Date: Fri, 9 Dec 2005 05:04:43 -0600
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: g/m young friends "Boys of Christmas"

			    "Boys of Christmas"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


They were in the penthouse apartment, across Fifth from
me. I didn't mean to be a boy gazer. I never knew before I
was one. But one night in November. A frost. A snow
flurry. And I with my gin and bitters, sitting at my own
penthouse window, lights low, music soft, in my
comfortable leather lounging chair, masturbating yes, even
at 25 I still masturbated alone. All myself. Always. I loved
living in the city. I loved the places you could go and the
things you could buy.

You could buy boys of course or videos of boys or books
of boys. You could get whatever gratified for the moment.
But I wanted more than the moment. I wanted to be loved.
Not to be a trick. Not to be a joke. And I rubbed my dick
and felt my balls and felt deliciously careless sitting there in
front of an uncovered window that deep dark New York
lighted landscape night of a world. I had dark hair, long, to
the shoulders. I had a whippet thin body. Corded. I took
much pains to look my best. And I saw them.

It was that simple. A snow fantasy. The flurry that blew
across the darkness and the light. A moment when there
was sudden soft drinks in my mind as well as had been in
my hands. They were of course boys in that penthouse over
there. And they were naked and  doing   things to  each
other. I froze. I waited for the laugh. For the practical joke.
I had never seen them before. I had never known anyone
lived in that penthouse, which had been dark each night for
the five months I had lived here across the street.

And they were boys of lights now. Making their own
incandescence. Boys of magic producing out of the coming
winter rivers of snow and ice and sharp edged wind
something more than what mortals could even quietly
obtain, regardless of how subtle and sneakily they whisper
walked to the wind mountains of the gods. They were as
naked as two boys could be. And they were sharply in my
vision. As though I could reach out and touch them. Or
they could reach out and touch me. One dark. One light.
Both with tiny bodies, say age ten or so, and save for their
hair coloring, they were obviously twins. They were
graceful and tawny. They were creatures of the snow. Not
of this city. Not of the posh penthouse and not of the
streets and its sleep of subways.

They held to each other, exposing the sides of their flanks
to me. They held chest to chest. The shadows darted in
their eyes and their mouths formed O's of exclamations as
the dark haired boy reached for his brother's penis and held
it closely between them, using his fingers to play with it, as
the light haired boy rubbed his brother's butt and they
addled against each other, they were two chimney sweep
boys of pure cold beauty and they lay standing on each
other. They were fragile and they were wild and the light
haired boy pulled away a bit and bent a little and sucked his
brother's pale red tit and made it hard; then started
working on the other one. The dark haired boy pulled back
and put his hands on his brother's shoulders and they were
in ecstasy and the tits were bit, each in turn, one boy's,
then the other's.

They were ice sculptures. They were snow's reasons for
reminding us of the pulsing of life. They pulled away now
and held hands and were like a carnival ride unto
themselves. As though they were jonquils turning round
and round and they were laughing out of their sweet box
faces. And my penis pulsed so, watching them. And I felt
the blood singing through their bodies, and they were
swans, with gently curved backs, and they were the
ultimate of nature that took on, that dared take on, the
bodies of slight wisps of boys, and thus to disperse the
length of the legs, the length of the arms, the way the boys
went back to each other and kissed so longingly, so
passionately. And when they lay down on the wine colored
deep carpeting, they were not hidden from view. I could
see them all tumble legged. I could see them doing
somersaults and boy pyramids, with their tiny slender ass
holes pointed directly at me, and their backs with bones of
spine.  And their balls seen in the gap between their legs.


The music had stopped. But in my mind, it continued. The
boys were of light shows and the darkness was their
perpetual curtain as the blonde boy took his brother and
held him down on his back, gently, and the boys giggled, as
the blonde boy reached down his mouth to his brother's
who reached his mouth up to him, and they were jungle
cats dropped by plane from Siberia, and they were always
to themselves and they were the secret, the intimate. And
in their minds, I could see memories of them in the bath,
washing themselves and each other and playing with all the
wonderful growing things of the boy body. The secretions
of souls. The elocution of bond and honor. The fact that
one soul had been born in two bodies and they would never
be alone if parted and could never be parted and thus never
be alone.

I wanted them. I wanted their bodies on me. I wanted their
warmth to stretch across my growing internal tundra of not
caring, of giving up, of letting the day take me into night,
but they made me care and I pushed my penis in their
direction and imagined one boy sucking my now hard tits
and one boy kissing my abdomen and kissing right above
my pubic hair. And my penis stretching harder and harder.
I imagined them saying "we will never leave you or betray
you" and the boys were now one atop the other, boy
buildings going on right in front of my seeming
preternatural eyes in the jungle of the city that was now
made of nothing but boy glass and the boys themselves. I
pictured them as Christmas. I pictured them as love of the
only kind there could ever be that was worth anything.

And the blonde boy was on top, and he was entering his
brother, his hands on the black haired boy's shoulders, his
legs on each side straddling his brother, and the boy on
bottom sighing and raising his head and moan came and
then ahhhhh and then hard and then smile and then
romance, as the blonde haired brother went into him with
his tiny cock. Their cocks I had seen were like little hard
pea shooters, their balls all but invisible. Their bellies were
concave and their ribs were a beautiful cage of boy, and the
boys had now come, swiftly, falling off, the blonde boy,
from his brother, as they lay there on their backs. As they
stroked each other's hair and touched each other's faces so
delicately. So brave and warm and so fragile in the mix as
well.

And I came and came. And my Kleenex filled. And I
watched the boys in their boy games. I watched and
remembered as they later, after washing up, gobbled each
other's penises and kissed and licked each other's bodies
entirely, and how then the blonde brother sat atop his
brother's lap and let his dark haired brother push his hard
on into his brother's ass, and how they jiggled and how
they giggled and how they came beautiful blanks. And how
their faces and heads were like bouncing down happy
stair steps of trembling and proclaiming as they came and
came and then rested on each other.

And I've seen them every night ever since that `blessed
November night. No one else is ever with them. They
never tire of invention and I never tire of watching them
and of course the classics repeats are much fun too.

It's close to Christmas now. And the boys now wear
stocking caps that are the color of Christmas candy
sometimes, and they wear old fashioned stockings and
clothes like you see on boys in films about English
boarding schools and they play games like they are sitting
in a class room of a long ago winter and while the teacher
and the students, other than they, have their minds on their
work, the brothers reach out to each other, sitting one
behind the other in school desk chairs and share a quick
kiss before the teacher and other children notice them, and
then another later on, and then not caught, and then the
teacher or the student or students catching them out at it
and then the fantasy involves from there.

And their games are never ending and their young hearts are forever, and by
telling you these things, by setting them down as they happened or did not
happen, take your choice, I wish anyone who might come across this a very
Merry Christmas, and may there be boys in your peppermint gift stockings
hung by the fireplace with great and loving care, to surprise you come
Christmas Day.