Date: Sun, 11 Nov 2001 16:46:06 -0800
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Naked Jungle Boy"

			    "Naked Jungle Boy"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


 In the summer sky blue of the attic of my childhood magical
mind:

 Ran through the veldts. Dodging eight foot pythons with
curled up bodies and heads rising on their thick penis standing
necks. With their bejeweled eyes glistening with hatred and venom.
Their pointed tongues sticking their yellow Y designs out of their
mouths gaped wide and full of red flame flannel coloring and felt
texture. Me, naked. Age 10. Strong with a curvy back and a
stomach that was my own little feather mattress. My penis hard and
strong. A good three inches. My balls moist wet little nubbin sacks.
My arms pushing through the vast net nest of pythons. Screeching
them and strangling them and knocking their heads asunder.
Pressing their triangular shaped faces into those of squashed demon
countenances dead and destroyed. Killed and bloodied and skeletal
structure like stones of a church building crumbled inside their tight
sleep skin, Notre Dame stones falling inside them, caught in the
clutch of their throats. The stones fallen in angles. Broken to dust,
many of them. Pythons like toy snakes with their coiled springs
inside, tossed and mashed and smashed and disintegrated. Of me,
Smersh would have been proud.

 Ran, I did, age ten, body of bones, chest of ribs, hands that
knew how to hold out to enemies the knife I carried in my make
believe belt, the only thing I wore. And the African sun stretching
out its yellow raw hurting hide to me and wrapping me in wool, like
I was sick in bed of a Christmas Eve snowy cold blow night, but I in
fever, covered with blankets in my cold room in my cold parent's
house, and shivering in sickly heat. Laced with fevers of nightmares
only the sun could have in the daytime. Yawns and yawls of cats
stretched out in winter outside of me. Like broken toy monkeys
trying to beat drums, with arms that were winding down, going
away, arms that did not know how to hold or to beat the little sticks
on their taut drum hearts. All of me tight and constricted. And
successful and brave and bold and alone. And luxuriating in the
aloneness. In the feel of my body with its tight crosses of muscles.
Its laces of fevers that were thrown off my heat sweat like lances
straight up at the sun. Darting it. Slashing it with my invisible Boy
wings.

 Legs pounding as I ran through the thick high huge green
jungle grass. The plains ahead of me and beyond me and me beyond
myself. With blue mountains off in the distance. Lost in lacy grape
colored plumes of cold and snow way up there at the top of the
world. Out of the grip of the primordial ooze in which I had set
myself down. Good to run naked. Good to run through the fields of
memories of bullies that in my attic antic mind I dispatched as
easily as though pots of python stews back there good for eating and
nothing more by, say, wildebeests and lions and tigers who had had
enough feinting with them. For who I feinted. For who I stretched
my naked body that had tight firm little melon half buttocks. My
body that was berry brown and striking and elusive and shared with
the eager African sun and the natives to the tribe of my land that
would be full of jealous domains and jungle men who caught the
hasp at the clasp of the day and closed the day into night so they
could toss and turn on the savannas and the great chasms of sex and
seas that were inside the bodies in such places, as well. And would
wish me at them. Would wish the hands and the hot pride lion body
boy who I was. Who would be actually teenagers--for to me then,
the seemed men-- and who would know the stories of the wild
child. The child who drank from streams with the shaggy wolves.
Who was taken in by these wild beasts of nobility into caves and
homes and companionship and loved and cared for, like Romulous
and Remus, when no one needed them one tiny bit.

 Catch the curve of the world as I toss it over my head to
boys watching in all that frond latticed and hot blind sunshine land.
Catch the trees of the jungle up ahead in the turgid heat. Watching
me and catching eyes like slivers of meat thrown to me that I might
see them and bite the bait and thus take pity on those lonely boys of
the sand who must crawl round naked all day and all night in order
to pretend that they will one day lucky them swim in the blue that is
in my eyes and no where else. Watch them dazzle as I toss the
curving horizon, as I speak a name older than time. A name that
brought time somehow into being. Still and hurt and on the hunt
and the animals beneath my skin as I ran faster than a gazelle to the
forest/jungle standing in front of me. My deep green stained wool
wood forest that was jungle and was trees of huge and brown skin
wrinkled and old like the armor of an elephant's hide. As it scoops
me up like Mother Earth would do and compresses me into its
jungly interior as though I am fucking it. Entering it. Dwelling in
my jungle friend and its feeling me larger than I am. The screen of
time vanished and the limitations of one boy forever mangled as
those python corpses back there. As I rush through little umbrella
patches of light the huge green mossed leaves let through on
sufferance and point of rendition of who gets to be god where and
when and for how long.

 The darkness takes me. Still. Stygian tangly tunnel in which
I lie myself. Cool and cold against me. Cords of vines brush at my
leg. Huge heavy furred tarantulas swing down on silver stranded
impossibilities and dance at my face. Sticking their thick hairy legs
out at me. Caressing me like a boy's fingers. Like love come to
dance in flame heat in the massively oppressive still stark honey
laced air that makes every breath a challenge, to any mortal, which
I as this boy am not. But here the vines and there the tap dance
tarantulas, tickling my nose and eye lashes and mouth, making me
laugh. Here little secrets in convex and conveying shadows that
shade down to a blackness, a terrible dimension rending emptiness,
into which you could stuff at tree root angles- these thick gnarled
things- the entirety of space and lonely turn adult nights in the
darkest room of three a.m. imaginable, and still have room for a
few dark other universes yet that God still hadn't thought of. And
the vines darken green and are filled with colors of that and brown.
With odors of richness, and fecundity. As though the ground trying
to trip me up with rips and rows of bad growth sparse grass, darted
with rocks and holes, but not tripping me, instead, springing me
forward secure and sure, and right next door to the biggest elephant
tree legs in the world such a vast amount of grass and blades so tall
and tough and sharp and cutting that anyone with more delicate skin
would have been lacerated by now. For a jungle is a world of
millions of razors with multi times that millions of cuts that only
the secret warm huge hearts of jungle boys can only know for sure
the traversing of. And we are not and never will be guilty of telling.

 I glory in my straining little penis. I glory in the brownness
of it. I glory in the sweep of it as it stands up against my belly so
tight and so hard that the largest of giant hands could never hit it
and hurt it any. It is made of bone as tough and as mighty as the
strongest ivory elephant tusk. It can also stick straight out, and
proceed me wherever I go. It is the flag of me that I carry forth on
my quest in my secret worlds, in my imagination, me, this quiet
good boy who has never missed a day of Sunday School or Sunday
church in his life. This boy who is hard and deliberate. Who
calculates herein and knows the score. Who knows which are the
beasts in their dark triangular obsidian shadows that look at him,
who knows when the hyena hidden will laugh, before it does, and
who knows which glare, which deadly eyes mean danger and
bloody combat. Who has his knife ready at any moment in his
invisible Wonder Woman lasso belt. Who has tasted blood of the
enemy not one of whom has tasted this boy's blood.

 This hot boy this boy who runs at a tilt. Who runs with
assurance over clots and clumps of grass and curving tree knuckles
and detritus of fallen decaying animal corpses. Who does fall never.
Who is so young and so free and so alive sexually and emotionally
and in fear never. Who needs the world not to surround him to
study it. Who needs only his penis. Only his piece to touch and hold
out to the whole of the jungle and say here I am. I am fucking the
jungle. I am fucking Tarzan land and Boy land. I can come
tomorrow and when I do it will wash the oceans away with my
seed. With my great carnal wrath and my great carnal passion. This
boy of concentric circles and sweat eyes beaded all over him to
make him luscious and tasty. This boy whose body is like the ready
to be plucked virgin fresh and new string of a violin that is being
played by a master in a stunning concerto in a hall as immense of
wood panels and filled with echoes of awe as is this whole
continent which the boy calls home. In its heat and its immensity
and its world that stretches from one fat full tree to the next and the
little clearings inside that small traverse, but which is opal chained
for always and goes on to the last moment of time tides it over, for
then it will only be beginning in the first second of its adventure.

 This boy of legs that stop for a moment. Of a chest that
heaves in and out. Of a face that is pure and untouched and eager
and needing and needy as is the body. A face delicate and blonde
hair haloed. A face that is shaped like a cat's face. Shy mouth. Sly
blue pools of eyes. A nose that is thin and small and sucks in air
through its dainty nostrils. A face that knows the sound of cruelty
and hardness that hides under a fake shallow gentility and knows it
full of such evil smash underneath the rotten silk manners. As the
boy jerks himself off. As the boy feels his buttocks with one hand.
As he lays the jungle open and it clings to him. It relishes him. It
moves with him in his sexual lusty pronging His great boy depravity
and he pushes himself into the day around him and into the pieces
of night in the jungle where he is undisputed king and ruler and for
always monarch. As a butterfly lands on his left shoulder. His thin
and glass sanded shoulders that push and rush and his body is
melting love glowing lava, as the yellow butterfly plants a butterfly
kiss on the side of the boy's peach fuzz cheek and nestles a moment
in his long blonde thick shoulder length hair again, before the
butterfly stretches its cathedral wings of stained glass images that
would leave church moths' mouths watering and takes flight again
in a melody of air and the climbing up of it that only it can hear.

 The boy's mouth molds all sorts of expressions on it and in
his face. It is a mouth that can be cuttingly kind. It can say exactly
the right things at exactly the right time that are simply the perfect
things to say and no one could tell anyone different. A mouth that
can worry a piece of savanna grass and consider the world and
everything in it as the boy lies at times on his stomach in the jungle,
hearing always the sounds of the birds and the animals and the
jungle and the very earth drawing breath, being alive and the boy
being the prime reason for that aliveness, as he plays with his penis
and rubs it against the friendly rubbery elephant grass, as he
watches, with his mouth curled up slightly in study and thought and
wonder and imagination, a colony of soldier ants who do not fire
their weapons into him but walk by at a safe distance with military
disdain and military respect and military bravado.

 This boy who stops himself before coming dry and empty
but coming nonetheless, with feeling and merit and of worth. He
feels the building of his body. He feels the warm waves of sexual
pleasure in his abdomen and in his groin. His balls are tight sacs
now. His hips are little brown human moons in which the jungle
hides its hands as it rides the boy like a colt and embraces deep and
ember and fire eyes into him wanting to be him but knowing it
never will be. In the spang of his longing. In the need to do this with
someone else. In the need to be that dream of fucking. To be inside.
To be his penis. In totality. To feel nothing but the dick's nerve
endings all over him. To come and come without stopping. To be
that wondrous mindless pall, that grand opening of the jungle
flowers deep inside him that will never close their vast wise petals
of flesh again but only continue flowering outward. As he lets go of
himself but his self can never let go of him. He is his own man
eating snap dragon plant. And ascends with his strong muscled legs
from the floor of the jungle to easily and craftily and knowingly
entangle his smart trusting little boy hands tight grasping on  his
first vine of the morning as the clock of the skies touch toward noon
in some places of the world.

 But here there is only a boy of grace and stealth hanging
onto a great steel viable rubber vine that will unerringly take him to
the next vine and the one after that, and he is sex in the air, he is
tumble boy who has his buttocks and his penis and his hairless
crotch facing to the world. The jungle still moves as though his
penis is inside it. Hard and with a spear in its hole, this jungle world
with its wet walls and its hot dryness on the top of everything the
sun can lie down on the leaves. But not as hot as the boy. Not as
excited and thrusting as the forest jungle. All of it built on the
bright blue water the boy has brought. All of it angled up as he
swings through the sexual tits of the vines that reminds him of the
dugs he sucked on the wolves who took him in and sheltered him
for he was such a gentle tender heartbreakingly vulnerable young
boy who came, simply, from no one and no where at all. The
ultimate orphan. All of him now on the vines, swinging in the
sensuality of carnal relations. All this boy feels is himself, for he
has never felt another boy or girl or human being of any kind.

 Save in his imagination. And in his imagination he swings.
He is a brown luscious berry off the bush before Adam and Eve
arrived, as he ran away from their  and their god's idiotic rules and
regulations. He is so filled with sweaty cock thoughts as he bowls
through the heat fry of air from vine to vine, all curved semi circles,
as though they are tremendous tenacious huge jungle jump ropes
that boys are holding at either end, as they watch this jungle boy
romp above and float below and dance on the air like sunshine gone
brown and sleek and full of fish qualities, gyrations in mid air with
no need of ground to land on, sweet deprivations of their eyes as his
hands cover his boyhood--wouldn't you like to see?, wouldn't you
give everything just for a peek?-- as he slings himself slowly
sensuously into the air on his network of vines, as though it is a
tried and true acrobat partner who will never let him down, never
betray him, never forget him, for he knew sure then and always
people in the so called vaunted real world were totally incapable of
doing anything at all but those three things on his once and future
check list that they devised, not him. But that was the future. The
fuck with them for right now.

 Now was a boy who was sheer sensual steam. Now was a
boy that the older teenage boys holding the vines lusted after and
rubbed their bigger and oh so singular and lonely dicks for. He
knew that the boys held the vines with one hand and stroked
themselves with the other. The boys naked of sand and desert and
needing the cold blessful blue boisterous seas of the jungle boys
eyes to dive into. To sink into. In all that depth. And to feel the cold
around them and to feel the merry go round taunts grow in their
bodies and to make themselves available at the beck and call, these
little sea monster suddenly enough, of this boy who would be their
whole wide world and they would want it that way forever after.
And the boy swung in the sunlight spearing glints allowed through
the trees branches and leaves and embrace. It felt as though the
whole jungle world was embracing him. Close and hot and meeting
his need with its own. It felt as though all of the Africa he knew
from the movies and the books had held him tightly all his life and
had given him diamonds for balls and red jewels for tears and
strong jungle bones that would never fail him or grow him or tire
him or disintegrate on him like they did on so blessed so superior
real humans.

 Oh, make love to me sky threaded with the bolt cloth of blue
and the white needle thread of clouds. Oh, let me play tiger cub
with you ground of night and day and feral and lonesome and
animals that crawl and that run fast and hard, cubs and fawns and
little piglets, midges and ants and butterflies and blue birds of gray
and green feathers as well, in the air way up there. Feel my young
boy body. Feel me feeling you back. Let me, my jungle, put my legs
around you and you will drive your huge squirming penis into my
dry hot tiny asshole. Let me be fucked by you as you've let me fuck
you. Let me know what it is like to be filled with the jungle unity of
vines. Let me know the correlation of different textures of grass and
ground and dirt and leaves and air and microbes and bacteria. Let
me feel the all of you, the constant changing guards of you. Let
those guards that seem to distant even close up fold over me and
protect me and keep me safe, for even jungle boys need to know
they are safe, because if they are that, then it must mean they are
wanted by someone somewhere too. Let the plants that eat
insects--Let the lemurs and the white rhino and the white buffalo
and the piano keys of striped tigers in the night burning bright--Let
all of that inside me. Let me fill with the vastness of it. Let it into
me and let it fulfill me. Let the vines I am swinging on become your
arms. Let the different colors and tastes and feels and designs and
forms and shadows and games and sheer wildness of being and all
the different vastly different things that make it all up--let it all be
one and let that one make love to me.

  Let him hold me and let me not want anymore. Let the arms
of jungle vines caress and tenderly hold and move the mouth of the
sun into your mouth as you kiss my jungle boy body. As you hunger
with your mouth and your hands and your cock hard against me. For
I shall swim crock infested waters for you and I shall battle hoards
of killer baboons if it will land me in your arms and the land lock of
those arms and the spittle of snakes could be the spittle of your
tender mouth as you kiss me and hold me, but not at an adders
distance as I expect this "real" life to let me do and that only.
Watch the dancing jungle boy. Preen with him. BE with him.

 Watch the jungle lover of mine lurch and sway coyly and get
lost in vast sexual digestions that will contain for it and for the
naked sand boys who crawl around in that vast desert where there
will never be a sea on the horizon, save for me, and tell them to
stop the vines from swaying and let me fall in their sweet hard
molded perfectly impalement. For I shall give them the jungles and
the steep mountains I rush up with hard breath to the cold rooms at
the top, coming out of the maze of my own personal amusement
park, at the end of my journey through my Saturday morning land
when the sun is just beginning to curl its yellow red outlandish
tongue around the day just outside the lip of my windows round my
bed on three sides. I shall give them me. I shall will you to take my
virginity you boys and I shall will you to teach me everything I
never knew and then a few things more.

 As the jungle boy, having made sure his bedroom door is
locked, struggles in the thick growths inside himself. As he
envelops the vines and the trees and the cockatoos on tree branches,
these birds with their white comb plumes and their white puffy
feathery bodies with their calls that are winsome and sad, as he
deposits them inward and keeps them somewhere near the isle of
never to be forgotten memory; all these things that were a part of
his boyhood as he strokes his little penis on his little weak body that
wears glasses on its eyes so he can see as well as possible his penis
being jerked off and he comes and comes with nothing shooting
from his penis but little invisible dreams he dares tell no one.

 And there is the sound of the jungle exploding in him and
around him and beside him and he lunges his groin and sticks his
stomach out and his ass in and he is naked and sprung on the bed.
His python silently moaning as best it can with its gear shaft whose
main function is to break down, to crumble the stones of Notre
Dame inside it, and to shrink and all but vanish, then to save up,
grow stronger, and then to do it all over again.

 On Saturday mornings. Early. Before the rest of the house is
awake. When he was ten and was nothing and no one at all. And
this deft play of his. A refreshing plunge into primordial jungle
masturbation tapestry that this good little boy who never curses,
never smokes, never even thinks about tasting beer sometimes, lives
for and devotes his whole life to. Who ever knew? Who ever cared?
No one, of course. It's why he became a jungle boy. He had to
survive the best he could. Doesn't everyone?

 So okay, how do you jack off, then?

				  the end