arrive.

It never occurred to me, I gaspingly finally get to it, to go to them then
and kneel down by them and touch their bodies or say "Hey, Tim" or "Hey,
Clemmie" "how beautiful and serene you look here in the woods, with all the
cottony feel to the sky and the green ground or the autumn ground or the
snow day when you both huddle naked with your coats over you and I am your
guardian angel; I've been good," I would never say, "and I've not touched
your breasts or your vagina, Clemmie, or your penis or your balls, Timothy;
and I've never said a dirty word about any of it; I come and I watch and I
don't curse and I don't think those other kinds of thoughts; so would you
let me in for a minute? Could I lie between you and not be me for a while?"

No. They would say no; the same way they had said yes. And it would be over
and I held my penis and I rubbed it hard again and I closed my eyes and I
wished for them to make love on fields of cotton, just huge rolls of cotton,
way up to the sky, and I wanted them to never have to touch the ground
again. I wanted so much for them, for they were sweethearts, when they kind
of meant something, and they were there when I looked up from my pale conch
shell colored penis, and they were kneeling in their sun apple glade, sun
patches on them, and they took off their clothes, unisex almost, and their
bodies mirror image, girl as boy, boy as girl, and who in truth could say
which was which? And they knelt there and they softly nuzzled each other;
they were so innocent and so bold; each time seemed a new time; did they
like me watching?

I never knew for sure, but I think, yes. I refused to think whether it was
out of pity or not. I like to think they wanted a pair of eyes to record it,
a penis to get an erection because of the both of them, to imagine both of
them and me and to shape shift them sometimes and to imagine this of me,
because though it soared greater than any human event, far as I was
concerned, they wanted it to be even more, and I was their Boswell, I would
like to think.

They touched each other's legs and felt the warm flesh and she kissed his
knee and his left thigh and moved to his left hip and surrounded him there
with her arms tender and graceful and long and perfect, as her long artistic
fingers played taps on his hips and she put her mouth to him there and she
circled him with her tongue and raised his penis into its tall height, and I
was on my knees too, my butt in the air, and I was watching them so closely,
and Timothy bent backward, rested his weight on the back of his hands and
she took him into her carnation painted mouth of sun and shadow and make
believe and spring artistic license, and he sighed so low that only I could
hear it, as it reverberated through me, as he moved his penis with his
hands, and she kneeling took it deeply into her mouth, while I wanted to be
that mouth and I wanted to be that penis.

I wanted to be both and see what it was like from all the comforting sounds
they made, to make me a house and to find it strong and eternal and to never
have the seasons change and to have them here, Timothy and Clemmie, with me
forevermore and they would love me and I would place my hand on his penis
and slide it into Clemmie, as a royal king  to his royal queen's chamber,
and the wordlessness of them was the sweetest poetry, and the stomachs
moving and the sides and the chests and the legs genuflecting as were their
fingers as he stretched to become all of one in her and she lay with her
creamy back to the air and to my eyes, in silhouette, and she was the
ultimate in beautiful girl/boys as was he stretched back and resting and
watching her and guiding her head softly back and forth, her black hair, his
gold locks, and they were rhythm, and they were not going to have
intercourse today, this was a day for this kind of love, and I came and my
hands were full of my love for them and I bit back an emotion and held
within to myself.

And I was perspiring, somehow it seemed they never did, as I watched them
and I saw his whole body seize, his legs stiffen, and his body stopped
bracing up and down, he was as still as the sky before a summer
thunderstorm, his balls were tight, I could see them resting now at the
bottom of her chin, as she moved her mouth, as I would move it on him, as I
did in my dreams again and again, and I pretended he was thinking of me, and
I pretended she was as well, and my upper thighs were wet with my cum, and I
watched her/his head move only slowly now on his/her penis and then I
watched Timothy roll back his head and close his eyes tightly, and she moved
her head back and away, his signal, and he came and spurted and fountained
and she gripped his penis and held it and pressed on it, and tickled it with
her fingers; his penis jumped and spurted more, and she moved away a little,
watching boy cum in her eye view of wonder, and she watched from up close
again, and she pressed till there was no more to come out; she clapped her
hands silently, and he opened his eyes and smiled, taking a bit of a bow.

Then she brushed his forehead and she kissed his eyes and she treated him as
a boy coming out of a fever, coming out of a sickness, and into salvation
again, and I watched them and I watched the pearly glow of the cottonwood
sky and the forest around us as his left thigh was with pearly glow of its
own kind, and they giggled and she helped him clean up after a time, and
they lay still and cuddled and he pushed his hands to her thighs and then to
her buttocks and he said without saying a word, in a moment, when I've
rested, it's your turn

I lay down too. Resting. I did not say a word. I had learned that would
always and forever be the only way I could ever say "I love you." Werewolves
have their moments, too. Let's leave it at that. Here in the Cottonwood
Forest of a Spring afternoon.