Date: Sun, 9 Dec 2001 08:42:42 -0800
From: Barry Eysman <beysman@pchnet.com>
Subject: masturbation "Jacking Off With Tawny Boy"
"Jacking Off With Tawny Boy"
by
Barry Eysman
Tawny boy, color of a lion cub, jacking away in the warm
autumn woods. Tawny boy naked and supple with his small hand
on his little hard on pencil point, stroking, feeling good. There in
his splendor, there in the myth that was himself. Lying on his side
on the gold brown leaves, his legs together, his penis and sac tight.
The little V of him. The eyes of his closed and opened autumn boy
face. Soft in sighing. Ripples in his flat tummy with still some
baby fat left on it, just enough and not one bit more. Tawny boy
with his hips pulled inward hard and the fabric of him like a
drawstring let open and fallen sparrows from it of all the sexuality
that he was beginning to inherit, at age nine, now his, now the
flame of him that was long black hair and a pixie nose and just the
perfect alignment of freckles across the bridge of it.
Tawny lived to jack off. He thought of nothing else day and
night. He was wood hard all the time under his jeans and his
Underroos and his world that was secret and of magic light. The
moans he made this afternoon, Saturday free and boy careless with
the things that hung off him and the things that went on the inside
of his mind and heart, and he loved his penis. He took Polaroid's
of it. He could look at it in the mirror for hours on end. He was
always close to cuming. Always close to the edge of rites of
passage that was this feminine boy with the cuddly arms and the
infectious giggle, and the body of Tawny was an arrow, was
straight to the heart of the first person to look at him and never to
look away again. Glisten the glans. And grip the little nut balls.
And place his hand on his little roseate tits and pinch the hardness
of them. Feel all of the boy. The hairlessness of his body. The
grin/grimace on his face. The studious seriousness of a boy jacking
off. Like no boy before or since could do it better.
And in the trees there were the rustles of the autumn
creatures and in the sky was the aroma of wood smoke. Tawny
with his heart shaped hips and his penis that went up so far and no
further, tough little hickory twig, touch it and feel the lamentations
of all the deepest boy dreams in it. To lie then ease over on his
back and feel the deliciousness of the warm ground against his
long hair and nape of neck, against his spine and hips and legs and
to open his mouth and to emit the silence of golden and sheer
pleasure for the sake of itself and nothing more need be
accomplished than the click inside of the boy and the warm wash
feeling in his abdomen and his groin little bird soft and little bird
hard. All the feeling caught like a Christmas present ahead of time,
beribboned and gift wrapped in his fragile feral chest with the ribs
that were the cages that would one day capture many hearts to
keep his company.
Naked little boy and his eyes opened now and his mouth a
perfect O, as he opens his legs and lets the whole world the whole
wide little woods see him like this. See him splendid and brave
and tiny fingers that tapped on his penis that was so hard it could
never go soft again, and his balls throbbed and held tight to the
bones of him, and his heart beat hard and his perspiration gave him
a sheen of redoubtable perfume. As he humped himself and raised
his body off the ground. As he gave himself with his left hand to
the dreams that he extolled around him in his solitary celebration
of self.
Pink body and pink fingers and pink toes that curled that
dug into the loamy ground. That centered him in the utopia of
sexuality that was an aura around him and he was so caught in a
rapture that was dear and profound and sweet beyond words, thus
if he could have sucked himself he would have, if he could have
placed his penis in his hole he would have done so. His body
frequent fire as he became lost in paroxysms of the rush, of the
fever that was a most kind sickness, as his penis turned warmer
and warmer as though a torque in it had been adjusted higher and it
seemed a tiny bit taller than it had last week or yesterday. Tawny
thinking of the boys and the girls who would want him. As he
wanted them so much. As he wanted to teach them the secrets of
his body, wafer thin, and his ears shaped like those of elves, his
hair matted now with perspiration, his right hand's fingers playing
with his tits and then making a bridge of his torso and feeling the
way his abdomen ducked downward a bit, just a bit, to his groin,
and his hard on that was the stuff of dreams. The stuff of Tawny
who would like to cuddle by winter fires.
Who would like to undress the second most beautiful boy
in the world, for there was no doubt he, Tawny, was the most
beautiful, this shy bashful child who could not hold another's gaze
for even a moment without turning away without turning crimson.
Tawny and his need to be bare and his need to see the still blue sky
above him though night was beginning to set in. This boy who
anointed school restrooms stalls with quick daring j/0 with warfare
just outside the cubicle, and the church he was forced to attend,
who would lie at night with no one around, on the sacristy and
would unzip his jeans and pull out his penis and jack off in God's
house, thankful that such built in pleasure had been made in
Tawny. See the boy and see the great heart of him, see the lion in
him, stenciled around his big brown eyes with the lashes black and
fine and long making his eyes seem like those of a spring fawn.
How he reached to himself and tickled the ridge of flesh
below his balls. How he liked to say the sex words to himself. How
he liked to say fuck and all combinations of it because it was told
to him such words were nasty, and the way they used them, they
were. But not the way he used them. The way they used each other
was nasty too, but Tawny would never use anyone, for he was a
boy who loved to give and loved to hold, if there would ever be
anyone but mom to hold. If there would ever be for him anyone to
truly and sensuously love. One day.
A field of boy complete, with thin face and a mouth that
was a little wreath, a boy who was so delicately composed, it
seemed he had been created by a deft water colorist, his mouth, his
sigh, his body that hurled itself now with abandon, his nakedness
in the woods, his whole fabric said take me now, take me and
make me yours please anyone who wants for I am starved for
affection, starved for love, and Tawny graceful and in the throes,
Tawny in the song that was only himself, and his fingers now,
those of both hands as he lay his body down again, reached for his
groin, tickled it, tickled his cock, as he raised his head to look at it,
and it was pink as a ladyfinger, it was like a sweet love bullet of
boy, it was the only gun he aimed to fire off again and again for all
his days not to bring death, but to bring life, for that only made
perfect sense to him.
As now he stroked the sides of his face. As he licked his
fingers and stuck one in his mouth and sucked on it. Which made
his tight penis even tighter, even more caught up in the sexual
soaping that he felt inside himself, even though he was not able to
shoot, he still felt the far reaches of joy and fulfillment inside him,
like candles lit into his dark corridors, for he did have some, but
mostly he was a boy made to love to be loved to fuck to be fucked
to suck to be sucked, though he had no experience, though what he
heard other boys and some of the girls say put him off
tremendously, still he needed the spigot of himself, still he revered
himself at the same time he knew he was nothing and no one at all,
the dichotomy not making itself odd to him, just one of the
acceptances of his life.
The boy watched his penis and amazed himself by its
jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean, as he wished he was
dressed in multi-colored silk scarves, so he could dance his dreams
and take the scarves off slowly, one at a time, to the oohs and ahs
of everyone watching him, and seeking his fingers and seeking his
hands that he kissed and caressed with his mouth and tongue
delighting in the wetness he left on them, as he kissed his left
shoulder, as he pulled now on his penis till it tingled, till it almost
but not quite hurt, and Tawny wished for some boy or girl, though
preferably boy, they could show the girls a thing or two, couldn't
they?, Tawny thought in his manufactured security and knowledge
without rue to come in the ashes of later days unknown, how he
would love to hold another boy's hardness against his own. How
he would love to kneel naked with another boy, Joel perhaps, and
they would be kissing and holding tightly and their penises would
be hard and touch tips together, oh god the sweetness the taunting
of just the thought, as Tawny performed for no one at all, in a
performance that was far more than just an act, no stage show for
him.
He dug his heels into the ground, heard leaves crunch under
them, wished he had someone to suck his toes and tell him they
looked like little radishes, wished he had someone to kiss his
ankles and on up to his legs and nestle further to the thighs, then
the golden retriever of a boy, for Tawny favored golden boys, to
tickle Tawny's balls with his tongue, to take one of them and
almost put it in his mouth and then backing away, then to blow on
Tawny's erect dick, then to push away from him, to be the sea
coming to Tawny in a long desert season, but a fickle sea, a teasing
one, a tormenting one, for just a little more, then home was given
him, because then it made sailing into the sea and its warmth and
comfort and salvation even more beautiful. As Tawny rubbed as
Tawny felt electric arc lights ache in him and bite him as he bit his
right shoulder now, as he wanted to draw blood and salt, as he
wanted to be the school tramp, as he wanted to be the little fairy
boy that everybody called him because they wanted him, and if
they laughed at him before him and behind his back that was
because they were jealous, that he would walk like a girl, that he
had the face of a girl, and the willow body of one everywhere
except where it counted.
He was a boy of graceful movements and kittenish
gestures, and he never stayed still for long, was always fidgeting in
class or at home doing his homework or at church, because there
was a life to be lived, a world to be celebrated, a world to be
introduced to the wonders of Tawny Boy who imagined bicycle
spokes in wheels of himself as he rode his boy bike to the limits
climbing up the hill of sexuality, climbing up the hill and at the top
to climax supreme, as his muscles in his legs and groin and
stomach tightened, as he lay down in his do with me what you will
reposing, and he stroked the sides of his thighs inside and out, he
tickled his innie belly button, he reveled in how beautiful he felt,
how it seemed as if he was the only light still on and vibrant
burning in a world that seemed so terribly dark all around him, as
he bucked and as he opened his mouth and tiny sighed and
pretended that he was sucking Joel's cock, Joel amazed by Tawny
Boy and creaming in his mouth almost immediately, as Tawny
now sucked that invisible cock on that invisible boy as the clouds
in the sky took on the gradual color of fire and night was beginning
to take away the day, but there was Tawny rubbing his penis and
miming sucking the other boy, Tawny body jack knifed, and
legions of little soldiers in his tummy marching to the great
volcano bursting almost soon almost now.
Other boys might like dinosaurs, especially T Rexes, which
everybody persisted in calling them, like they were close personal
friends of the giant behemoths or something, other boys might like
wearing baggy jeans and rap music and hanging around the video
arcade in the mall, other boys might like girls and go after them
and find out who could conquer whom first, and all of that was
fine and good, but Tawny who always wore tight clothes, as tight
as mom would allow, and who could display his basket with his
hands just in his pockets and the molding of his hard on through
his jeans was surely just an accident from a little winsome boy
who was scared of his own shadow at the same time scared that
shadow would leave him and where would he be then, without its
need of himself to shade it? But Tawny was close to spurting now
spurtless. Tawny was of the need of Joel beneath him and sticking
his little carrot in Tawny's bottom, how great that would feel, to
have a boy in him at the same time coming as Tawny did. Tawny
of mirrors and phony conversations, Tawny a boy alone, laughter
maker, insult devisor and the insults always were on him. Kids and
adults said things to him, all those nasty cruel things like they had
the right to, like God had given them special permission, and
perhaps, just perhaps He had.
But Tawny count down from ten, as he spread his legs and
shouted out to the whole wide world that would never hear, eat
me, stick your tongue up me and devour me, suck my dick almost
out of its light socket, bang my balls with your butt and let me
know what it is like to come finally in your magic undersea
kingdom, as Tawny rode the waves of sex, pure boy sex, pure sex
that had nothing to do with anything other than the sheer brave
incalculable tormenting willful selfish burning aching screaming
mad desire to do to his body what everyone else did to him--fuck
himself with his hand, not fuck him over like they did, and to find
that interior land where the hills are the naked boys who would
rise from their landscape and chase Tawny across the plains and
the seas and the veldts and the craters of the moon if need be, for
Tawny would be needed one day. Would be more than a boy with
hair to his shoulders and a little beyond, who liked to flick his hair
to the side, to toss it back with a slight movement of his head, in a
certain way when he cocked his head to listen to teacher and
preacher or mom, how in love with that little intimate gesture he
was, and Tawny would adjust a boy's arms around his own
shoulders and they would lie down in the green grass and they
would kiss passionately, open mouthed, tonguing, lovingly. They
would eat each other alive. They would sup and devour and dwell
and explore every secret garden and hiding place.
No more would Tawny have to try to walk like the other
boys, no more would he have to hear their mean words, no more
would he have to hide in himself the very real ability of being able
to fly, for Tawny was solely and totally himself here in his sex
spot, here in the place he ran to every day after school and hid out
on Saturdays, until it got too cold to be here, and then he would
have to take his pleasures in his bedroom, as he imagined fucking
Joel against Tawny's desk, the window blinds open, the world to
see and to amaze itself with Tawny's deep and seductive passion,
passion Tawny had to hide when he was around others, boys and
some of the girls he would like to walk glide sail up to in the
school hallway between classes and put his arms so tenderly and
sincerely and care free around their necks and kiss their lips and
tell them that he loved them, and what in the world would ever be
wrong with that? But he had to learn to walk flat footed, he had to
learn to keep his eyes to the floor, he had to learn to try to deepen
his cartoony voice a little, as best he could, he had to learn not to
want to touch people in passing because everything in him wanted
to do so, he had to learn not to smile certain ways, not to smile at
all really, he had to learn not to be so terribly wounded when boys
and girls and teachers turned to the side and did not look at him
when he walked by.
But now Tawny flamed the feathers that were stroking in
his groin, now his hands rubbed his abdomen and squeezed his tiny
walnuts, now he stoked his penis like a hot log in a fire beside
which he and Joel and Mylene too, if you want to know the full
truth about it, would sip hot cider and sing old campfire songs, and
the night would be a good place to be with friends keeping watch
over him while he slept and then his returning the favor to them.
Then....the rush. Then...the over the water falls it comes.
Then....the roses in him bursting and singing in song...in tempo...in
tandem...as his body bucked...as he squeezed his penis...as the
orgasms came...one...then another...then another...he bet he was
the only boy in the world who had more than one orgasm at a time,
funny sounding word, silly sounding word, orgasm, but was there
ever to be a feeling more comforting, more exciting, more
scintillating? As his body dish rag limp fell. The marionette with
its strings cut. As he experienced the waves inside, the deep
crimson monster waves that seemed to flow higher and higher, till
their white caps almost broke on his face, and came closer and
closer each time to drowning him for good and all.
He lay in bliss. He lay whispering Joel. He lay in secret
solitary love. His coral pink cock in his pink hands, cock still
almost hard, his balls tingling like his teeth did when he brushed
with sparkly toothpaste. He was a boy in rejoicing. He was a boy
giving birth to himself and to all the time there could ever be to
find and to know and to fall in love and to be fallen in love with,
for he was a most romantic boy, a boy who believed in feelings
and honesty when it didn't hurt, when it felt good, and as the night
came on, Tawny Boy drifted to sleep for a time, and the wood kept
watch over him. In time, he woke, put on his clothes that had been
in a pile of unneeded unwanted hated civilization beside him, and
he walked home in the dark, but with the moon to keep him
company, the tickle in his penis still playing tag with him, keeping
him unalone, and in his balls and abdomen too, the little
hideaways no one else knew about, or cared to know about, but the
moon that smiled down on the boy and pronounced him good and
true and worthy and a most remarkable boy indeed.
the end