Date: Tue, 17 Jul 2001 06:20:28 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: M/M college  "Seducing You"

			      "Seducing You"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 Relax, then. But not too relaxed. This is a seduction. I am
your dearest dream. I am whatever, whoever, you want me to be.
Harvest home. We are together in a dorm room. The rest of the
university is home on Thanksgiving break. It is night. We are alone.
Not moving, with quiet snow falling down round the whole of the
world. You whisper into my shoulder all your little sighs. The room
is warm, toasty, with the building heat--ours and its. There are
salvations in the midnight bloom that surrounds us. I kiss the nape of
your neck, thinking of the warmth of you and our feelings are tender,
our thoughts are supple. You are the world that is no longer carny,
no longer Barnum and Bailey. For, as the song goes, I believe in you.
We touch. I touch you. The temple of my fingers lingering on your
sweet face. You have a noble face. You have deep eyes that see long
past tomorrow or next month even.

 We have been eyeing each other since the beginning of our
freshman year when we glanced and then never stop glancing at each
other, from that first time when we were signing up for classes, until
now. We took off each other's clothes and made love long before we
did it actually. How I fell into your arms tonight. How you stayed
with me. Caught me. You were the endless winter and the snowy
moonlight. Caught there in your face that is my dearest dream. My
harvest home. And now we lie side by side on my bed. Don't be
frightened. I only mean you good things. I mean you roses in spring.
I mean you snowflakes in July. I want you to caress me now, as I
caress you. This is not about me. This is totally and solely about you.
I tickle your shoulders and I find them so easy to fit my hands over.
So warm and so inviting. You are the mountains of love and you are
perfect. I can't imagine anyone ever but you.

 We are naked, cuddled together. I kiss your lips and they are
soft as feathers. Warm as midnight when the covers huddle over us
and speak of our boyhood romances, fantasies or real. You are in
shadow and soft moonlight, and you come to me. You push your
body against mine. We are a moment written into poetry. Our bodies
are our scheme of lines. Your face next to mine. My tongue reaching
out for yours. You laugh a bit, shyly. And I too laugh and pull you
nearer me, if such a thing is possible. Your mind is in orbit and
slowly we sail round the moon, as my hands touch round to the small
of your back. Feeling the ridges of your spine as you arch to me like
a covered bridge in  russet leafed maple tingle New England arching
with the fine steed that it has under it in apple windfall autumn.

 Your tongue duels with mine. Minuets with mine. I am your
server. Your slave. Our legs feel so good tangled in each other. As
though they are formations of a golden pool in a fairy tale land. With
Hansel and Gretel thatched wood hut nearby. The witch dispensed
with. The night garlanded with stars. Your hands work their
wonders. You are seamless gift. You are my love whose body is only
the dream world that no one save us will ever know. The
enchantment is from you alone. And I am grateful to be in your
presence. There are tears in your eyes. You have been so wounded
before. I kiss your tears away. You will never be wounded again.
The kisses on your eyes, on your cheeks, on the tip of your nose, on
your lips yet again, are magic potions. They are silhouette powders
that give you the right to turn to the side anyone who has ever hurt
you before and anyone who might hurt you again, magic elixir that
will turn them to the side and vanish them like an unimportant,
doesn't count, shadow, and thus gone. They do not walk the same
earth you do. And never shall.

 Our touches are tentative. Our love is new. This is not the
first time we have lain together. But close to. I feel your warm chest
next to mine. I feel your heart beating with mine. We are a song of
our touches. We speak little during our love making. We remember
and we replace old loves with our new one. Your hands I now kiss.
Your hands that have held pencils and your fingers that have pressed
computer keys. Your hands that have brought food to your mouth.
Your hands which have held to rails of stairs you have walked down.
Your hands that have placed themselves over your mouth whenever
you soul seems to be trying to get out. And I touch you. I possess
you. I want you in my heart. You are the yearning. A new foal in
summer time, gamboling over the green grass. Entering the world of
warm sun love and proud young legs that dance through the skies of
your dreams. You are a colt who bolts over fences. Who is never to
be tagged or caged or saddled or bridled. You are free and wild. I put
my head down to your chest. I caress your pecs. I kiss your nipples
which are now hard like juniper berries.

 And you kiss the top of my head. And we hold as though the
world is about to fall off of us. And thus ultimate freedom. We strain
against each other. We are in friendly fire and friendlier fight. A
flight of doves cross the moonlit snow, heading to warmer climes.
But never to be warmer than our groins pushed against each other.
No, wrong word. Melted against each other. You feel like I imagine
warm gold to feel. Rich and moldable and full of luxury. We stood at
bed's side only a moment ago, after waiting a long lifetime for each
other. And I took your clothes and you took mine. We were reeds
bending over one another, laving each other with our mouths and our
tongues and our most greedy fingers. We held and felt and gained
and explored and turned to each other. And finally truly new. No
bars for us. As in cages. As in bars of sadness where the sad men go
to find momentary hope with being touched by someone who might
care, this time who might care, but it never lasts, is never meant. Not
ever.

 We are together. We held to each other as though we were a
third person birthed from us two, as we lay each other on the bed,
and we heard the strong good silence of the dorm all round us, we
alone in our nirvana. And you kiss my chin now, and you laugh
again, a wild cottony laugh, woodsong in it, and you blow bubbles in
the most human parabola that has become we two. We too. Think of
it. We, no longer first person singular. The ashes on our tongues, the
desperation of our waiting until this night. As we luxuriate in each
other. As we put our hands, palms out, against each other, for we are
mirrors. I am the mirror of you. I see only your tender smile and your
sweet eyes and I put my hand to your chin and I whisper, "I adore
you." You are all sex now. You are all soul and spirit and body. I
will let you percolate through me the rest of my days. I will never
stop wondering at the song that is you, the song that you never knew
you were before. My hands need you. And knead you. And never
want to leave you. Won't you touch me in all my secret places?
Won't you remember me as though we were shadows that got lonely
enough to create us two?

 You cry out as I bend myself to you. As I lay you back on the
bed and lie on top of you. Your body arches again. Your head pulled
back as I pinch very gently your nipples and then take them in my
lips and warm them and send shocks of electricity through you. The
delight of you. The fingers of my shadow that grasp down your chest
to your abdomen. That feel it close to me. The warm pulsating of it.
The warm rush of it. So hot to my hands. And you strain to me as I
lie beside you again. My penis hard, harder than it has ever been
before, because solely of you. The heart of you that catches deeply in
my throat. And your hands press me to you and your body is
runneled with perspiration, as is mine. I lean on my elbow and I
stroke your flesh which is velvet feeling. Which is the moon when
you get to know it. Lighting my way. How did I ever find the next
minute without knowing you? How did I go through the wasteland
Elliot wrote about and stay alive even mere seconds before there was
you in my life? I put my mouth to your left side. To your outer thigh.
I purposely don't touch your aching erection for a long time. I want
it to last. I want to remember--everything. I worship you. Our
erections are temples to our god and my god is you.

 I flick a finger at your pubic hair, and you stir. I giggle. "Do
you like that?" I feel you nod. Then I pull away. Your legs open
invitingly, voluntarily. I touch your right leg. I measure it down with
my fingers. I feel the boyhood still in you. I imagine you riding your
first bike. I imagine you at your first camping trip in the scouts. I
revel in the images of you younger and then the images of you older.
You play your fingers down my face, touching the tip of my
eyebrows, feeling them with your fingers that go to the top of my
eyelids, and then press them down slowly over my closing eyes,
drifting me into your dream. Making me see you so clearly. From
now on, I close my eyes to see you. Please make of me what you
will. Make of me anything you like. I am your clay. You are the
potter. Make me into magic. For you are magic and I only the gold
ingots that are spewed out by it, stray fires in a deep winter night.
Your hands pull me up to you and we feel our hardness against each
other. You are becoming bolder by the minute. But with enough
deference, enough quietness, enough unsureness, to make it sweeter
still. To make the heart yearn deeper and trust a little bit more with
each passing moment.

 Your hands are so comforting. Your legs are so strong. Your
penis under mine is exquisite. There are no words to make it so,
what it is like. My words especially cannot describe it. But you write
the poetry in me. Your hands on my spine now. Playing it like a
harp. Rejoicing in yourself and in my rejoicing in you. I am between
your legs now. My legs and groin are yours. My balls and cock
belong to no one but you. If you will have them. And I place my
head now that I writhe and write clumsily on you my own school boy
dreams with custard skies and ground of green grass for running
lazily through, I place my head now on your pubic hair as I slide
down you and kiss you all the long slow tantalizing journey down
there that I take. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for making me
something and someone I never knew before. Your man root is
strong and boldness personified against the bottom of my chin. Your
dick bobs and writhes against me. It begs surcease. It begs rejoinder.
It begs my hands to hold it. Feel the throb. Feel the tension of it. The
length of it. The quiet root is quiet no longer. It is the sky pulled low
and feeling, I can, the clouds. It is the stars of night glittering in my
hair. Stars that you put there. It is playful. And reminds me of that
first time, as we sat naked on this bed, facing each other, and holding
close, touching the tips of us to each other. Wavering and itchy and
jumpy and giddy with it all.

 The thing of it is...I love you. The thing of it is...I'm nothing
without you. You are in my mind all the time. You never leave me.
In class, there is you. Studying at my desk, there is you. Walking
cross the quad, there is you. Reading the Sunday Times in the library
lounge, there is you. The blueness of the carpeting of the library. The
mustiness of the old classrooms in the ancient almost falling down
buildings. The boys and girls who walk hand and hand and in love
and love cross campus, they are you. The longing in the pit of me is
you. You have invaded me. You have stormed my fortress and found
in your eye averted eagerness that I have awaited you, and that I, in
seducing you, have instead been seduced by you. We struggle this
night, as though we are giving birth to each other. This will be the
first entire night we've spent alone together, without having to fear
knock on the door, without having to get up out of bed every so often
to be sure we've locked our door and the connecting door as well to
the bathroom that leads to the room across.

 We are jubilant and your body is a series of fetching giggles
silent that no mouth can make as I take your dick and hold it to my
lips. The perfect penis, against who mine is a shameless sham. You
are a powerful engine, a train that leaps in the night mountains and
leagues away. You are the drear world breaker. The unaccustomed
harbinger of good things. Of sun at midnight. And warmth in snow.
And Christmas in your eyes. For me alone to see. My hands at your
balls that are tight with love. My hands between your legs, where it
is warm, where there is the fever of hand hold inside you, as I take
you in my mouth. And your body is a string of surprises that will
never be all laid out bare before me. There is only supple home in
you. There is the knowledge that you feel my tongue writhing
against you. That you feel me gulp you. As my own meager hardness
is against your leg, as you reach down to me. And we are truly one,
now. To stay like this. To revel in you. To feel the feathers inside
your abdomen on which my hand tingles like spring rain on a tin
roof, cozy sounding, like coffee brewing, and warm inside and ten
years old and safe in bed with mother and dad looking over us,
keeping watch over us in our trundle beds, keeping us loved and
protected.

 This is not fantasy. This is reality. Reality out the window is
fantasy and purblind. It is a world of shutters that close, out there. It
is a world of doors that lock us out, out there. It is a season that is
not filled with love or beauty or the true things of life. But the world
inside our windows. This is real. This is why life was created. As I
go up and down on you, only you I am talking about, I feel every
contour. I feel every ridge. I feel every vein. I feel every depending
curve. I will remember every inch of you. I will remember every
moment of your breath, for each breath of yours is different than the
last, has a different color to it, a different weight and heft and shape.
I will take you from yourself and I will greedily hold to you and for
all the running of all the days to come, you will be beside me. For
you are that urgently, that compellingly important. I tell you these
things with the words of my mouth, with the flicks of my tongue. I
will never want you mechanically, for an hour, and then run off to
someone else to be with them mechanically, for an hour, and then
run off to someone else...

 I cover you with my arms. I push up against your hips and
string your body out to me. I caress your globes and I find them
perfect  pillows of flesh and muscle and bone. I love when we are
sleeping, to fall asleep, with you on your stomach, and my head
resting on your butt. And my heart skipping like inclining up the
sleepy steep hill of you, as I think of you as country, as continent, as
ocean over the blue sky, the blue sky below that can never even
begin to think of competing with the ocean of you. The moods of
you, from happy to sad to fretful and back to happy again. You thrust
into my mouth. Your strong pubic hair pushes in and out as my lips
and chin. You are in an agony of sexual lust. And I want you. I want
you so desperately. I spear you as you spear me in return. My penis
is touched by your fingers, at the very top of it. It gambols. It stutters.
Your hand struggles to bring me off. I put your hand on your
stomach, delicately. This is for you. I can wait till later. I concentrate
totally on you. The taste. The soft bread warm from the oven aroma
of you. I feel your balls so fine, with my hand. I press at them. I cup
them like loving glows in a summer night sky when the fireflies
blink yellow nods and then pass by in the redolent July air. I hold the
base of you with one hand. I want you as deeply inside my mouth as
possible. I want to stay here forever. I never want time to move.
Because you are time. You are the Venus flytrap that has caught me,
as unworthy as I am.

 The ocean of you is boiling. I see you now. I see you in the
throes of ecstasy and prayer as only the body can pray. Your hands
strain now at the bed sheet we're on, that we have somehow tangled
around our lower legs. Your fingers clinch to the sheet. Your head is
tossed back and you are lost in rapture. You are building, your bones
and your blood and your muscles and your skin and your nerve
endings, to the greatest climax of your life. You feel it, don't you?
You feel the all of it. This is for no one other than you. I think of no
one else as I make love to you. I think only of you. Your fingers and
toes bend with excitement, as do mine. Your body pounds up and
down. Your face grimaces with joy. Your whole body is fired with
electrical currents, hopping out of you and into me. There is nothing
between us, our bare bodies, our bare souls, the barriers are down,
the night aloneness is struck and taken off stage. The oneness, the
"mixed-upedness," has become crystal clear, has burgeoned. Is
burning its white hot radiance inside us and on us. My mouth had
become holding a wax candle made of human form, the wax drips
and burns my mouth in a most pleasant way. A most confirming
way.

 And the forest of you urges down. Your hands grasp onto the
top of my shoulders as you lean upward as far as you can to see me
giving you head. As I draw up my eyes to yours and you nod and
whisper please, please. You excite me no end. To see you seeing me
doing this. I marvel at all of this. I angle your dick in my mouth,
getting ready, and I feel the glow of it, the coming eruption of it.
You feel it too, don't you? Oh please say you do. I've tried so hard. I
want you to come in my mouth. I want to feel the rush and gush of
your geyser. As my mouth is on you, enveloping it in sucking close
quarters, I  also want the love drink of yours to be in me. First time.
And you are all shivers and quivers and the arrow is ripe and pulled
back taut and thus released.

You come now. Yes, please, do it. Think of me as you want me to
be. Release absolutely every ounce of sperm. Till it flows in raging
torrents. Your legs are hot and your abdomen and your crotch. I feel
your hips leap under my hands, become as taut as your dick, filling
upward. And I take you in my mouth. Right this second. I am
powerless because of you. I feel you filling my mouth. I feel you in
the glow of love and ecstasy and magical encounter. I delight in the
taste of your release. In me. Now. It surpasses anything I've ever
imagined. We are children in the wood become men as our love
sparks its flames. Flow your dam broken river in me. Don't think of
anything else. Rub your hands as I am doing now, up our chests and
back down. Feel the turned on. Feel the giving like has never been
given before. Take and take and use me as you will. Do what your
dearest secrets tell you to do. I am here. I will oblige. This is our true
calling. As I swallow and swallow. The essence of you.

 In time, I take a Kleenex and rub it on you, cleaning you up a
bit. It tingles and your put your arm companionably round my
shoulders and we are Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. As you reach
down and kiss me. And then I climb up to you, as though climbing
up Mt. Everest, to the tip of the tallest stars in the sky. My dick is
throbbing now. I am massaging it. I feel now your weakened hand on
it. You hold it and your fingers are soft and kind and delicate and
probing. "I want to do you now," you say. I smile, and tell you later,
we need to wait a while, we have all the time in the world, you
know?

 I put my head down on your chest. I feel your wild summer
heart racing. I feel the all of you in it. You are exhausted now,
tiredly happy, and I close my eyes, the feel of your fingers at the tip
of my hardness. Soon my darling, soon. And we sleep for a time and
I dream of you, assured that you will be there when I wake up. And
then, if you would, you can send me to the stars as well. And always
remember this, whatever happens, wherever we go, these simple
words, tossed around by so many persons who will never know what
they've missed, who don't believe those declarations for a minute,
don't feel it for a second, but you and I, we believe it, and feel it, and
I hope you will always remember me with these small words of
inestimable value, that only count when used with the heart.

P.S.  I love you.

                                    the end