Date: Mon, 21 Jan 2008 16:21:25 -0800 (PST)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: g/m adult/young friend "Beyond Avon"

Beyond Avon
     By
  Tim Stillman


He saved his love for me. He wrote me sonnets. He held me and said no one
was as dear to him as I. He danced with me after one play, when all the
summers were there in his dark gray eyes, and all the audience had gone
away. His collar, white puffed and frilled, laid against my naked neck as
he bent down to me, and said the stars were of faint beauty compared to
my merest touch and blue sea eyes that had sun sets in them, that
received nothing more than my hands kissed to his lips. There were none
more fair, he said, and we danced. He clothed in usual attire. I
unashamedly bare.. And so proud to be with him. There where the dreams
lay in props and boxes and ghosts of words uttered grandly and whispered
as knights in black ermine came and went cross the stage and conquered
countries.

Mere baubles he told me and he held my up in his arms and stroked my back
in the darkened theater, where the choosiest of ladies could have looked
at us from their regal places reserved for them and their jewels that my
friend, my writer, my master told me were as gilt ribbons for my little
chestnuts. All he held in the world he said was the warmth of boy, the
warmth of what it had been like, and now, me, to be seated in his arms
with my bum close and tight to him, and my member and my little balls.

My face still wearing female makeup from tonight's production at the
centerpiece of the Globe, as he kissed the make up on my face and we
danced to all the silent music that was in our hearts. I knew his head
burst with words and his imagination soared above this troubadour song
that was playing so ill kempt in my own heart, and he laughed, breathing
aspirations on me and tickling me with his moustache and goatee as I held
to his voluminous sleeve wings of white organdy it seemed to me. As his
stick thin pantaloon covered legs bounced and jagged.

He whirled me round and round. He betoked my hair and let it with one
hand, the ribbon off, down to my shoulders and he kissed them, bare, and
he rubbed my hardened member on his frills, as he felt the hardness in
himself rise in all those gay colored tights he wore for nights such as
this, and slippers of pointed toe gold, as he was a short man-aye--but a
man of far and wide intelligence and verve, for forget Robert Bacon, and
the lies, my quill magician lover was the writer of all.

Sometimes I think he wrote me as well, gave me berry colored lips, and
made my eyes and cheeks to shine, he said, like roses on the moon must
look at miniature. As he rumbled his song from a mouth I longed to kiss,
and I be robed in his splendor, knowing how the night would be when he
took me home to his grass thatch house, and the love I would impart as my
underdeveloped prod would be touched to his mouth and thus swallowed and
made love to on a blanket of words that were starlight bees in the night
time. Quilting it all together by one enormous man's heart and vision
that danced its light silver candle sticks, with smoke and flame as we
stayed by his hearth.

The Globe's curtains arched as wings of angels looking down heavily on
us with sighing permission of dusty sway.

That was his hands on my penis as though they had wondering wandering
eyes built into them, as though they could see the depths and wisdoms
that others always missed, that others came to see his plays for, and to
read his sonnets, secret not, but secret so, about me, and he compared me
to the starred heavens and he compared me to the most perfection of a
rain that dropped so gently from the heavens, and a starless night could
make stars of me and the world would be brighter than the day time, for
Will told me and said he loved to write sonnets with me next to him,
while he fondled me, while I fondled him.

And the music was soft and spectral, as though my Will were infected not
with imagination scribes all to himself imparted alone, but to ghosts who
haunted him and took his smile away and made him no longer call me little
Chafe, as was his wont, but time took me to him in incessant bower, and
love would have its way, and yet, as we went round and round in dizzying
circles on the stage where the troubadours and the actors of high report
and strong lungs and boys pretending to be women and girls to carry off a
mad charade of intended whimsy or turned talents of words that spoke oft
glibly, of profoundly beyond profundity, of noble madness and chained
melancholy---oh my Will, do not let the ghosts therein that you write of,
or who write somehow automatically through your hand and your quill pen
and parchment--

Let not the ghosts inhabit you in damp sheets of a hot and humid Avon
mosquito flocked night of haunts and diverse acquisitions that a man of
nobler spirit than ever I would attain or ever ninety nine percent of
England would attain, forget the pretenders to the throne that has alone
my Will's ear---

As he put me down on the stage on my belly and lies on me and off to the
side of me and kisses me full mouthed and touches my little penis which
delights in the glade warmth of his hands, those hands that have held
with such surety and grace beyond human, as I hold my arms around his
slender frame and remember he is not as young as he used to be, that he
eats very little, and drinks spirits more and more, in that off lightning
phase that goes through him even in sleep with me on straw and nakedness
for the both of us, as his body shakes sometimes and he voices as though
he were Hamlet indeed, and father ghost, and for read not of back flats
come together for a masque or a charade that people of the masses with
their talented ears do take the essence of mere play and folderol and
touch it to their hearts and their wit, gasping at right times,
applauding at even the most average of soliloquies, but for real in my
master's bed-

Danish king and thunder in Will's head, and parapets slashed with
massive wind gales and buckets uncounted of rain lashings, his head
losing hair more and more and all of it gray, with his eyes closed and
his mouth at half mast singing mad songs of a cruel age that he tossed
off so easily in the writing of, sometimes at least, but asleep, he feels
them, he sees from the inside of the diseased brains, and calls Falstaff
for more brew to quell the demons and the mad ghosts that no one else can
see, but he, and it is not in couplets and it is not in blank verse, but
the fear of a man who has seen too much interior and would give the world
never to have seen--

To never have to put his hand to the Queen's and to have to mouth those
unmeant dainty platitudes to rubbish no matter how high toned,and bow and
scrape and kiss and the royalty for all of it, for the powdered wigs and
the pomp and glory, all the knee pants in the world and all the popinjay
colored clothings, all the things borrowed, nay, stolen from the French,
and how my master, my lover, has to make amends with Richard III in sleep
and make a hunchback monster take up alms as well as arms with a woman
with blood forever on her hands, and the bung is banged, as I would have
to get out of  bed and kneel beside my one true lord, saints, never let
the gentry here of that, I should be strung by the neck till dead, as I
pulled up his shirt and sucked his penis till it hardened like a lancet
of steel, and he still asleep as I felt his balls and felt his rod erupt
into my mouth.

Most sweet juice of most talented scribe, and I sometimes imagine I am
taking his nightmares into me, that I am taking the joists of sword play
into my own annex of boyhood that still is younger than spring doubloons
and richer than sun rays on a pond of blue at mid-summer's day with the
hay not as gold as the long thick womanly hair of mine.

He paints me sometimes in bluebird colors on my nose and on my penis and
at my navel, and he paints me blue and green and bright red like a
savage, he says, like someone farther back in time than anyone could
imagine, as I horse play with him and we dance and giggle and strum our
hearts close to each other, as he sometimes strums a song out for me, or
out of me, and we are silly together, and laugh, as he holds my buttocks
so tightly sometimes they are black and blue for the holding of.

But I do this for my master, for he is intent on sailing off the world.
He is intent in entering gravedom in order to keep the monsters in his
head or the dry dead histories from smothering him, so he says let the
good gravediggers find him a place of pretty in the green hill side and
let the famous Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of his take him into a place
of permanent fantasy, permanent pen stroke turn the world on his balls
and turn the world round and round to his pigmentation of imaginative
designs and patterns make the world many worlds. Make it what he wishes
it to be, this sun down, and come winter's sun frost and frozen ponds
and hands caught in mine, while we walk bundled into our gray mists of
winter lore.

And he loves me now on the stage and he kisses me, and says, oh say my
name master, please let me hear it one more time, but things are going
from him, his mind forgets more and more, and this I cry out to the gods
is more than anyone could bear, this man of word and scope and entry into
lands and conjurors and fictions and real life beings turned to immortal
by a playwright, who will be immortal in every word he writes, I've no
doubt of the same, but in himself, he will not be immortal, his heart
will seize, his blood will cease to flow and will be as immobile as
sealing wax on a long dead forgotten letter.

For his skull will eventually cleave into, and he will be just chafe, as
am I, and now I know why he does not call me by my name, as I broom out
our home, or fix our meals, or make love to him and make him feel young
again even as winter attacks, e'en in summer deep, his frail growing
more and more so bones, for he knows he will be chafe soon and I shall
out live him, but no when my master dies, so will I, the ancient
Egyptians had it correctly, when the person of import sails the river
Styx, then their servants and their treasured cats shall also be embalmed
and put in caskets of gold finery and facial orbs.

And he says, then, my holy one, Chafe, and my heart cries, he has said
it, and I rain tears of joy on his shoulder, as he asks me to make him
naked, and as we do this, we stay on the stage of grand perform and he
makes love to me and fondles me as I fondle him and he touches the new
pubic fuzz on my crotch, as I touch the gray growth of hair on his penis,
and we are erect and no one need call for ale now, for we rejoice in one
another, both, at once, and no prickly upstart will ever meet the poetry
that he is and that he imparts onto me, as I turn him over on his
stomach, and he holds himself to his knees and hands as I prepare to
penetrate him, and he sighs homeward to Avon and beyond, where the wheel
of fire and light in the sky will reel us both one day soon, as he says
to come in him, and I hold and versify my young boy cock into the
greatest man, greater even than the Christ himself, who I would fuck if
need be and love were devotion--

But that timeless shanty shall never know me for I know it for what it
is, as I invade my mentor's bony sanctorum and he cries for me, his boy,
his sonnet king, and I hold his boned hips and in the Globe that summer
night of swelter fuck my being into a miracle who indeed does outshine
all the suns there ever could be pounded into another, as I cum into
starlight as the silent chairs of the audience wait and wait till I
fulfill my penetration, and they applaud and stand and cheer--

For my master, for my god, and for me, who got to fuck and to love and to
be the handmaiden to the ultimate verse of all time--the ultimate play
and writer there would ever be----- and then for me, whom history will
not remember, Chafe in the wind, and W. Shakespar, body to also be chafe
in the wind, but whose words will verily surpass the words of the God of
Biblical nonsense--as he comes, my Will, on the stage, and I collapse on
his naked back side as he collapses on the flooring.

And the night is deep and deeply asleep when we dress and I help my
limping bowed more and more man of words, oh how he sweats with most
despair to get the words right so many many times, sometimes to point of
laying down his pen and weeping copiously, to his house and thus to bed,
as the night grows softly glow, and our bodies drape over each other and
sleep the sleep for everyone's sake, as the parity of verse and
soliloquy ease round us and give us spare and dew soaked reprieve from
the world where something wicked this way comes, to a land for a sleep
woven care of time, where Puck rules, and merrily his laugh, my Will's
and mine, at the same time, as we cuddle in deepest rubied sleep
together, and the world awaits patiently his pleasure...

And for me to know, his pleasure is somehow bestowed on a worthless pup
that is somehow some diverse fractured clavicle splintered way---that his
pleasure is--me.

Imagine!