Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2006 15:20:10 -0500
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Thus, Joel"

				Thus, Joel

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


Joel, standing steel. Naked and young. Hard and stroking his penis. Pale and
of long golden hair.

For the moment, for perfection. A molded sense of time. His body clockwork.
His hand on his warm circle balls. His delight he has no pubic hair yet.

A season of himself. A lifetime of himself. Taking this one snapshot from a
million miles in space. Achieving this time, and the apex of it. Tickling
his nipples. Giggling inside. Achieving this time and the solitude of it by
bringing his boyhood to squeezing appetites. The desire to dry cum soon and
then pushed back and then hand taken away. His penis grumpy, jumps like a
puppy and Joel laughs.

As though trying to nail sea to shore. His hands on his butt now. Exploring
the soft tiny terrain of them.

As though trying to achieve an ability to say this is me in this moment.
This is me in an expanding moment of wanking and freedom and totally Joel
who is me. In a forward move that is capturing time in a capsule. That is
the longitude of dreams and reality. That is a foreshadowing not of grim,
but of supremely happy. As he imagines the prettiest boy in the school, make
that second prettiest, going down on him.

A time of lotion on his penis that sticks straight out, to lube it, to
imagine the touch of mouth on it, A time of  sex kitten rhymes where it all
fits. As he dances now hip hop to himself, the rhythm of inside, where no
one else has ever dared venture.

Yet.

Where it is a succession of happy heart and happy mind, as his penis begs,
as he touches it again, new friend, discovered not too long ago, and built
in box of happiness, surprise, Joel. A suggestion that would take away the
furtiveness of the shadows of his room. A suggestion of personal reflection.
A pond away. An ocean away. Oh come cum soon. I want to do it too.

Something that would be the world made of flesh and bones and the secret
smile that is always the most important, as he opens the smile slit of his
penis, uncut and four inches, pale pillar that Samson could not pull down;
the slow removal of his clothes, as he stands in his locked door room, in
front of a full length mirror and dazzles himself with his naked smile;
always the most successful, as he rubs hard, and sinews and stretching back,
as though he could be Joel, the world, and Joel, the stratosphere.

Here in a locket that would be of name and initials and flowering surreal,
and something that would always upset the institute of sanity and sanctity,
as this would always end in something which began, which had never happened;
which was the fielding the cross would institute, and this the feeling the
fevers would maintain.

And his penis the cross, the salvation by which a world could be saved; oh,
if one could just stay this way forever.

If one could always take the flames and tug at them; surrender the motives
of film and stop frame. Could look down on Joel Steel. Could look down as
though looking up, as if one could stop life at this moment, could stop life
as the trend of now. Not one follicle of hair to grow. Not one inch of
height of self and of penis to struggle toward. No more fashions or past or
future. Nothing left but the heliotrope that would surrender and be his
evermore, this stream of framework.

This whole body turned into erection mounting, friction motion of suggestion
as though it would always tap the secrets like tomorrow and make them come
live in his bloodstream. In this feather surround, in this time when it said
every molecule in his body, every thought in the mind is here and sound and
realistic. Every forensic suspicion is there in the centerpiece of
masterpieces that were the ancient paintings and the more ancient books,
this tome, this suggestion of looking up and down was artistry enough; he
was the artistry and the painting by the artist. As he turns sideways,
laughs at the sight of his hard on sticking out to tomorrow. Turns round,
examines his back and butt over his shoulder. Wishes someone else could do
that for him, to him, for real. Someday. Not now. Not this perfect moment.
For that would spoil it. This is far too important.

There is nothing of supreme motion, but of dilettante, but of savoir-faire.
There is what life has run to here. He is the reason the building blocks
built. He is the reason for everything.

As though, up ahead, not now, but then, it would always be of challenges. As
though it would always be of life lived, life run, and all the problems are
little chipmunks that dash this way to the opening of^×everything.

He palms his warm tight nut sac.

This was to the opening of^×lack of propriety. Lack of skills, which become
skills because of the obvious. In a moment, freeze frame, out of the body,
because he knows this is one of those moments when everything works, when
everything is of a piece, and this becomes the tangible, the fancied motive,
when there are no motives, when others exist to watch him and in amazement.
Come see Joel planet, he thinks, as he kneels in front of the mirror. And
hides his penis between his legs, then feeling the warmth of it, the hurt of
it and his balls, thus letting them pop free spring up penis again.

To see what this flex or that will do for him next. To turnabout and to feel
the circle of his perfect miniature balls, which are the world, is the nexus
of the everything, the nexus that exists for the transient that is the
permanent. That, without them, he would be only Joel, and with them, watch
his diver's grace, as he looks at his excited penis as he pumps it. And thus
to see his runner's calculation along the cinder track round the world in
autumn spinning and see the mirror grace; see the excavation that would
always truss the mornings and give the mirror what it longs for, thus
himself, and pull back and rub stomach, long stomach, and play with belly
button and kiss his own shoulders, and smell the aroma of sexy Joel, thus
the piece of peaceful songful splendor, of peaceful motion of winsomeness,
of young, and of himself, of young, and of beauty, and the smile that
extends forever fingers and forever lives.

This of suggestion.

As he plays sex games in his mind.

That feels good. That feel naughty and happily wrong.

This of suggestible motions of diagrams of himself on blackboard, of trig
and mathematical equations and the things that make him up, the circles, his
balls, and the lines, his penis formations, its little mushroom head spongy,
and the parallelograms, his penis as it looks to him in shaded room now, and
the triangles, his tiny tits, and the music of his head and heart and his
excitement, and his motions that are soft and hard and slow and languid,
that have nothing more than the seeming formations of barriers.

There, the shades of his eyelids, pulled down to half mast, there, his
tongue tip touching his pale little lips, as he opens his eyes and does his
best to^×smolder--there his hands gripping strength, and no one has to ever
condemn or judge for he is his own court of affairs, he is his own history
of evolution, and if he could, he would bronze this moment, and never move
from it. The cold autumn wind blowing on bare Joel, from the opened window
as he stands before it; chilling himself.

The night of Friday, one week before Thanksgiving. The night of supreme
amplitude, when he has forgotten if he is a beast or a croc or a sea serpent
or a mermaid; this faction of his muscles here in the upper part of his
arms, as he bends his left arm and clenches his fist upward, as though he is
testing strength for a Charles Atlas advertisement on how to be strong and
brawny and above all the bullies of the world. As he pushes his penis down,
then lets it sprongggg up again. He swears he can hear it laughing.

The pulleys of Joel. The trapeze muscles of Joel. The trapezoid that is what
he swing from, little monkey in the mind. Little sullen truths as he looks
at his face in the mirror, shining back at him, golden hair pulled back from
his head and streaming gold stream down his back. There as he gets up and
posits himself in the mirror again, in the stand apart legs. His hard on
stiff, his balls slightly swinging.

There in the perfect pitch, where his body is at this moment the best it
will ever be; where there is no ravage of time and no punitive measure of
too young; there in the formative that was tempered with his massive pulling
down the pillars of Jericho, oh let me, says his penis, oh Joel, let me, I
might cum tonight, you never know^×

--as though he were this splendid beast, alone in the world; no one pulling
at him and prodding him, but himself. This exempt. This example of what one
beast risen from the lair, risen from the mud and ooze, and here all pale
and nadir. And here all pale and risen to the zenith. And both at once and
the same time. Both here for the pushing of muscles together, then the
expansion of them apart; then the strength of ebb and flow; this world of
himself; this world of cold night; and this world where he faces it, dressed
in himself. All of his body directed to total and purest pleasure. To rocket
out of himself.  To close eyes in gooned ecstacy.

Dressed in something that is other worldly, other planet, as in his now
heavier excited breathing, feeling his rib cage and stomach moving up and
down, what he cannot figure out is a segue into himself, for it all starts
in here, and they admire him, they worship him, they adore and supreme
accolade him, he, the ultimate acolyte, and he is pulling backward now, his
back bending into a bow. Everything is sex. Everything is wanking. This is
that and far, far more. Let it stay this way forever. Oh please. His penis
and hands are now one. The finish line is closing in.

He is panting, like a beast in a jungle. Ready to send his penis to glorious
feeling and ecstatic out of time and calculation, letting it take over
totally, and close his eyes and make him one giant feeling and exceeding
rapture machine of boy, one more time.

His sacrifice and his mercy and his hands with their little blue veins and
his eyes closed like night has descended into him as well, as he knows
without doubt, that for the rest of his life, he will describe the arc of
the past into this of the tunnel of this night, this moment, this salvation.
This wank above all others.

And it will never be up to him after this, somehow, and he will never feel
the supreme joy of Joel as he has and is right this moment.

All tilted and all whorled with fingers soaking in the magic of his penis
and his teasing of it and his refusing to look at it in the mirror, for as
long as he could not look at it, which was a grand total of about three
seconds.

And all startled as though he is startled himself, each time, but this time,
somehow more aware, somehow more himself than he had ever known before^×he
splendid in extremis, and suddenly seeing himself in his own flesh, in his
being. one person, grand and afraid now, grand and on the edge of the bring
of coming, in the vision that is his alone, and arching backward and then
plummeting forward in an arc of jism that squirts so far, that splatters on
the mirror and on his thighs and on the floor, oh god what will mom think?,
will she notice?, can I clean all this up? My god, he marvels at it, looks
at it, touches it and feels it warm and watery. He puts a bit of it to his
mouth. It tastes warm and salty and sticky. My god, did I do that? Did I
produce finally at long last, cum? I shall take my bows now, thank you one
and all. It was my pleasure.

And watching his cock spume still a bit more, and he takes his hands away,
to see it move and gulp now dryly, as his penis moves on its own, from side
to side, this arc of magic silver awayyyyyy, that is so vivid, and so long,
past the length of himself, past the wonders of whatever would take the
screams that he feels building  up, colliding inside himself.

And something in him lowering already, wondering, even past the part where
he finally came, wondering at the magic of this time as opposed to the
thousands of times in the past and in the future and in the present as he
lives it, the millions and billions of things around him and of him and in
him and for him, as he gasps and holds his middle and bends over and waves
and waves of pleasure wash over him and into him and away from him, as his
body becomes limp and his long hair and face sweaty, coming down now from
this great high, as it seems he is strumming apart, the grand moment over,
now a memory, now something he would try to re-attain, but never would.

Still him though. On a higher rung. Grown a bit. Oh god no. But think of it,
this way, his molecules move, and his DNA forms what is known as him; all
the gestures, the eating, the sleeping, the turning, the walking, the
studying, the testing; the resting; the pleasuring; all the ways his face
looks in this sunlight, in this shadow, to the eyes of those who worship
him, to the way his hands look and feel and move when he writes, when he
celebrates himself; when he digs deeper into his mind and psyche and middle
and pulls out the invisible magic that looks different, as he does, every
second of the day, every position of himself; every link of him that looks
different to everyone else; knowing he will never look one way to anyone;
that he will never see himself as himself in even mirror because of the
lighting, because of the reverse imaging; because of the lack and the
abundance, and what comes into his mind and what colors his vision of
himself and the vision others have of him.

A flowing, fluid vital dance, and he wants to let out, he wants to salt and
consider and derive and find this moment, this freedom of fireworks and his
success, and the supreme beauty of Joel now and forever more when all his
friends, all his boyfriends, all his teachers, all his want to be friends,
love him and forever, and the comet screams cross the silver sky and the
emptiness is a firmament. And the emptiness is a river and a brook and an
ocean and a defense and a supremely brave opening of himself to everyone and
everything, and why this time and none other? Why is this the perfect point
of his life? And no matter then rejoicing and falling back ward on his bed,
sleepy, wrapping himself in a blanket, already dozing off, will clean up
early tomorrow morning, he promises himself and then forgets what he has
promised, as his eyelids close on the ceiling shadows and he whispers his
pledge heard round the world:

Joel, I love you.