Date: Sun, 20 Mar 2005 18:27:46 -0800
From: B Keeper <silvershimmer@earthlink.net>
Subject: Making Love to Mark

		    Making Love to Mark

			    by

		     Timothy Stillman


His name is Mark. He is sixteen.  His voice still pipes at
times and is soft sounding, shy like he, his eyes are dewy
and perplexed seeming for some reason, as though he has
done all the proper things all his life, has the art of
communication down perfectly, perhaps too perfectly, and
he has always, till now, been apart from others, as it has
always seemed he has lost something--a kitten beloved, a
once in a lifetime flower never to be grown again, and
cannot ever get over looking round for it.

He is very tall. A bit over six ft.  He does not know how to
fit his former child body into  this sudden, it seems,
tallness. It makes him even more endearing, this constant
surprise to himself. The ground was so much closer
yesterday, it seems to him, than today. He is thin. His hair
is huge and full, yellow and somehow silver in the sunlight.
He is making love to me. The room is dark, save for the
moon in the window above our bed, above our heads. It
makes his hair look gray. It makes him look more intense
than usual. He looked like a dandelion this afternoon by the
grotto, when we took our clothes off, so hesitantly, so
awkwardly, daring the other, that very first time. He
looked like a stalk with all end of summer in him. Blow on
his hair and the world would vanish--politely.

He is politely inside me. His face is politely giving and
politely hidden in old masterpieces of paintings that seem
to be swaying over his eyes which, blue in the light, are
dark in the dark room, and his lips that are so red are not
red at all now, and he is all the paintings in all the world
that says this is success and this is ruination for him, but
how can it be both at once? These thoughts, reflections on
the reflections thereafter.

He is in me delicately. And he becomes more insistent with
his now unsheathed cock, here in the room he has lived in
all his boyhood, the bed and he becoming longer over the
years. The air is damp and moist. As are we. His penis is a
circus in me, this his first time, me having to help him in,
and he pinioning his hands beside my pillow, and my face
that looks up at him with love, with the embarrassed
touchings of each other this afternoon leaning further into
us, and us becoming still embarrassed, and at the same
time, less so in the process.

I pull on his and push and yield, and he begins to circle his
long fine penis in me, a pale one as he is pale in the
sunlight, as his body lies longly on me, his chest and legs
and groin moist against my own damp flesh, his tits fitting
almost identically against mine, his eyes closed to begin
with, after we had taken off our clothes in the dark, this
seeming somehow more erotic than even in the sunlight of
this afternoon where anyone could have seen us.

His face is a study in perplexity. He is enjoying this, but
having to get it right, though I too was a virgin until now
and I must get it right also, though he seems to think the
whole act of fucking is up to him alone. My shorter legs
wrap around his long stalk ones. For it is all stalks he
seems made of,  the stalky arms and legs, the stalky long
sweetly funny and nice neck, and especially the stalk of his
erection inside me, in the deep dark closing hot channel in
which he has finally landed, that I guided him so carefully,
with smiles, into. He in me. Full and content. At long last.
Peace. Never go away. Beauty, stay. His face is a circus
poster of happiness staid back because if he smiles then it
and I will go away and the spell will be broken.

The circus he makes in me--dainty, then not so, then
roaming it round me, and letting me grip it and letting it
go, and he pushing it further inside--watching the rides, the
carnival shows, the exhibits, eating the cotton
candy--disarmed, but pretending not so, but still the little
boy in him, even now, here in the summer of Spain, here in
a place of furtive glances and bold plumps of hands on bar
maids rumps, and the smell of growth, of green grass and
leaves and shrubs and all of it encompassing a slate blue
sky of day and a dark hot sky of night,  green and forests
and jungles, we are animals tonight, and we are of summer
fecundity, and it  is quite marvelous to see his face right at
mine, he looking right at me, though he did not look at my
eyes as we felt each other's naked bodies this afternoon, he
careful to avoid that, but not I.

And in the dark he is even more noble looking, and the
moon makes shadows of purest milk on his face, as he
moans and ahhh...ooooohhhh....and getting more and more
fierce with the thing, in his proper manner, his problem it
seems, I imagine later, all along, always so terribly
proper..and then the wisp of a sigh and then his breath
warm and sweet on me, and our flesh merging in
perspiration, there only being a broken ceiling fan above us
limping round in half hearted circles when it can do that
even. Circling shadows of God on the ceiling, dim and
unimportant, as though we will grow into all this green just
outside the room and become one with this glorious earth
smell of us and it.

And in the dark his face as he leans it out over me, as he
forgets I am here, as I hold his penis and as I squeeze his
tits, and his hands on my shoulders, and his face pulling
lengthening as though he is in some shape shifter werewolf
movie, as he and the moon become together more than he
and I, and his face strains, and some struggle is going on in
his mouth and in his eyes as though he is putting himself
together after having been pushed apart somehow.

The angle of his penis thrills me. It vacillates inside me. It
dwells and drills inside me as he becomes more insistent,
and can I really be seeing this boy on the cusp of man
become one before my eyes, true and honest shape
shifting?, as he holds me together as he remembers what he
lost, a teddy bear or something when he was quite young in
his boy's room, this very room, and has not found it again
and never will, and the heart break of his knowing it no
longer matters...


...and his face is so studious, so filled with the novel he
thinks he will write someday, the runnels of his veins, and
his muscles and his flesh and his senses and his nerve
endings lying full on me, and remembering everything,
wishing to fill in details I have no head for.

And he sighs and he talks without knowing
it...yessss....lovveeeeeee...oh please....oh god....your
tongue...tickle the head.....lick it...bite it.....oh
please........oh stop....not yet......let me....and the sounds,
the aches of sounds, the delights of his sounds, the
painfulness it seems of them, the vast import of them, and
there are a million successive expressions on his face, so
many they cannot be charted and clarified...as he tries to
crawl deeply and totally into me.

As his body is a tense virgin letting go of the thing that had
made him himself for so long, the boy so proper, the boy
who would never say jack off or wank off, but always
masturbate, and find himself a bit embarrassed even to say
that word as he said to me this afternoon, and orgasm,
another word he said this afternoon, feeling quite
daring..quite clinical as though he were an old man, a
teacher, and above human hood, as his muscles bunch, as
his tendons now strain...as he is closing his eyes
tightly...long eye lashes I cannot see in the dark but which I
have to rise to a bit in order to kiss them...to remind him I
am here too....

please...suck me...oh please gobstopper me...eat me....eat
me...all of me....play with my balls....hold them....oh let me
come in....ah ahahahahahah.....

And his cum  erupts and pounds into me, as his head and
body jerk, as though he is being broken in half, his voice of
cries, and his cum bathes the inside of me, the roar of it,
the spillage of it, the majesty of it, the completion of it, and
he strains his entire body off me, and he holds himself
above me on his toes and his hands like a bridge over me,
and arch of boy, an arch of Mark who will be my true love
forever more, nothing can ever part us..all our childhood
we had known...but never till this summer had we been
desperate enough for each other to try for it, faltering,
halting, shyly, bumblingly and then and then at long last...

...coming back for summer from our respective boarding
schools, and lovers and he strains and his penis pours into
me and he is harder and harder than when we started and it
seems it will burst and I feel it leaking out of me, the cum
and my own wetness...and he holds and holds like a
suspension bridge and across his face I can touch so close I
can touch it like I can touch the moon shining on it so close
the heat of it I can feel without touching it, and his face is
"Starry Night" and the "Mona Lisa" and flowers in a field,
and couples out on a summer lush picnic, some disrobed,
all emboldened, looking brave so unadorned, directly out at
you, and eagles clattering toward the sun, and Icarus on
wax wings falling from it, and dark faces and old faces and
nameless people in the sweaty back breaking labor of
sewing seeds in fields under a merciless  far too yellow, far
too demanding sun, and he stretched his penis in me, and
he then in one huge gulf of boy breath falls onto me.....

I imagine his back and I remember his pretty hips and his
penis is cupped in my pubic hair and we hold our organs
together and we breathe hard and together, blasts of breath
coming in and out of us, as though shared each with the
other, and I come then, and he holds me as I tremble as we
tremble and I stumble into him and he falls into me and his
face is against my neck and I comfort him with my hands,
though delicately, tentatively, even now we still touch each
other tentatively with our hands, as we did this afternoon,
being respectful, not truly sure the other is really there, and
if truly there, then one or the other might run
away....always ready to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please
come back, I never will again....don't, please, leave me
alone...

 and he puts his hands on my tits and he kisses them with
his moon golden face, and he kisses my neck as I kiss his
hands and we lie there for a time, so winded, so weary, so
excited, and so scared. I cannot speak for him, what we
thought then, but I can speak for myself, and I can imagine
he thought pretty much the same thing too....which was.....

Oh dear God, what have we gotten ourselves into?

As it appeared as if somewhere in the air, right over
Mark's naked left shoulder, a door into the darkness
opened, so I closed my eyes immediately, please never let
me see what is behind it,  let me forget immediately that
strange alien light casting from it, and we held each other
even more tightly. I wonder if the door he saw opened in
my neck or chest or the pillow or the window or the moon
or my face, and what he saw on the other side of that
door, if he was braver than I, if he saw anything at all.  I
meant to ask.

But no one asks questions like that.

As for who am I? What am I? It is quite impossible to say.
I am no one. And everyone. I am someone a boy named
Mark loved once. What more could I be? I am his
Boswell...leave it at that, please. He is my love. And it is
summer. And there is the night sound of crickets and the
summer green noises and the occasional calling bird
knitting up the sky of dark with embroidery of stars.
Counter point to the noises of our making love. Never had
the phrase "making love" made sense to me before.


In his parents' cottage away from everything. And we lived in Spain, and
had a little happiness, many years ago. It still makes me smile.  It still
makes me remember. I hide there still from time to time. That is who I
was. Mark. No one else, before him, or after him. Only during. As it was
meant to be.

silvershimmer@earthlink.net