Date: Thu, 9 Aug 2001 09:37:42 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: M/M college "Dream a Little Dream"

			  "Dream a Little Dream"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 If you are happy and full of love and antics and friends by
the bushel load, then good for you. Go on your sleek satisfied way
and happy trails. But if you are tired of being shredded by friends,
or if the day is too much with you, if you have found there are far
too many humans who are as cold and mean and bigoted as snakes,
when everybody pretends they are not that way, that you are to
blame, if loneliness and melancholy eat away at your soul, if you
want to crack some heads but never can, then this story is for you. I
hope.

 So, if you're naked as I am now or if you want to be naked
at any point during this reading, if anyone is reading this, let me
take your hand and walk you through winter carnival university. Let
me be the one for you and let you be the one who will allow me to
love you. We can be anyone, any age. For me though, this time out:
You be a university student. I'll be your young high school friend
come to visit you in your dorm. Time is not short now. It lengthens
and broadens each night crystal moment. Safe you are with me. No
games. No wondering what is going on in the secret heart of either
of us.

 This is not a story about love. This is a story about sex,
about lust. About coveting all the boys you see and coming home to
the dorm this week I spend with you to tell me about them. As I
bring my arms round your warm shoulders and I whisper your name
and the stars are high in the night sky. We build erections to each
other. We have done everything there is to do, and then we discover
things more to do. We are not drunk or stoned or high on any
chemicals. My world is you. My castle. Pink and soft. Pink and
hard. Hard and randy. Together on our pushed together side by side
dorm beds.

 Kisses cool too often today. Or they don't come at all. In
rushing fastness. Stand in front of me as I play with myself now,
here at the computer, and there in our dorm room in a tame land, in
a brave and real land most realists would be too afraid to try to find.
We kneel in front of each other on my bed. We fall forever into
each other's arms. We are light as feathers and svelte and our hands
flow like rivers over our bodies, our own and each other's. I take a
moment to hold my arms around my bare chest, my hands to my
back, pretending they are your hands.

 And in all of this, there is a fancy of stripping, of making
love in the college chapel dark one in the morning, of showering
together and kissing touching tingling nipples and dicks hard and
young and so very pretty. Love stroke as I stroke myself now. I am
determined to come as I write this. It's become a point of honor for
me. And head to crotch and head to dick and head to balls biting
tickling and giggling among. My own secret forest glade. My own
incumbent recumbent boy who is with me now. Heart in hand.
Broken hearts. For both of us. Too many hurts. Too many lies and
rebuffs and hypocrisy in it from other's hypocritical cardboard
morality they would never dream of using on themselves.

 Bicycle in the corner of our room, my kneeling before you,
beside the bike, with your long dick in my mouth. The veins of it
pulsing against me. The dick jumping and tickling, that marvelous
sensation down at the root of you, with your hands on my head, as I
slurp you up. A tongue that is mine that will not hurt you as you've
been hurt before so often that almost on numerous occasions you to
want to give up the ghost. But my hands are on your naked ass now,
and I give you surcease as you stand before me, legs trembling, as I
look up at you, and you look down, your eyes on fire. Shadows
leaving them.

 Bright and true and on course. Here, sir, let me make it
better. Here, sir, your dreams are on their way. I'm taking a risk
doing this. Writing this, naked, stroking my dick every so often,
cupping my balls. My computer and I are in a room that has
windows on two sides. The windows have drapes that block out
nothing. Inside or out. This is the first morning of school as I write.
School busses are picking up kids on my street right this minute. As
I sit here stroking. And moan a bit. And feel you naked before me.
Feel the night stop being the night of the soul for a time. Let the
August sunshine in. To guide. Not to be an oppressive prison
keeper.

 Your hands are on the top of my head, pushing me on your
spear, hooking me to you. You have such a nice crop of pubic hair.
Dark and just thick enough that I can tangle my fingers through it.
We don't talk in this story. We talk with our bodies, with our trust.
Trust. Remember it? Long time ago maybe, when you had some,
when you believed that you could trust others. But, if like me,
you've found the world kills trust over and again. That after a
while, you don't trust another living soul. You'd be stupid to. Some
people can never do so. Must always be wary. Tennessee Williams
calls it our only defense against betrayal. And we've both found out
this world has most certainly enough of that to go round.

 Trust me. Trust that I want to suck you out, not your heart,
not your soul, but you, your warm strong body standing next to me
as I kneel on that cold dorm floor in front of you. As I partake of
you and your sacred secrets and your sacred sweetmeats. You are
home and I am a wanderer tired of running, tired of doors closed in
my face. Let me find home in you. Let me find sexual peace in you.
These are prayers. Emotions are tough for most people. Tell  some
to many of them, they can't run away fast enough. But you are not
like that. Neither am I. We are not in love and we are not
anonymous, but we've been through enough to know that a morning
or a night or whatever time you might be reading this, if anyone is, I
repeat again, for I fear humiliation too, am trying to lessen the hurt,
then to be together like this is fine. A stop along the way filled with
golden smiles from you to me. As I push your stalk in me and I push
it so deep that I can feel it at the back of my throat. The strong oak
of you. The giving tree of you. Dances in my mouth. On my tongue.
Do I hear a waltz? Do I feel one. Be in me all of me and never leave
my mouth or my heart. I implore you.

 You are warm. Let's make this dorm room in late
November, how about? Let's make the weather plucking cold and
dense deep night with layers of layers of stars in the night canvass.
The world is no longer Barnum and Bailey, the world is no longer a
cheat and a run away. The world is you. And you push into my
mouth so deeply. How can my mouth exist without your learned
lolly in it? And my hands grip the globes of your warm perfect ass
so hard red marks are to be left there of those hands. Shadows of
red blood caressed to never let go. To follow wherever you are and
keep you safe and protected to last your whole life through.

 Your legs are downy and they are strong as might can be
when you know that my tongue is on you, lashing you with little
tongue demerits, and you put your hands on my shoulders. You rock
me you ride me like I'm your hobby horse. I'm playing now with
my dick as I write this. I'm shifting back and forth. The computer
chair has a soft black covering for back and seat. It feels good on
my butt. I rub my hands down my chest. I feel my ribs and I am
feeling your ribs. I push my penis out for you. Do you feel it?  I
luxuriate in the goodness of being naked with a boy a few years
older than me, like you. Teach me everything. I have much on a
November night of the mind, to learn. I find it a memory and a
gondola in Venice a long time ago with Tadzio, left standing,
forgotten, alone, waiting on the side of one of the banks watching
us cast watery good bye to him shadows in sun deep afternoon,
staring out after us and he calling remember me, remember me.

 Sometimes you and I will ride our bikes, naked. Sometimes
in the middle of the day in thought at least, but mostly at night, late,
and feeling the machines that carry us and our machines on the
bicycle seats. The wind at our backs, the game of trying to not get
hard by doing such a thing, and of course impossible. Human
mathematical miracles on our boy devices that take us where we
wish to go. Exactly so. You and I naked on bikes together. Your
flanks rising up and down as you pedal. Your arms strong and
lambent lit from within as you hold to handle bars. The curve of
your beautiful spine. The little bumps of it. The little freckles at the
top of your cleft. Your fair skin. The way your legs are curves, the
way they know just where to go, and the muscles of them dance.
Your dick and balls packages of entrancement on the bike v seat.
Riding comfortably and protected. Sleek and long of hair blonde I
fancy but you can fancy it any way your want.

 Your mouth, in this kaleidoscope of images that burst on
me, for I must have a kaleidoscope of images when I jack off, I can
never go with one story line or one dream or memory, I have to
blend them all together and cut them apart like photographs in the
mind, confetti raining down on me as I throw caution to the wind.
To surprise myself once more. As I ride with you. As I see the dark
country side on the gravel side road on which we take these
midnight moon lake jaunts. Trees and autumn and breezes and
night sky blowing by. And we remember them in this three and
more tier cake I'm at least attempting to concoct for you. As I suck
you in the dorm, we think of these things. As I feel the white come
of you deep within your belly. As I stroke your magical v. As I put
my mouth so deep on your cock, not easily done with a mouth small
as mine--so please, sir, teach me how--and I press my lips against
your pubic hair.

 I love the smell of you. I love that you smell of talc and
warm water from the shower we've just taken. I love to watch you
in the shower room. I love to watch you take off your clothes slowly
and stand in front of the shower and in front of me. The water warm
rain cascading down as you lean over and test it. On purpose of
course, you knowing what is to come. As I press my clothed body
against the back of you. And you feel my not inconsiderable hard
on in my jeans. As you stand again and you turn your face to mine
and you kiss me. Your eyes closed. Your face soft and delicate as a
fairy tale etching come real. Then turning full round and your
holding me and your penis up and hard standing against my shirted
belly. Your hands inside my jeans and caressing my cock as I caress
it now and pretend that my left hand is yours. As you slowly strip
me in the room of water and steam and heat and treat me like a new
flower and you the nutrients that give me rise.

 Don't be afraid, please. If you are like me, you've been
afraid your whole life. You've always kept an eye on the exit door
every time there might be even a hint of an entrance of someone
else. And if you are like me, you've a right to feel that way, to
always be ready to leave. But, again if we are alike, you forget to do
that. Always. And no matter how dark and empty the stage gets, late
and later on into the night, keening, till it bleeds for you, you still
stand there waiting for carnival university to return. And now it has.
I am here. I've taken you every way I can, lifting the sky from the
sky, dispelling the moment out of the moment. As we ride our bikes
or stand in front of the shower and you feel me up, as I give you
head in the dorm room, as I am reaching my mouth out and kissing
air between me and the computer, you, you sex toy, are doing the
same to me. I fancy myself Zac Hanson at the moment. Of the
singing group. I long to press my willowy body, my long hair
dusting my shoulders, and I, dressed only in bright colored bikini
briefs, to yours, to bend to you, to hold my arms around your
shoulders, your neck. To reach out and find you reaching back in
such a landscape of us being passionate to each other. Our faces
serious. Our eyes filled with reflections of the other. My parabola of
a body. A trapezoid swinging from your tree branches I love so
much. It's what it's all about. Everything. A bid to say here I am,
look at me, make me count for a moment or two. Everything is
predicated on that.

 How I love to see you as boy and young man. Naked from
the bronze of the sun. Your sweet smile and body that is lingering,
lonely too long, and full of sex at every moment. You kneeling
before me, in profile. Your penis hidden between your legs. Your
ass seen as all of you seen only from the side. Your body straining
gentle like Pegasus trying to get free of its harnesses. Your hands on
your knees of your long legs. Your torso straight and tall and firm.
Your flanks like a painting of Blueboy new boy new life new world
extending down in the autumn fair and brown glint of your skin.
Turned just so I can only see the intrigue of one hip, and not around
it, not seeing the meatiness the soft sweet kissable ass of yours. But
the tease of you, and the belly of you, firm, the belly of you that has
the sweetest innie navel in the whole world. As your abdomen
depends downwards and the magic goodies of you hidden by your
left leg. Your face turned away from me. You looking over your
shoulder. Pensive. A boy alone in his room, dorm, or home, or
secret place that no one knows about. Me. And you. Ages mixed up,
Times of life thus forgotten.

 Your eyes of dark bespeaking of autumn. Heat me now as I
write and misspell so many words as usual, but this time because I
am so turned on. The kids in their school busses have left now from
outside my windows. The cars of neighbors have driven off. No one
has seen me. But it doesn't matter anymore, cerulean skies are for
those who see mistily around corners that no one else save us know
are there. What else is life then than running up ahead. I am the boy
who broke your heart when you were ten. I am the boy who seduced
you when you were 15. I am the shadow that walked down a
hallway and then stopped and walked no further from whom you
ran and ran to this very day. To me.  Finding Samara not a bad
place to be. Not frightening or intoning. But warm hands that want
to help.

 Be my man-boy naked save for torn apart cutaway jeans and
lie on my bed with me on your stomach. Let me see your giggly
smile and your happy eyes and the look of sex in them directed at
me, and for this one moment, only me. Let me see those jeans cut
for shorts torn and exposing both globes of your ass, and your head
cradled on your hands on the bed or let's make it a couch instead,
as you look at me. Your smile this side of dreams that says wake up
and find you lying there in front of me. Let me put my hands on
your shoulders the cream of summer sun in them. Let me run my
trembly fingers down your spine. And let me get on top of you and
drill my penis into you, seeking oil, seeking respite.

  As I pull out momentarily, and we eel you out of your
shorts, without a word, your sweet warm naked skin floundering
before me, knowing what is to come next, as I've gotten completely
off you, for you to pull your sexual body that is composed of a
league of the tides of all the seas that ever were, in the warm brown
puckering, skin to skin adhering body, into a kneeling position, and
your ass sticking right out at me, your hole open, your ass full
cheeks and your arms on the side arm of the couch, your head up,
your unseen smile waiting. As I come to you, struggle inside you,
begin to live again. And then afterwards to shower down. Or a
shower after I finish giving you head in the dorm.

 As I soap you, lather you down. And your penis still a little
hard, the soapy rivulets and water rushing down your belly toward
home, and you like Zac when little, like me when little, like you
when little, with your new hard on that you so love and want to
show to everybody, one leg before the other, posing, guileless, on
that brink from boy to what is beyond,  knowing how to lure so
sweetly and candidly, your face turned to mine and your mouth
open in something that is a rare commodity these days. Saying I am
here. Without saying it at all, no need to. Words spoken aloud have
a habit of coming back and biting you. Too dangerous. That sweet
innocent cheery face. The heavy penis and balls and pubic hair
saying something so totally different in comparison with your kid
baseball player summer sun face. The delight of that. Zac, you say
with your eyes, bite me.

 Adore me, and you knowing without question my answer is
yes. As the soap and water rushing down your chest and belly
define you. As it hides and pockets in puddles at your crotch and at
the top of your penis, running then in little stream off it as though
you are peeing which turns me on so enormously. As you want your
picture taken, your soul given back, all the acid queens who broke
your little heart to finally get theirs first and now and forever more,
and we are in the spring rain walking. Your body walking beside
mine. Your penis thick and your flanks slim. Your chest heaving
against the day like the prow of a most wondrous ship against the
ocean of the day, the ordinary, the mundane, this reality everybody
is so goddam obsessed with, thinking they know all about it.

 Break reality. Aside from making you, what good is it?
What good has it ever done us? If words could leave a screen or a
page and could be blankets of fire thrown into your and your hands
and heads and hearts and souls, if words could take leap and bound
and not be full of crockery along the way, broken, or filled with
cruel trickery, then I would do so for you. I would give you autumn
in your heart and I would give you head all the live long night. I
would suck you in class to everyone's amazement. I would lay you
on the quad at high noon under the tallest elm. I would in this
spring rain strip you of your clothes and I would cup the rain over
your head and pour it from the sky to my hand to you, onto the top
of your head, and down you as your body waves and turns into a
comma pose, as your dick, cut or uncut, swings long between your
legs. Boys so young in the showers of spring. Brings back
memories. Muscles and thin legs and laughter that doesn't
know--yet. Hands that touch and tug and pull at their bodies. Bodies
randy and with much rain heated. Hips cantilevered a bit to one side
in the eternal spider web spring day sex dance. Needing. Always
needing. A hand to the face side. That hand's arm a perfect bridge
across a nipple, a chest that descends like a sheer cliff after the ribs
are left behind.

 A package that is golden insert. That is sex left standing. As
we ride our bikes into a new day, a new world. And I am close now.
I will not come as I write this, I'm afraid. But I will as soon as I
finish the writing. How I loved to come with Ricky. And even have
phone sex with Daniel and Brett. I even loved Grant and Josh to
tease me, though there was such pain for me in that I can't begin to
tell you.

  And dreamed sex forever always with Joel. I have given
you the best I know how to give. I caress my dick which is standing
straight out. I want you to have it. I want you to put it in your mouth
as you are on your knees, sucking me. I want to feel that warm rush
in me. That sexual surge. As you suck me into the warm moist
safety of you. To feel carnival university. Carnal university. Harrad
U. And if my hands fly now over my body, each time I pause
between these words, stroking my berry barry tits that are hard and
ask to be bitten, as I periodically hold my balls and join you in our
dorm room in the dark of night with the lights of us to sustain us
and the window open just a bit to let in autumn cold to banish the
too hot heat of the radiators we can't turn off, then come to me right
now, kiss and duel our cocks together. Let me be a chapel that kneel
before each other, chapels that fall into each other's arms.  Let our
cocks hard tingle their tips together. Let our arms around the other
go. Let our lips meet. Our tongue tips touch so tentatively. Let me
be clothed and you naked as you sit on the couch and work your
dick up hard. A large one with a bit head that is uncut. Your legs
throbbing and sticking straight out at times. Wanting to do your best
for me but your knowing that your just being here is all the best I
could ever require of you. Working your dick, looking at me,
smiling at me as I smile bright warm beams at you.

 As I jack off harder now, thinking what I've written, what, if
anyone is reading this, is being read. As your hand rises rushes
gasps up and down your dick stem, and I put my hand to your leg
that is trembling and the all of you an iris that is focused only on
your masturbation. Beautiful word, masturbation. Work in progress.
Gilding a Lilly that needs to be gilded over and over because no
matter how beautiful it was the first time it will be even prettier and
more colorful the second and the third, for I shall never tire of
seeing you pull your pud and all those other stupid phrases people
use. As I caress your leg and hold my head to your chest. As I bend
down and bite your left ball just very gently. As I hold you and
when you come, the satisfaction and pride and mischievousness on
your face, as you shoot into my hand and the Kleenex I'm holding,
as your come still drips, some of it down your shaft and onto your
belly where I will lick it off in a moment. The warm hot heart sticky
protein rich heat of you in my hand that holds the Kleenex.


 My sex feeling gets stronger as I write this ending. As I
prepare to go to the bedroom, open drapes, for okay I am an
exhibitionist, big deal, and put in my video tape of "Swim Meat" to
watch swimmers do everything there is to do with each other, tease
and taste and fuck and suck and seduce and undress and be kind
and be hunky and be talented at coming every single time on cue,
it's what they get paid for. We pay so much for everything, I'm
afraid, especially we pay for the sad times. They cost everything in
us.

 But still if I close my eyes just a bit, I'll see you there and I
will lie on my back and I will continue to stroke myself. And I will
moan a bit and cry out a name here and there. I will flex my hips
and grind my hand into myself  as I watch the video and the illusion
of naked young men right in front of me, seeing me, loving me, and
I will as always remember those sweet kind friendly words when I
was being masturbated by Ricky as I lay on my side with my boy of
winter behind me snuggled up close to me as he rubbed me so
expertly and with such slyness and happiness and said "comin'
yet?" And he never failed to bring me off. Which is what in this
story I've attempted to do in my own bumbling way. If I failed, and
I probably did, then my apologies.

 But if I've given anyone a moment's respite from the day
that is too much with you, from friends you can trust for about as
far as you can throw them, and wouldn't you like to throw them as
far as they deserve?, then I've served a purpose. And I will end this
with the two loveliest words ever spoken to me in sunshine sprites
and an absence of shadows. In their sweet longed for carnal
university merriment:

"Comin' yet?"

				    end