Date: Mon, 8 Oct 2001 20:39:15 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: young friends/brothers  "Song of Jean-Phillipe

			  "Song of Jean-Phillipe"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 Jean-Philippe was ten the summer he made love with me.
My name is Michel. I was 14. It was that particular summer, in the
meadows where we loved to gambol. The whole world seemed to
be filled with golden sunshine and sweet green grass. When the
heat was lazy and made us lazier still. And golden it seemed his
eyes were then. I have heard some say that golden eyes paint the
eyes of an alien, too other worldly, too exotic, like a lion's eyes in
a face from a different planet. A turn off in other words.

 I say no. He was no alien. He was all boy. Tall and thin as a
drink of water, and all the time laughing, as we ran to the field
about a kilometer from our farm. Where we sat by the blue stream
that bubbled cool, as we picked at daises and counted he loves me/
she loves me not. I was dressed in my blue summer shorts and pale
blue shirt. Jean was dressed only in a pair of ragged jeans cut offs.
We also wore tennis shoes which we took off immediately we got
to our meadow.

 Jean's chest was dimpled and made me think of  the prow
of a ship pushing past the waves with heedless grace. I stole
glances at his little pink points every chance I got. And he, though
he did not think I noticed, stole glances every chance he got at my
lips which were pretty for a boy's--redder than his and a little
fuller. Today he looked at them with more than a glance. He was
nervous, and Jean was never nervous. He seemed--interested, in his
shy way. I averted my eyes. So did he. Then we both looked at
each other again as we knelt in front of each other in the tall soft
grass.

 We were covered with perspiration sheen. My nipples
found themselves hard. To be with him and to know this in front of
him and his somehow knowing it as well filled my heart with love.
I wanted to be with my brother. I had felt this for some time.
Today he seemed to wish to be with me. Could such a delightful
thing actually come true?

 I once saw Jean naked in the warm bath, a supple little
warm and shy popsicle of a body, a little curve of a pink body, and
he covered himself like greased lightning and he turned from me
and closed his eyes. His bending away from me, showing me
almost all of his right hip so tiny and perfectly formed, in order to
hide his little boy trigger, tugged at me. It was such a sweet boy
thing to do.

 "Brother, please," Jean had said that night as I got tight in
my shorts at the sight of him. His voice had been hushed, but there
was a little tickle in it.

 I felt an immediate warmth for my brother then. Is this
wrong? We loved each other dearly. We always told each other our
troubles. And we always listened to one another. Maman was too
busy with work to pay much attention to us, so mostly we only had
ourselves.

 Jean's body was so pure and kissable all over, delicate and
with the coloring of a late bright summer sun through a stained
glass window. I had seldom seen it before because maman insisted
there be no nudity between us in any way at any time. That bath
night though, I knew, really knew. I struggled not to giggle with
my uncertainty, my sudden delicacy of thought, and turned,
running from the loo.

  And now my brother and me--and now we lovers?--oh
please be true--we extended our hands to each other as we sat on
the hot ground, against the steady heart beat of the earth, where the
grasshoppers jumped over them and around them. How I longed to
put his golden hand on my lips and kiss his long artistic fingers. To
kiss that sweet pure honey flesh. And later I was to know how
much he wanted to put his hand there as well.

 "Do the children still give you trouble at school?" I asked
him.

 He tensed and started to pull away. I was immediately sorry
and I stroked his hand. I had teased him often as older brothers are
want to do. This time I did not mean to tease at all. I meant to
show that I cared.

 "It is a boy's hand, Jean," I said. "It is your brother's hand
and with it I wish to," I said, as I traced the veins in the top of his
left hand, as he pulled his other hand away from mine, "I wish to
show you I adore you." And he looked at me hard as I realized that
was the worst thing I could possibly have said.

 "It is nothing wrong with that, Jean-Philippe," I told him,
somewhat jealous of him. For he was prettier than I. Boys, young,
wish to be pretty. Do not let that war whooping and cowboy boots
and rough and tumble fool you, for it is meant only to fool you and
them.

 I have a too round face and my hair is the color of thick
chocolate milk. I have too many laugh lines on my face and my
teeth are not pretty but a bit crooked. My shoulders sort of hunch
in a bit and my stomach is too pouty. But I do have a lovely bush
coming in. Only no one as yet had seen it save me.

 Jean's hair was silver in the gold hot sun. His face was
aristocratic, the kind of face you would read that a young
Heahcliffe had had, the face of the young lord of the manor who
was perpetually ready to go on a fox hunt.. His body was a
pennant, an unbearably beautiful complete knit together fabric of
boy song. His arms and legs were long and he could race you faster
than you could imagine possible. He was a child of nature and
nature was a child of him. He had created all of the good in the
world. My king, my lord.

 Jean was angry now that I had told him, he thought, that he
was a girl. But did he preen a bit at the same time there, young lion
cub in the sun halo round his golden hair?  I did not mean to push
him away. I always say the wrong thing. But he glories in what I
say as well. See him? Watch this willow of boy, this self possessed
child who was perfect in every way.

 Jean's face was a little storm front that made his dimpled
chin smile in a most inappropriate way for such an angry little boy.
He put his hands to his nipples and he looked at me defiantly, "I
have boy tits. Not girl tits. My tits are better than yours. " Oh how
hot that made me for him. How glaring fire did the meadow turn.

 And he laughed, proud, the old sweet Jean. I had not made
a fatal error. He was to test me. He thought.

 I jumped up immediately--we had had these little joke
fights and child play before.. They had always ended with no
satisfaction, with something lacking. He looked up at me as I rose.
His look said he was worried. We were still together! An accident
on my part had furthered it.

 It was to be a grand day. The first of many. We had all
summer long with only ourselves for company. For the nearest
neighbor's farm was some distance from this countryside and town
was a lot further distant.

 I shook my fist at the sitting boy and he looked up at me.
He smiled deeply. His teeth were little white squares. We
understood one another. The song was now singing.

 He looked like a godlet siren sitting on a rock bringing the
sailors close to the shoals. Not to wreck. But to comfort. For
sometimes Jean and I would hug. It was like hugging a little sugar
bear to myself. And at night, my room next to his in our house of
clay and brick, sometimes if I strained hard, I could hear him
making little soft moaning noises quick then slow and then quick
again and then stopping as if on a franc.

 I knew what he was doing of course in his bed at night. I
did the same thing myself. Stroking my lonely cock. Wanting him.
How so very much I had wished we could do it together. It seemed
so sad, so wrong for it not to be us together, so we could hold each
other after the ending came.

 Now Jean was getting up. He didn't even have to put his
hands to the ground to push himself up. He just simply arose. He
smiled at me--ah, now he is the one playing with me--and began
walking away from me. His stick out shoulder blades raised in
anger, one fist pounding into another. His silver gold hair was
perfectly coifed to sculpt the back of his head and neck and the
shoulders where the end of it lay.

 "Boys," he shouted "need girls. Not their little brothers.
REAL boys do, at any rate." And he laughed, at least tried to make
it a harsh laugh, but it was a sweet high trilling little boy laugh
instead. "How many times have you hidden, looking at me bathe
and wishing you were as well endowed as me? Ha!"
 I shouted, "Turn around Jean, turn round and gaze on
brother who has something to show you."

 He stopped. Considered. Though he did not turn. How the
sweat gleamed on his body like it was fashioned by razor blades
from a statue of David, all stick out ribs and elbows and knees.  He
had become my David and how I hoped to become his Jonathan.

 "Come on, scaredy cat, turn round," I mocked. My voice
had begun to crack. It embarrassed me. Oddly though, Jean had
never laughed at me for that. Most ashamedly I had laughed at him
for so much. Mocked him as they mocked him at school.

 "How sorry I am for the way I have treated you, Jean. How
I wish to make up for it today and the rest of our lives."

 He looked back at me, as he slipped a bit on the hot green,
caught himself and turned round completely, and he was amazed.
For during this time, I had slipped out of my shirt and shorts and
underwear and was standing there completely naked. My dick was
hard. It had a patch of black pubic hair. His eyes were agog. He
looked all over me, as though there were something of hunger in
him that I had never seen before, and perhaps, just perhaps, he had
never felt before. How good for brothers to initiate each other.
How fine and fun and natural it is.

  I stood, so brazenly, with my legs apart, wishing my body a
bit less doughy, and I put my hand at my new crinkly v of brush, as
I held out my penis to him, always and only to him, and I cocked
my head at him. I did not smile. But he did. And something else
happened too. The front of his shorts became tighter. There was
his little stick poking into the fabric.

 Without a word, with only a moment's hesitation, Jean
opened his jeans and the little dewy eyed penis, so tiny and
buttercup it was, bounced up and down and it made me laugh, I
could not help myself.

 "Michel," he said, a whispery shock, "for God's sake,
cover yourself." As though he had not done what he had just done.
His voice in his voice was not saying what his  eyes and penis were
saying.
.
 I considered him. I looked at him and he was embarrassed
and his downy face with the expressive golden eyes as if from a
land far away, and the mischievous smile, as he turned from me a
bit, though not for long.

 "Your little pole does not seem to find my body
disagreeable," I said, trying to keep out the fear and trembly. To be
naked with my poor unattractive body, in the presence of his
parfait perfection made me so timid. But I must not show it.


 "Boys use their wee wees to pee with and to play peeing
games with. Yours is standing straight up and out. You are my
brother! What is wrong with you?"

 I looked at his penis sticking through his jeans opening.

 "Yours is hard too, brother. What is wrong with me is what
is wrong with you. And that is--each other."

 He nodded, perplexed, bemused, bewitched. There was a
warm breeze and there were bees buzzing in it. How I longed to
see him naked. How I longed to rub my body against his and put
his cock in my mouth, like I had read about in magazines maman
never knew I would ever so much as find, much less read. I always
managed to put them back in her closet, though, without her ever
knowing they had been gone. Her with her cachets and homilies on
the kitchen wall and her most forced daintiness and correctness.
All lies.

  How I longed to run naked with him over the fields with
no one about in all directions. We would play and wrestle and I
would slap him lightly on his bare butt and he would push his
groin forward as I would reach around and stroke his peppermint
dick, and then he would mock slap me on the butt and suck me off
in the way I would show him. He had never done that before. He
had never thought of the possibility of that before. And we would
be in pretend happiness that was real happiness. Only we must not
admit it to each other. I knew that much about him, and about me.

 The sun painted him. As the sun loved him. He was gold
foil and held the sweetest candy. Jean-Philippe could do nothing
more than unpeel himself as I silently commanded him to do.

 And he did it! He did it slowly and brazenly and Oliver
Twist like and tenderly. Seeing him divest himself of each thread
of clothing dusted me with feather tickles. Until he stood in front
of me. Naked and hard and boy and head tipped to the sun. Face in
profile to me. So very proud of himself. To show himself to his
brother in the mid day summer sun. Summer wine could never
taste as fine as this. As him. My brother who I love. Who I want to
have sex with. As now I see he does as well wish to know me.

 How fine and fun and good it was for both of us, for he told
me so about himself later, to stand naked in front of each other.
And for me to see his hard on that now ,unconfined by fabric was
standing, it stood straight up, and was staring at his navel like a
little barber pole of pink.

 His balls were tiny chestnuts of flesh. And the massive
poetry that came from that little pinprick of boy hood. That little
enigma of flesh that was like mine and not like mine at the same
time. If he could have gotten me pregnant and I could have had his
child, it could have filled me with no greater life than it did right
here, right now, at this moment.

 It never made me feel anything but alive and deeply
gratified inside. After we had been intimate, and were resting with
the bees and honey flesh and the blood easing through me, our
hands on each other's cocks, protecting them, I asked him if he
had had that problem as I did of getting hard in school just when
the teacher called him to the blackboard. He laughed knowingly.

 "What do you do then, Jean?" I asked.

 "Suffer!!" he answered.

 We discussed which side of the jeans he wore his penis on
usually. He said the right side. I said for me it was the left side.
Such intimacies. Such innocent confessions. How they caress my
memory even this day long from then. How our even spent penises
jumped in each other's hands as we lay there, his head sometimes
laying on my shoulder, mine sometimes laying on his. We decided
a penis is a very independent being and deserves much respect.

 But now, before we finally touched, we stood that way for
a time. Eventually we did those things I wanted to do, play and
wrestle and run free and naked, and so much more. Eventually,
brave child bold, he  put his hands on his naked hips as though he
were Superman. And he swaggered toward me, his dick bouncing
all the way so merrily along. And I came to him as sensuously as I
knew how at 14, when all I knew about it was what I saw in the
movies and read in maman's magazines.

 I pretended to be Tarzan and he pretended to be Boy. We
swam naked in the cool stream beside us. We held hands under
water. We felt each part of each other. He had me turn from him,
my knees in the cold water and bend over. He bent over me and
placed his penis against my thigh. He nuzzled my neck. We
decided we would be married some day. We knew we loved each
other and would love each other for all time. What was wrong with
it?

 Later we pretended we were lovers re-united after a long
and bloody war. Like in the 1940's WW II movies. I tipped an
invisible cigarette to the ground after taking a puff of invisible
smoke from it and crushed it invisibly with my bare foot. As the
troop train came into the station in all that steam and fog and misty
memory vapors. I saw him and rushed to him. Rushed to him hard
and fast.  I put my arms around his naked chest and back and arms.

 And he put his around me.

 And I said, "Jean, was the war a terrible experience?" My
voice quivering with longing and allure that probably sounded
closer to the voice of Foghorn Leghorn.

 He tried to stifle his giggles though I could feel them
running through him as they made his hard dick do a tap dance on
my naked belly, and his balls were so warm against my own, I
never wanted to let him go. We were pretending--but only a little.

 "Oh, the war was," he said, so bitter, so full of knowledge I
would never ever know, but being so brave, dismissing it all with a
hero's shrug,"--you know, a body here, an arm there, a head over
there--somewhere."

 And we fell down akimbo in each other's arms. And he
held onto me and his face was against the left side of my
chest--how his little body pressed me so deeply into the grass that
would forever hold the shadow of me he made there. How grand to
be naked and in love with a boy who lived with me, who would be
with me and only me.

  I said, "Suck me, little boy. Suck me and be comforted and
nurtured."

 "How? You are a boy," he laughed against me, his penis
hard on my abdomen. "I can't suck you. The things you do not
know. Amazing."

 I put my hand on his forehead, the forehead that was warm
and wet and I put my hand on top of his heavy sheaf of wheat hair
and I directed his mouth to my nipple.

 He bit it a little, uncertain, asked if he were hurting me, and
then he tongued it and then pulled away from me a little, and we
both looked down at his three inch erection that was bobbing it
was so excited.

 "Michel," he said.

 "Yes, Jean?" I asked brushing the hot back of his head.

 "Why do boys have tits? They don't have milk or
anything?"

 "So sweet little brothers can bite them and send electricity
down their older brother's entire body and then ask him annoying
questions like that."

 We were silent for a time. Perhaps we dozed a moment.
The sun held its golden arms round us. After a time, our bodies
linked together, sharing perspiration and excitement and eagerness
and--this especially--contentment, my brother said:

 I've never been this hard before," he mused. "Why does
touching your nipple and body make me hard?"

 I smiled down at him. He had to save face some way of
course.

 "Because it is kismet."

 "What?" He looked up at me again, his face so close, his
breath of clover, so innocent and sweet as I cuddled next to him
and put my hands down on his hips so low and I held him and
tickled him. And he cuddled into me. He was my teddy bear and I
seemed now to be his. How I had slept with his pretend body next
to me in that stupid narrow single bed for so very long. And
now--this--

 "Because we love each other," I told him. "Because we are
one."

 "But we're boys," he objected, but not too strongly.

 "Girls are icky, don't you think?" I tensed. I had said too
much. Do not reveal yourself to your lover. Do not reveal yourself
to him most of all.

 "Yes," he sighed, and put my hand to his buttocks which I
stroked so lovingly. It explained it all. We talked of how boys
made us feel. We talked about why it is not wrong. We talked
about the good feeling and what was wrong with feeling good?
That made no sense to think it of dreadful monstrous concern.

 And we lay there for a time, glorious in our tapestry of
flesh in the sun and meadow that did not mind, that welcomed us
to it.

 I kissed his lips and he kissed mine. Our hands were idly
playing with each other's penises. Rubbing them. Mine at least had
never been as hard. He felt every turn of mine, every curve, every
vein. He tickled the slit of its head. It was suddenly as though he
had realized what that traitorous hand of his was doing. He pulled
away.

 He turned his face to mine.

 "Michel, I don't think we--" He was concerned. Unsure.
Stupid stories he was told at school die hard.

 "Go on," I said, taking his somewhat unwilling right hand,
"feel it." He touched me again. Positioned himself to put his head
on my chest and gaze down at me. How lovely to see his perfect
sun set of a body laying on mine, his fingers playing with my
member as though with a new toy, touching delicately, then
ravenously. Forget right and wrong. Whoever it was had never seen
us together. Or the loneliness when we were apart. Else they
wouldn't have put down all these rules that never ever concern
themselves.

 He asked what the hair there was called. I told him it was
pubic hair. He said if it was public hair, why did everybody hide it
in public. I told him no, you silly, it--

 And he looked up at me and scrunched up his button nose
and laughed at me. I was being too much the teacher. Too much a
wise ass. He had me and we laughed together. So he lightened the
mood even though I was heavily in lust with him at that point,
those nipple bites and sucks that were still shooting pain joy
through me like an electric arc, as I played with him and kissed
and placed my mouth at his face and eyes.

 He asked, after he fiddled with my pubic hair, when I
thought he might get some, and would it be dark like mine?, and
very awkwardly complimented me on it. He examined me so
minutely, so tenderly and carefully as though I might break, that
my heart almost cried aloud at his gallantry.

 He asked then if he could lie on top of me and pretend he
was--you know--well--fucking me. He had never said that word in
my presence or anybody else's I knew of. So I all but bodily hurled
him on top of me. We giggled and I felt the all of him on me and
his hands were all over me like butter on a dream, getting it all
good and damp and friendly and fine harvest.

 He lay on me like a rocking horse, bending up his waist and
rocking back and forth, his head and chest and legs in the air. And
his penis wobbled on my navel and I told him that he was the most
boyish boy in the world, that he should sing in a boychoir. And he
looked at me seriously, stopped rocking.

 "Can I tell you a secret?" he asked.

 "Of course, you can, Jean."

 "I rub myself some times."

 "Yes?" I know. The art of opening forbidden doors. How
delicious it was. How brave I had become. Forgetting that he could
cut me off at a moment's notice, dress and run away and never
have a thing to do with me even though we would be forced to be
in each other's presence for years to come. It is always the loved
one, the adored one, who has the power. He and he alone. For he
knows the price with which he is bought. And that price is an
immense one.

 He went on, "sometimes I think of you when I'm doing it."
So scared at that moment. Both of us. Long pause. Will I go away
now? After all this, this afternoon? Is it over? Please, no, he was
saying, I've been tricked before, made a fool of, don't make one of
me now. Then, "is it wrong?" He knows how it is for the loved one
as well.  He knows the terrifying cost to him as well. And has
taught me this too. Now.

 I considered it for a time. I had wondered the same thing
myself. Is it wrong?, he had asked again, a bit of watery tremor in
his voice.  I looked the sky of blue above his head, as though it
were made purely as background for this fairy tale gentle child
who was a bit of a pain at times, kidding, making jokes, and
always questioning me about things from school and out of school
that I had no earthly ideas of and that made him just ask more
questions, and prying prying into my personal life that was not a
life at all, save for him. All the things I had to make up to satisfy
his curiosity.

 How mysterious all this was for us, and he thinking it not
mysterious for me. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was far
more amazed than he.

 His mouth moved like that of a guppy's, pondering,
quizzical, self satisfied, for yes, this was how our old games had
been meant to go, in a sexual realm, in that childhood magic that
all fights and tyings up and lyings on were about, I imagined his
tying me up some time and having his way with me. All of that
was meant to vector directly in a straight line to right here.

  And he dug his body into mine and he reveled in being
naked for real and true, as he pressed his penis against my crotch.
He looked at me as we locked our legs round each other. He
smiled at his brother who was about to take him into a new world,
who was to show him that love comes with kindness and full
smiles and willing heart with no sneaking in the heart that has little
to offer but betrayal on the morrow.. He would know the real kind
of love, while so many others never would. I kissed the top of his
head, and he began running his penis up and down me, his days of
covering himself over in my presence gone for good and all. Save
when Maman was around.

 He waited for my answer. I really didn't want to. I just
wanted to feel my brother's cock in my mouth and to be his first
love, a fact that time and deed and happenstance would never
erase.

 But finally, (it was so hard to think under these conditions),
as he nuzzled me under the chin with his happy hands, I said,
"Jean-Phillipe, look at the flowers around us, the grass, the sky and
clouds, and the sun is so bright that you cannot stare at it because it
would blind you. And here are you and I. There is no thunder and
lightning, no wrath of god to be visited down on us. The earth is
not shaking as if with a quake. Granted?"

 He nodded. Determinedly. So brave now. His tiny penis
rose. He reached for mine, which was larger, and pressed it
between us. How tender and fine to have our penises pressed
between us like flowers of grass stalks come warm and alive and
pulsing.

 He smiled. Such sunshine in that smile. And he kissed my
mouth, as he opened his mouth and I put my tongue inside. And he
and I stayed like that for a long time, tongue dueling. When we
pulled apart, he asked me, a bit frightened, could he do "it" if I
would watch him, and the words of sex also came hard for him, for
he had only heard them before as curse words.

 "No," said, risking it all, yet again.

 He looked concerned. He shied away a bit. He wanted to
masturbate with me watching. We would do that--later. But now I
wanted more than that. Why do that lonely thing, together and still
apart?

 "No?" he asked, downhearted. Had I been kidding him all
this time?

 "No, I want to suck your dick while you suck mine."

 It was as if I had spoken in a language he did not
understand. His forehead wrinkled in thought. He had had no idea
what I meant. So I simply and directly told him. I couldn't then
and cannot not believe how brazen I was.

 He had raised from me. Our hearts were like jungle drums
in a very close distance. It was as though he grew from me and was
now peering up from his only home. How hot he was against me.
How all pervading he felt. He might disjoin from me and I would
be destined to go through the rest of my days cut in half or cut in
even more.

 He backed off me a bit, scared now.

 "Are you all right?" he asked. Concerned for me. Seeming
so. And I thought he thinks he has so filled me with wonder at his
manhood and our beginning sex play that he is too much. He is
going to fake his way through this. Pretend that he does it all the
week long and twice on Sunday. "I mean aren't you afraid I
will--you know--pee in your mouth?"

 "Are you not afraid I will pee in yours?" I held tense his
strong thin wavery arms.

 "It does not matter," he said. "I trust you not to do that."

  "And I trust you as well." I looked into his brave big eyes.
He smiled again. It was all right.

 We fumbled and bumbled and were clumsy and sucked
while being sucked, which was pretty confusing for the both of us.
We were on top of each other. Then side by side. We laughed so
much at how funny and wonderful it all was. Finally we decided
that I should be the one to suck him first. So he stood and lay on
top of me with his penis at my mouth and his head at my legs.

 I helped put him in,  but it fell out once or twice, which
made him laugh loudly, being unable to control what was going on
back there, and how I could see a part of him that he couldn't, and
brave we were to be doing it and doing it in front of god and
everything-- how big three inches (we later measured to be totally
accurate) seemed to my mouth there, as I clenched his penis,
tongued it, poked a finger at his ass hole, and I told him to ride me
like he rides his hobby horse.

 It took a bit of time but he got the idea. I ate my brother's
dick. I could not see them of course but I knew that his golden eyes
were wise and shiny and amazed and dazed, and he said, the words
heavy breathing clips from his gasping lips, he was going to, and
he was going try not to pee, and I said it's okay, baby, anything you
want to do, I want you to more than anything in the world.

 And he stiffened his arms and legs and he clenched his hips
and buttocks, making, I think, more of it for him than it was, this
being a massively huge moment for him, and of course for me, too,
for he was my first as well, though he never was to believe so.

 Then he shot out like a rod of wire and immediately
collapsed, his stuttering penis falling to my mouth and face, as he
turned round on my chest, his arms and legs trembling at my sides.
He stayed inside my mouth as long as he could, till he shrank and
popped out and it sounded like a cork coming out of the opening of
a champagne bottle. And of course that caused jollity.

 I held him and loved on him. And later after I washed his
lovely soft stretchy penis at the stream,  he kissed me on the top of
my hot hair, we played all the games of summer that we had been
playing here for years, only we played them without clothes. We
were to come here each day. And shuck our clothes immediately
and never put them on till it was time to sorrowfully trudge home.
Tomorrow I would suck him.

 We stopped our play to eat sandwiches and drink wine our
maman had fixed for us and placed in a wicker basket. And then
we resumed our well fed stomach initiations into the world of flesh
games. How the juice of the oranges dropped down our chests and
how we licked the juice off each other. He asked me so many sex
questions as we ate. It was impossible for anything to ever be more
important than my brother and the summers of our lives.

 This in particular, though I remember. How he was bent
over like a little elf examining my penis and balls which must have
seemed so large to him, though of course they really weren't. He
made me feel attractive. He made me feel part of him. And better
than that it is impossible to feel. how he giggled when he kissed
me right on it's tip.

 And in time it was evening, time for the sun going down. In
its reddish glow, it bathed him in orange, sculpted his bony hard
and lyrical body that did not have an ounce of flesh wasted on him,
as he with such fierce mute concentration examined me,
fascinated, and in memory examines me still. I remember how I
stood there, with him on his knees, looking at me so hard, as I was
gazing down at him, thinking he was like a parenthesis of sun,
being held either king or prisoner, I don't know which, by the
golden orange glove of its receding down the  red trailed sky, and
he enraptured me and captured me. Or simply, who owned who.

 Then most unwillingly we had to stop. To dress each other.
To get the food and wrapper leavings and put them in the basket
and go home. Where we would masturbate in private, because it
was unsafe any other way. But here in our meadow. Yes, here in
our meadow. Brother and brother made sun kissed love. And damn
anyone who finds it offensive. You have no right to judge. No right
at all.

 We had many sunny summer days together. We made love
in all the ways we knew how. And ways we had never thought of
before.

 Our childhood was very beautiful, for we filled in the
loneliness for each other. I wish you could have been there. You
would not think it dirty then. It was life. What is wrong with a
person giving to and receiving from another person life? What an
insane world we live in. And how I miss my brother, my love.

				  the end