Date: Mon, 21 Aug 2006 19:19:26 -0500
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: Teke Blossomed Forth

			   Teke Blossomed Forth

				    By

			     Timothy Stillman


Teke was dark as the African night around us, and he smelled of musk; his
hair was wiry, long and thick like buffalo hair. He subsumed me, and his
mouth was sweet with sweat in the summer deep veldt, and the sonorous
wind whistled to other youths, other than us; there in the temperature
swelling doxology that was his body; whereas I was light as blond
sunshine, and fair of body, and frail, to Teke's strong muscles, to his
prong that was blossoming forth into the stifling air.

As he held me, he one inch taller than I, in the midnight lair of our
arms and hands and legs and standing together, naked, and he protecting
me from the white boy's nubile fear of black and desperately in love,
and in love with the blandishments that cut his teeth hard and white into
my lip, creating a tear of blood in it, which he backed his head away
from and which blood he sucked into his mouth, and then he tasted me
again and he knelt before me as he re-enacted the tattooed rood, and
receded his muscles in his shoulders pliant and tough and rippling, and
strong, and his mouth like a vacuum cleaner on my own prong that stood
out for ultimate enjoyment, the taking of a New York boy here on safari
vacation with his `rents, thus the double deliciousness of this
unconscious wish to blend with the heat of the boy my own heat, to
deliberately mesh his sweat with mine, as he took me, as I had taken him,
the seed of what I then perceived as wildness, perceived as the top of a
savannah the little Bushmaster plane had flown over today with the pilot
and my mother and father, the trees dusting in the air currents.

As we had arrived, stupid jungle clothes, fresh and well pressed, tan and
soon filled with sweat and illness and damp and limp and wishing to get
back to the air conditioned hotel as fast as possible, so laughable and
so foolish and gawkish, oh how Teke told me how he laughed later on,
which made me in the first moments slightly angry, in a land that was
filled with such mystery and historic inaccuracies, to me at least; why
did the people here talk with a British accent, me unschooled in so much
in P.S. 97, because my `rents wanted me to taste the other side of life,
the side that reflected different swimming pools and different conveyer
belts, not theirs, not what would have been mine, and would be mine in
ten years or so when the glass canyons contained and cozied and cupped me
as it had my father all his adult years.

But now was sexuality and now he knelt before me and his red flannelled
colored mouth took me into something that was so wonderfully abandoned,
that I would forget he was the mirror image of me in his own way, in his
`rents own way, for he had never had a blonde boy and he was also from
wealth but his family's wealth was taken from duping stupid tourists
like we were, and yet, in akimbo I studied his flanks and reached down
for his dong and rubbed my fingers now becoming finally experienced in
his thick dark pubic hair and I pulled on his foreskin and he sighed
round my cock as his thick calloused hands, for he led safaris now and he
extremed himself to their stereotypes, as he would bellow like an
elephant when we were locked together and he told the story superstition
of the magpies to me like he told to the white bwana devils, and he would
laugh with me, for I believed the wisdom of it first, then I laughed at
him and at me, and we were on the ground now in the thick hot fiery
bugged grass.

 I sucked him and his darkness and the history of his country and his
race and his ancestors and his lies and his truths and we were kneeing
each other now in the groin, soft limbed me, and strong limbed him, and
there was a certain hatred in is that we did not mean; for it was linked
by an intense sobriety that had come from neither one of us having had
sex with a boy, or girl for that matter, in our lives. And this was the
cream of him that was rising. This was the thick white jism that rose and
exploded star spume out of his thick black cock, that was so dark, like
all of him, save for the pinkness of his palms and the soles of his feet,
as I watched it glop on my face and the smell was, I thought, in my
unintended racism, like a new world, something that a boy grown man could
take his time in and examine the fronds of the elephant ears, could tell
which ponds were the poisoned ones, could speak all the dialects of all
the tribes around here, when a simple majestic city rose like a huge
lighted bright big tall glass building toadstool so close to here we had
to close our eyes to it when turned into that direction.

His balls were almost furry with pubic hair and I loved nestling my nose
there as he kept cumming white on my neck, and I wanted to taste his ass
hole, but I was repelled by the thought as it intrigued me, as he held my
head and took my face filled with his jism, and he kissed me hard all
over the face, licking his cum, and my penis exploded then and he held me
tightly round the cock with his left hand and his right arm round my
splintered waist, his fist oily with my cum, as though we were having an
orgy of ourselves and each other and it was of holy dimensions, as I held
to him and cried and sighed and spasmed, as I held to his black shoulder
and we shuddered together,  as I looked close at him and wanted to see
the stars of the sky in the black night of him, as he felt silky on top
the muscles.

 As I smelled the gritty raw sweat, mingled with my own, in his hair and
licked it and licked between his black small hard tits the sweat of his
chest, and then we fell to our own silent wondering, as though there were
bags of gold at the end of our thoughts, and there was not me going home
with idiots in two days time, and his not going back to his own world of
jerking off tourists and longing for a blonde boy taken off in a plane
and never to be seen again.

All the gun metal of our thoughts and the fresh bullet striations of
smells of each other, that we would soon dive naked into the lake near
by, and we heart the vast magisterial calling of some wild beast to
another wild beast, and never knew our hearts could beat so hard and
never knew we could love our own hearts so much, and his fingers full of
Africa drilled into my ass cheeks as we sat before each other, and I
drilled my own pale fingers full of New York winter into his, and we
wanted to split each other with our cocks, but were afraid of the pain,
but the want was still there, and I said his name, Teke, and he said
mine, which was a name so insufficient, and so foolish and laughable, and
Teke was elephant tusk dipped in the deepest Stygian depths, and Teke was
all boy and all man at the same time; he was not ashamed of sexuality; he
was not ashamed of being a homosexual, which was a terrible thing to be
where he was, and I was ashamed of being homosexual.

I would deny and deny but the plot always was to come back to Teke, and
Teke was only and we lay together in our exchange of cum, and our prongs
were hard again, and sexuality had been to us these last two weeks what
was hard and what was work, as though we were trying to build our
mansions into each other, a resting place, a working place, a factory of
glass and stone and steel, a factory of quiet and silence and ease, a
factory of ulcers and heart attacks and 20 hour work days at the office,
pushing papers around, and leading tourists with jokes that staled and
filled with flies, the same kinds of flies that now ate at us, until Teke
joined  his father's own business in the city of lights we tried not to
see now this night in our sweaty eyes.

This was work. This was reality. This was what meant something. This was
taking someone from one continent and depositing them on another, and
finding instead of a puerile plaything, a playground for masses of times
that would lay up like sick numbers of sausages on part of the plane ride
home with only the desire to get to the rest room and take some antacid,
in that sick sterile plane air conditioning, and to recede the whole
thing into a dream scape where elephants were thank God protected and
Teke made sure no animals were hurt, in clear and precise language^×this
is a click safari, anyone with a firearm of any kind will be lead
immediately and unpleasantly back to their plane or boat where they can
go to their hotel and sit in air conditioning and watch Jay Leno, capish?

And Teke would take no laughter, not from them, and not from me or from
himself, and I wondered as I took the tip of my tongue and tasted round
his black wide certain assured eyes why anyone else lived in any thing
other than his delusion, for it was his delusion; a boa constrictor could
take him as easily as me; he could know how to cut out the poison
immediately but he would be sick, it had happened three times with
snakes, he said, with something amounting to pride, and if he saw his
world as this one^×

-- this little bubble where he was a scout, where he was the looker out
for his land, the denizens of that land could and might kill him as
easily as a heart attack might take me at eleven at night at the office I
was to fill, as a heart attack might take him at the same time at night
at the workaday office his father would hand down to him, and we both
would pursue wealth, because that was our central theme, and we would not
think of ourselves of now, back then, whenever, and I leaned over and
kissed the appendectomy scar of his and tongued it and tickled it; let's
see some animal you adore in some preserve try to save you of
appendicitis, I thought, and we giggled and he held the words of jungle
tribes from movies he had seen on TV,  as had I, and this was work, and
this was real, because this was not real at all, anymore than the future
forever away from this, no matter he still within scouting distance to
say the least, and all was ending, and sex was a moment and I turned over
without letting me be afraid and he touched my spine tip as he reared up
beside me.

It will hurt, he said. I nodded and felt a rush of sweat from my stinking
arm pits. I did not dare to say a word. I will not do it, he said, you
are my friend. I lay there for a time and he knelt there for a  time, and
he put his hands on my shoulders that were shivering with fear in the
wool smothering night and he lay on top of me, and his hard on was at my
butt, but did not enter in, and we lay there and kissed each other's
cheeks and then he moved off me and lay beside me, and in the moon and
star spin dark, in the high Savannah grass we kissed all over and we
loved all over and I drank him one last time this early early morning and
I wanted to drink Africa, all its pride and all its wars, and all the
injustices given to it, and all the wounds, and all the pains.

And all the victories, and all the brutal colonizations he had told me
about, and I wanted to drink the land inside to me, I wanted to be black
like him, and black even purple black so in the bright high juggernaut
suntime of heat day impossible to bear with any weak breath at all, but
all I did was to drink in the milk thick sperm of another boy, another
visitor to this planet, another unsure, no matter how seemingly sure,
another mortal.

I wondered later if he had tried to drink in New York from me, the city,
the seasons, the hustle and the snow and the heat summer and the
tenements and the townhouse where I lived, and if we tried to drink in
reality of each other or even of ourselves, or what images we had seen
and read and imagined, that pushed us farther than a continent away from
each other, even as we sucked each other's dicks and tasted only, each
other, and we would never forget, we said later, and we would email, and
we would write, and chat on line and send pictures and webcam and do sex
for each other, and he lied this, and I lied that, and we knew and we
held each other closely then before we had to dress and get back before
dawn awoke or our parents found us not in our homes.

 As we held each other closely, belly button to belly button, pale cut
cock with soft slight blonde pubic hair, to black uncut cock, how I had
loved to peel it like a banana, and our mouths joined together like steel
and iron magnetized, we might have already been separated by half a
world, for we hated each other for the lies, for they were sincere and
honest, and so were we, and we meant them, god how we meant them. And how
we could never possibly live up to them, even in our lives, whoever we
wound up with in our own individual worlds.

And this was then the start, or close to it, of our disillusionment. I
think we would not have had it any other way. And I think we spent a life
time wanting each other, trying to write that first email, get that first
convo and use our camcorders, a lifetime, that lasted a week when I was
back home in our penthouse. And I separated from everything. As did it.
That was the week that was a whole lifetime, the real thing, the coming
to terms week. And at the end of that week we failed. It had been
horribly easy to do. And never were to see or read or meet or touch each
other ever again. It's called reality. I hardly love it. But that is
what it's called.