Date: Wed, 13 Dec 2006 04:49:36 -0600
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: Dreams of Winter

			     Dreams of Winter

				    By

			     Timothy Stillman


(my other stories are in the extremely prolific authors section, and my
new website is novemberhourglass.tripod.com--Please visit--thank you
Nifty for giving me the chance to have my work read)



Tag and Teft moved quietly in the winter of their dreams. Crossing and
re-crossing their legs with each other; quiet like first sex, maybe first
love is, ten each of age, locked in the cages of themselves; stern
looks--what would your father say?--beatific looks--what would your
teacher say?--and they themselves, Tag and Teft naked in their house,
while their parents were out at one of their innumerable Christmas
parties, leaving their sons home alone, smiling and naked on the living
room couch, the TV turned to Christmas decorating, and themselves, heads
back and eyes willing and legs crossed and feet on chests, and arms round
each other, all these machinations, all these pretzel amalgams done in
fleeting seconds, all couched by their loving and hard three inch
penises, they knew because they measured, even a bit of an inch would
count, and this was fine, for they were identical wines to each other;
they were suburban kids gone to private school, and all of the world was
winter and snow and Christmas next week, and they each other's own best
presents.



Caught in the nexus and caught in brotherly arms, there and slender, and
their and torsos rising up and down as they coveted and squirmed and
delighted and fancied and danced their penises against each other, one
boy on stomach, the next on back, and feel the muscles quiver and feel
the bodies perspire a bit from the too warm fireplace; this of distance
and that of protoplasmic goop that would exit their penises one day, one
day; but for now dry cums were excellent enough, and their pink bodies
and their big smiles and their little jingle bell balls were there for
the fields of boys to play with, to play in, to be played with, all the
tingles of nerve endings, all the bums held up for the other to see in
three four or more mirrors of varying sizes all around them, as they
turned to raise their legs at the mirror perched in front of the couch,
and spied their arseholes, and they joyed in them as one put his finger
in the other's and then they tousled and then they remained as they were
always there, always boys, always brothers and knowing the intimate,
knowing the secret moments of their hearts, there with their favorite
position of the moment, sure to change any second now, each with his head
at the arms of the couch, their legs playing leg games, and their penises
there to be untouched until the rifle arms reached out and grabbed and
blew their hearts wide open, to see the season of love inside themselves,
inside their heads that were lost in swimmy liturgical thoughts, as
though there were prayer meetings inside each one of them, as they now
were kneeling in front of each other, looking at the mirrors on either
end of the couch, and seeing their swan backs and their long brown black
hair and they embraced and they did it for each other and for themselves,
to feel and touch warmness, and they did it for the mirrors too,
pretending they were camera, pretending this was being filmed and put on
the `net, and then boys from all over the world could see how true
brothers behave with each other.



As they wiggled their naked rolly butts as they kissed each other's lips
hard and tongued each other's mouth, feeling so hard and good and
sexxxxxyyyyy with their tongues dueling in the sun of their most happy
hearts, as the fire light and a ceiling light on dim were their only room
lighting, as they touched and tingled and tasted and enveloped the young
boy smell and taste of each other, wondering secretly, for few word were
said in this tableau in front of the huge picture window, the thick
drapes covered and all the doors locked, and the alarm clock on the floor
by them, set to  go off a good hour before mum and dad came home at their
appointed hour, though mum and day were always late coming home, but
there the alarm was set just in case they dozed off to sleep in each
other's arms, and there were their candy canes and there were their
mouths, and one to the other, smiling devilishly, they took their canes
and offered them up, did Teft and Tag to each other's lusting mouths,
and took them inside lying 69 on the couch on the thick shag carpeting in
the much too large much too expensively appointed living room here in the
house on the mountain that said money and more some, but the boys found
the richness of themselves in themselves, and could have been poor as the
proverbial church mice, and it would not have mattered, the tattered
clothing would have held the same brothers in transit to removal of
clothing, as the rich clothing did, and it was boy naked and sucking, and
boy reaching out for balls and boy feeling his own balls touched and held
and stroked, and then the season of giving was the firing of each penis,
one after the other, in the other's mouth, and they felt so giggly warm
happy in this, and their penises spasmed and then again and once more and
four times for good measure, and the boys lay their with the brotherly
penises at each other's faces, and they breathed warm on the hard candy
cane boy sticks of joy, and it was nice to close eyes and hold brother
tight, hold mirror image reflected by all these mirrors around them in
mirror image after the boys down the rabbit hole once more.



And so thinking, Teft touched Tag's buttocks and Tag returned the favor,
and they felt so warm and satiny and sexual beyond all measure, so while
Mum and Dad were at parties after parties, that did not stop after the
Christmas and New Year's, while Mum and Dad had their incidental
affairs, and had stopped speaking to each other for some months, and used
their sons when they were around to convey sentences necessary from one
parent to another, and they thought their kids did not know what was
going on, and their `rents thought they were finding happiness in sex
and calling it love, but Teft and Tag were not morons after all, and when
they heard and saw their parents drinking too much and fighting never in
front of the boys, but screaming matches from the master bedroom, and
that one fateful night of summer last year, when their `rents were
really going at it hammer and tong late at night, Teft, or was it Tag?,
climbed into the bed of his brother and they were scared, had never heard
screams like that before, even from them, and they held each other and
they were crying, were Teft and Tag, and they were naked save for their
Superman Underoos, and soon they had them off, and were clinging tightly
to each other from the storm of screams and words of hate bitter and hurt
bitter more, and they had to get inside each other's skins, to hide
within themselves no longer but within each other from here on out, and
to do that, they had to be categorically naked, for their `rents words
were like lightning and jerry bombs and horrible pitchforks aimed
straight at their sons who they never had given a damn about in the first
place let's face it we've been on our own from the beginning, and if a
brother intercepted a kiss that was first a grimace that
terrible/wonderful night, and if brother arms held round each other and
they nuzzled together, orphans in a storm, then discovered that the
`rents words were getting less loud, not that they were really less in
decibel, it was just the boys heard them less because they suddenly
became--aware of each other-and scrunched up grimace turned to what they
had never received from anybody else at all, a soft delicate shy
trembling--kiss.



And they had been doing what they had been doing here ever since because
they were Teft and Tag and they were invincible. And the world was just a
sketchy hologram compared to the real actors on the vague boozy stage of
those adults around them who had the temerity to call themselves parents,
as some man in the movie on TV said to his girl he wanted to give her the
stars and the moon if he could, two little boys wrapped in each other's
arms, the taste and texture and feel of loving and sexing their mirror
image who turned out to be so totally different from each other, their
legs entwined, one hand on the other's buttocks, the other hand on their
penises, small now, but to rouse soon if the boys woke in time, and
before the alarm clock woke them up and they would have to dress and put
the mirrors back and rush up to their room and to their beds and pretend
sleep, like that man and woman whoever they were pretended they were
alive and living and intelligent and brave and adult and real and that
they cared at all about their children--but they would wake in time and
they would blow each other once more--the mirror images in mirror images
and love and sex a few days before Christmas, and the unwrapping of Teft
and Tag and how they winter dreamed in school, counting the minutes till
they could be alone at home together, and they were alone at home a lot
more every passing week it seemed, and they refused to think about
divorce, and if one parent got one boy, and if the other had to go with
the other parent, like they were cuts of meat to one customer and then to
another, no, they would not think about that, they would instead hold
their faces to each other, their cheeks to each other and dream their
winter dreams and never let me know.



So, from Teft and Tag and me too, Merry Christmas, everybody.