Date: Sat, 27 Dec 2008 12:07:10 -0800 (PST)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: g/m College "Pique"

				   Pique
				    By
			       Tim Stillman


"A town in France?" Jules smiled at me, as he lay naked atop the
counterpane, so I threw a pillow at him and we tuggled, I was naked as
well, so what the hey?, we made love. And had sex. And kissed. And he said,
"Do we have to globe trot any longer? I mean it's getting a bit boring."

I cuddled him in my arms and felt the wonderful smooth pale skin and
whispered in his ear, "We're 21, not out of university yet and we have to
find ourselves."  So Jules went for my crotch, held on and looked
mock-seriously up at me, as he said in that hopelessly cultured British
upper crust accent, "I've already found myself." So I reached for his
crotch and told him, seriously, no mock about it, "No, you've found
me. What I've found is yourself," as I pressed his ascending hooded
cock. So we lay there mid-morning in a chalet out from anywhere in
Switzerland, a glorious snow and sun dancing on it, the slopes visible out
our bedroom windows and skiers on those slopes.

We had had a splendid breakfast, warm buttery huge croissants with
marmalade, pancakes of the almond variety, and endless cups of the best
tasting coffee in the world, for Jules was right. We had hop scotched the
world on more scotch than you would care to remember and we had been in
love and that was why it hurt so much. I had to believe that.

Only he didn't know we were no longer in love, please, and I could not
bring myself to possibly tell him. After all, who was I to know for sure? I
blew warm breath on his long dark hair and kissed his cheek and neck to
which he replied, "That feels marvelous, love."

I felt so rested and so warm in our deep feather bed and the fireplace with
a nice blaze at the wall beside us. I never could understand accents and
their effect on me. The British ones especially--all those cute boy movies
I guess from there, and the Hammer horror movies and the novels and TV
shows, so many of them British or with or by Brits. And I guess that was
what it came down to.

I would have to give up all of those things I had loved from childhood
onward because they would remind me of Jules and my heart broken and never
to be mended. And I rubbed Jules' hairless chest and his almost invisible
little brown hard berry nipples.

"I know what it is," I told him. And he reached to my left hand and held
it, which made me want to squirm away a little--that had been happening
more and more--as it did this time, I thought run away, ditch him first, go
put on your clothes, take a car out of here, and remember you did it to him
first--nana na naha--as I would stick my fingers in my ears and stick out
my tongue at him. Yeah, right, and that would be me falling down the steps
into the heavy, albeit, beautiful snow and I would have broken my leg and
he would have to take me to the medic--oh forget it.

With him it would sound reasonable and logical. It would be adult and above
board. He would say things like--you are much too hard on yourself, you
must find the magic in you, for there is such wonder in you that you do not
see--and then I, the little boy, of course would say, "Then why the fuck
are you ditching me?" And he would hold my hand briefly, as he would guide
me to the bed where we would sit and hold hands, that Brit holding hands
thing was truly getting annoying, it always seemed to lead me into sadness,
like there was me back there at ten and scared and alone and wishing to God
in Heaven someone would hold my hand at night or any time at all.

And he would make it worse by telling me with the compliments of me I just
don't see, which of course meant, I had screwed up again, not only with
him, but with the majesty of me--what it all was, was for it to hurt harder
that way and to make me feel like a mewling infant, of course without
meaning to at all, which just makes it worse.

He rested the back of his head on my groin and said almost wistfully,
"There should be a town in France, or in anywhere for God's sake, called
Pique. I think we all live on the edge of it pretty much all the time."
Thank you for stealing my symbolism, Jules love, but well dammit I thought
it before you said it; in fact, you never would have said it except for
me. Bet you would like to steal another interesting, bitterly fascinating
word, like, visage. Sure you and your Visigoths just have a plunder and
slaughter good fun time, you thieves, why I could break--

"Steven," Jules said. Great, now my name is off --limits; any time I read
my first name or hear it, any time I read his first or second name or my
first or second name in anything, or hear any of them singular or in a
mix--it will remind me of someone I never liked that much anyway. I held
Jules' hand to my penis and he began to rub so nicely and warmly--great, I
shall also have to cut my penis off when we are through--well for that
matter all the parts of me, but I'm stuck with them.

It was just he was British you see, my fondness for things British. He
really wasn't much better looking than I; I mean he was an ok lover, as I
suppose was I; if he lived down the street from me and didn't have that
accent, I'd never notice--dandy, now I have to apologize for what I cannot
tell him I've been thinking and he will do that "eh, mate?" and fuck it,
I'll fall in love again. With what? That accent and his tony way with
things and all. It's learned from baby hood, I giggled almost, on up. Were
he born in Arkansas to a redneck family, he would talk and act like that
and would be named Bubba Tubo. Marry his mouth and larynx and tongue and
teeth, might as well.

Jules took my penis in his mouth and sucked me hard. And with vigor. Not to
mention valor. And yes Jules you do a good job of blowing me and I succumb
to what I don't want to feel, for I shall miss it all so terribly for I
loved it and him, beyond words, face it Mack, have to take a new name, for
after the person, who in one minute more would be taking my cum in his
mouth so happily, I felt--everything--and I buck and waver and swan my body
as I look at him with my coming penis in his mouth as he looks at me the
whole time and rubs my hot almost feverish balls.

Later on, in our warmest clothes, in the brisk cold top of the world scent
of pine air, and downiest jackets, we sat in the exterior part of the
chalet bistro, sipping our chocolate--I think British now--hot chocolate,
dammit--and his explaining the Brit meaning of biscuit--I shall break down
and sob when buying Lorna Doone cookies--double whammy--so long Lorna for
your name too---move to Mars, the only way to get rid of the Jules memory
cooties.  No.  He is in my heart forever. Death will not let me escape him
and the things he loved that I pretended I loved too and the things I loved
that he did not even pretend he loved because I loved him. So I pretended
to love what he loved and pretended not to love what I did love, and he
would all but pet me on the head as he would say, "You are coming along
nicely" and I thanked him! He liked doggie sex too. No need to paint the
obvious coupling of that.

Jules finished his choco--his hot chocolate dammit--looked at me. Do not
make me look at him. I planted the seed today--a monstrous Triffid--another
novel and the movies based on "The Midwich Cuckoos" I will have to detach
from my brain--good luck--I forget nothing, especially the land of sad
hurtful--the horrible casket closed lid sealing now--ready for
burial--"pique"--he knew it was over, it occurred and grew in him at that
exact second. I looked at the mountains with such rich bounteous snow and
dizzying heights right to the golden sun. The experienced skiers and the
comical routines of the beginners on the baby slopes which also looked
gigantic to me, the waiters serving, the chatter at the tables, the
discordant music, the white linen tablecloths, the endless winter snow
chiffon in the air and on the ground, the trams hauling people up and down
the mountains, and then of course, being an idiot, the theme to "Charade"
playing in my head, for so many reasons, then I fished my eyes all the way
to him. And I was wrong.


Well, about some things, partly, he reached across the table and told me
there.  I had not planted the seed in his mind this morning. He even used
the you are wonderful line. He had to leave in an hour, train to Zurich, to
meet a friend there. Jules had been sorry for me, knew how in love with him
I was (there he was wrong--he scared me silly) and wanted to build my
confidence, but he had met some persons--"...and you know how that goes--ha
ha"--no, I have no clue as to how that goes--and he was warm and kind and
real, as he had always been--and came over to me--put his hand on my
shoulder and said "Goodbye, love." Thus killing forever for me "Charade.,"
Henry Mancini music, all the actors, well, all of them were already gone,
especially the sweet Ned Glass. One degree of separation between Jules and
everything I loved. He would be in everything. But he would not be in me,
only memories. I would forever be that one degree of
 separation.

I sat there, not caring if we had upset anyone with his parting gestures.
Thinking----maybe it's something missing in some people. Not because it's
me--but real people break up with real people fore reasons they don't
understand, or do understand, just get tired of each other--Jules said,
early on, he got bored quickly, so I started to try not to make him
bored---not that was an effect he wanted--he was just being honest--but it
seems people can be decent good persons and love you and drop you one fine
day out of the blue and can't understand why you don't see it like they do.

I walked to a tram to take me to the top. So I wouldn't see him go,
suitcase in hand, not knowing if he would look to see if I was still there,
at that table, to give me a goodbye glance, for I knew he would not. I
looked up that forbidding ice jagged mountain, lowering my stomach by 3
notches, closed my eyes and heard these words not necessarily originating
from me--welcome to your life, get used to it. I tried to play the theme to
"Charade" to cover the pain of it, but the first notes and the starting
lyrics made me feel on fire, like I was being crucified--I looked to my
left but there was no one to hear me. I no longer heard the grinding gears
of the tram or of hearts breaking or of the world. I was no longer scared
of the wind gnarled tram, longer lumping its loopy way up this mountain so
people could risk killing themselves skiing to impress themselves and fake
being young forever. I did not fell myself seated or not. Or hanging onto a
strap, but being a ball in a pin ball game, landing on people who pushed me
away, back and forth, and me feeling nothing. Was this how it feels to be
normal? Had I actually made it? A happy ending?

So I just opened up and howled like a mad man. Because I was.