Date: Thu, 25 Aug 2005 12:58:01 -0500
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: Masturbation at Nineteen

		"Masturbation at Nineteen"

			    by

		     Timothy Stillman

(this is dedicated to John, for whom I wrote it, with love)

 When I was a freshman in college, at Christmas time, on
break, I was at home and feeling especially horny one
evening, and as usual, all alone..

 In the living room was our Christmas Tree, fake, silver, I
hated it, to the left of the full length mirror, hiding a
part of the mirror. So then since there was only me and my
shadow and my reflected image, I had an idea:

There were colored lights revolving around on the tree. I
thought what would those colors look like revolving around on
my naked body? And wasn't masturbating in front of that hated
Christmas tree, how I wanted a real one, just something so
vain and so naughty and nice?..as I stood at the mirror,
looking at myself, pushing my long brown hair behind me and
leaning my face into imagined December winds.

I put soft music on. I started to strip.  Slowly. My tennis
shoes. My socks. My bell bottom blue jeans. My paisley shirt.
My silk scarf. In those lights, partially hidden by those
silver branches. I teased myself as I did so. I made myself
as best I could into those silhouette openings of the Bond
movies. The wall heater made the room too hot and I was
perspiring a bit. I touched my tongue tip to the edges of my
lips. I stroked myself as I closed my eyes and raised my
head, put my arms round my naked chest, pretended I was David
Cassidy in the almost naked lay out in "Rolling Stone." With
each piece of clothing, I stopped first, as with my shirt
off, I rubbed my chest, felt my basket with my left hand,
seeing the colors and experiencing the quality of sexuality I
always felt when I saw boys with only jeans on, and how I
wanted to take them off them, delicately, peeling a grape,
loving.


Then  now naked and beautifully vulnerable, a slight bending
of my self backwards aiming my slowly growing six incher to
the mirror and to the me in there and to David Cassidy in
there too, as I was almost embarrassed., almost asking my
reflection for forgiveness.

Part of me hidden by the Christmas tree branches. me hiding
behind them, and then moving my head out from behind the
branches, and smiling at my reflection, like a sprite, thin I
was, and bony, and pretending I had pointy ears like a faun.
I fondled myself. I played with my balls. I stroked myself. I
felt that electric russsshhhhh through me. I was wearing my
blue lensed sun glasses, mixing that with the color circles
round and down and round on top again. I displayed myself. I
turned left and right. Sleek. No body hair save the patch of
black at my crotch. I strummed my nipples. They hardened. I
imagined making love in the snow with a real person. With
someone who could actually see me. Please.

I felt even more naked with my hair down to my shoulders,
somehow, than I would have with it cut. I was taking two
childhood rites--the celebration of Christmas and the
celebration of masturbation and fantasy, and joining them
together. I gave a side view of my image. First one. Then the
other, with the lights on me blue and red and green and I
started stroking my tight penis. I tickled my balls with the
other hand. I arranged myself in such a way that I could see
only a bit of my dark pubic patch. I rubbed my hard on. I
moved it.. With my hands. And with its own free will. I
tempted David and me in that lucky mirror. And the Bond girls
enraptured.

I hid my penis between my legs. That's always been a sexy
thing for me.

Till it hurt. My hard on caught between the inner thighs,
pretending it was someone else there instead of mine, a girl
perhaps, my sexuality has always been fluid. I pinched my
titties, watched myself do it. I turned around and watched my
naked back and hair over the shoulders, and the crease of my
buttocks and the two little dimples above it. My spine curved
and like little stepping stones as I knelt down into the flow
of the colored lights like snow dreams, and I offered my
buttocks to anyone who would take them. I squirmed my body. I
traced my outline. I let the music and colors make me
something alien and desired by everyone I desired. I felt
happy. I stretched far up, exposing my arm pits, pretended
someone, you as I write this?, for I am imagining doing this
with you, was touching the brown hair there. I sat straight
on, opened my legs, looked at myself shamelessly in the
mirror, exposing my ass and its hole as I raised, and the
colors moved like music on their own, over me, and the
Christmas tree colors like those of another planet's sky, and
I rubbed myself, and I pointed my erection straight at the
mirror, I am imagining pointing it now straight at you, and i
imagined being sucked off, for it was winter and Christmas up
ahead and I was a man who still remembered being a boy. Me on
the soft golden carpeting, as I touched my hips and my navel
and my hard on was just straight upward, my balls were almost
in pain they were so tight.

I was in control. I was getting revenge. At the same time I
was being reverential.

I modeled.

As if on a turning pedestal. I imagined boys and men watching
me. I imagined I was part of a stage show. I sang, very
badly, some of my favorite love songs, soft and easy, love
and pain and hope and cherishing someone I was to know in two
years time but never to tell I loved him, and the lights went
a soothing of magic transforming me, remaking me, compounding
my flesh to look so important, so beautiful, and otherworldly
and sure of itself for the first time, for reasons I can't
explain. So round and round and I whirled my hand on my penis
and I looked at me down there, the two brown rings round the
middle of the shaft, and I tipped open the slit and breathed
on it warmly,.the records had stopped now. Now there was only
a Winter Silence. And cold winds outside the house. And
please snow soon.

 My whole body seemed electrified. I made it long and slow,
and I stretched on my back and looked down at myself, as I
crouched beneath the mirror, as I raised one arm to the
mirror, and then moved upward to it like a merboy coming out
of the sea, a melody like there had never been before, and
the mirror my only friend, and my body began the push as I
moved myself upward and close to the mirror, so I could see
my cum clearly--red and blue and green and purple--like the
LSD dreams I was always hearing about in college, and
everything in me concentrated as I masturbated, fast and hard
and with desperation, when I came I shot half way cross the
room. I lay on my back. I breathed hard. I laughed. I was
filled with sweat.  And exhaustion. For the first time, I
really felt my entire body bear down and charge with
electricity and come full and true and to the ultimate of my
limit.

My hair was wringing. I put my head down and I watched my
penis detumesce. and remembered.
Christmas/childhood/adulthood/the season of love/ and magic.
It all seemed to flow together then for me. It was not the
last time, my sexual show only to myself and my mirror
in various guises. Semen like a multi hued track of a comet
in a sky too dark and too cold, save for my shy scared
radiance. I watched the lights dance music, all the lights in
the house off, and some of my cream got on my stomach. I lay
there for a long time, rubbing it in and wishing I could have
been the object of the eyes of love then. As in telling you
this, I hope I am, or at least the memory I've told you
about, is the object of at least a kind of love now.

 Feeling  my naked body. The muscles of groin. My penis so
warm and friendly in my hand. My balls still pulsing. And
then of course I did what I almost always do after
masturbating. I wept.

Timothy Stillman
comewinter@earthlink.net