Date: Fri, 6 Jun 2008 16:19:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: g/m adult/young friends 'Specific Fauna in Delphic Glades'

Specific Fauna in Delphic Glades


         By


     Tim Stillman


The two boys were there in the distance. I watched them in the glade. They
were like hushed fauns. Sibilant and full of sleek hearts.  Harts in the
wooded glace of summer time, with the wind blown cold and the seasons
starting all over again. They were naked I could tell. They were without
freedom bonds round them. They were small and dainty as though figurines.
They were pink and gray in the sunlight through late afternoon fronds.


They played with one another. Pushing their hands on the other's tiny
penises. They were smiles come from deep inside summer, smiles so happy
they could not be contained in constrained sounds or almost visions plucked
from the crown of moments like Christmas that were false sounding and
feeling compared to the fauns. They danced on their hooves and they were
gracious to one another, as though each were a prize of presumed joy. As
though greedily now sucking each other's tongues, they delighted in
presents that would come from their own and the other's bodies, and silver
tongues were their long bubble of words come from child's play that blew
like delicate dandelion petals out to the blue sky of summer air come on
evening.

All belief in persons and gods had left my soul recently, were there a soul
to leave. I had given up anyone else, for there were too many games of
chance to play with, that had grown me old and cynical beyond my time, yet,
seeing them, harping my moments here only an hour ago, I had accepted the
Greek myths immediately. I had seen their sharply pointed big seashell,
coral colored, ears, and their hairy ankles and their cloven hooves. I
wished for them and they had arrived without my knowing them or they me.

The sound of a lake close by drew them from their impassioned embrace of
one another, their arms tight around shoulders, their chests rubbing
against each other, in quiet ablution, in the center of a sun gone jungle
green, this in the stable of sexuality and their butts like bubbles of
flesh, pushed by the other's hands as their groins locked and their
thoughts buzzed with wish flies that could draw away the curtain from eyes
grown calloused, from a heart grown tired of the same con game after the
same con game.

One looked at me. I did not flinch. He had brown eyes big and bold and
daring, that I looked right into, as the scope of his eyes found me falling
as both fauns ran to the lake now bluely visible, there in conquest and
there in free form bold visions broadly painted in an elfin way, those eyes
picked me up as though I were nothing, and I rode in them sure and happy
for the first time in forever, as he and his brother faun ran surely and
quietly and serenely through the thick green grass to the lake to fall
into, and to pour me out, my carried body dusted out of the leaf tint
summer refrain of my captor's eye, and I fell and fell...

Into the ceiling of the lake, and down to the middle of the cold and blue,
as I had grown small as they, as the world touched me, feelings, the cold
water, the taste of it, holding my breath, the hands that roamed round to
play with me, there was in my once again small frame an immensity, a
certain charger of white steed between my naked legs and mounting my naked
body on top of it, as faun-boy hands so small and so regal touched me and
helped me back to the surface of air that we once mere mortals still
pretend to believe in.

And we fallomed like caught fish on the grassy knoll by the lake of for
always, and I was between them as they pressed their warm companionable
bodies next to mine, as we shrugged our shoulders and swung some of the
lake water from ourselves and we rubbed each other's long black, red,
purple, hair, and we were stiff as any king would desire, as we rubbed each
other's butts and pawed each other's penises and there was licking and
kissing and ingesting and pushing out and in, there were kinships, there
were histories here, there were legends come true as though Fall glass had
crashed into us and found us tomorrow encoded in yesterday surreal. We were
in love with our own beauty. We looked at us in the lake's reflection, and
told the world to bow down to us, as only boys and fauns can, and expect
the expected without question, the bowing down to us begins.

We were no age. We had nothing to do but enjoy. We fed on clover. We hunted
not. We drank the lake crystal clear to our full. We were only ourselves as
we prodded each other and examined each mesh of skin. We were perfect. And
when the lagoon of time would come to an end, we would not. There would
always be this glade and the bees buzzing round and not harming us. We
painted with vari-colored stamens. We descended to the sky and thought it
not nonsense that the sky was below us and the ground was above. We laughed
at nameless things for no reason. We danced singly and with each.

We took our balls into each other's mouths and made them hot and tight and
rubbed faun penises on each other's noses and giggled and held and ran
naked and fell down and made love rich and verdantly. Not love like MAN in
his small caps man is capable of, those moments of small sweaty spasms that
are all emotions in turned and cut off as though lack of breath as the
penis and the body sneeze brings one to Nirvana. We were lambs and sheep
and bears and flowers and lake water and rain and snowflakes, we were stars
and grass and ourselves in a million and one different forms and ages and
times and dress. We were the entire world making love, saying love is a
name and a place and a territory. That it is not reachable by hand or penis
and holding or groping or getting drunk or stoned.  That it grows here, in
a forest glade, from two fauns, the last ones there are, hundreds of years
old, with buttercup colors for their tiny yellow beardlets.

We dappled at colors. We arranged the sky. We changed the air to purple
violets. We insisted that the sky be of winter and it was. We insisted snow
fall and not make us uncomfortable, and it happened. We had snowball fights
in summer and in the nighttime hours, as we lay pillowed on each
other--heads on butts--on stomachs--on groins, we dreamed our dreams, only
our dreams were reality compounded, as we rejoiced at being ourselves, and
me, I was one of them, now. And I never let go, not ever, as we walked the
world naked and side by side, as we did all manner of sex and did not
perspire or look into selfishness inside, but always making sure the other
fauns were happy, for that was our greatest and most sustained joys.

This place no one but we three can get to. This place is not for you. These
happy cums you will never know. This endless childhood-imagine the greatest
childhood ever--maybe your very own, if you've not forgotten because of
years, or disowned it because society says or because of your own secret
reasons--imagine storybook childhoods--the ones that can't possibly
exist--and then make it a million times better--square the circumference
massively large, to cover the entirety of the universities--and if you do
that, then you will not begin to grasp the shadow of the beauty of
childhood faun beauty-as we ride deer and butterflies and bees and
antelopes and sing ourselves to ourselves with our voices and our bodies,
and we are selfish to none of us.  None of us.

Be well, world. We wish it on you. As we look in your camera lens eyes and
then politely run away from you forever more. Sad old world, farewell.  As
our cloven hooves beat against the stirring wind of green grass, not
harming a frond of grass in the passage of, for this is us. This is never
ever you.