Date: Mon, 26 Nov 2007 03:54:35 -0800 (PST)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: g/m relationship "Of The Track Runner and Me"

			Of the Track Runner and Me
				    By
			       Tim Stillman

Our love knits us together.

We had been changelings up until now. The winter moon shines in our cabin
window. We lie on our bed. We are hard, naked, holding together. Hand to
hand. Flesh to flesh. The cabin fire glows. Salvation is here. We yearn
for each other. Our songs singly have become our songs as one. We are
names mixed in brightly colored paints. Multi-hued and quiet and still
and turning. Point to counter-point. My hand strays to his abdomen. Soft
abdomen. And filled with the life leading above and below. He touches my
penis that stretches to his hand. We are filled with heart sounds. Lean,
he and I. Not awkward. Gyroscopes, one to the other.

A grand tabulation. A secret sewn at the edges of our eyes. I touch his
throbbing penis. Warm. Pulsing. Wonderful. Glowing in my hand that is his
own hand too.

His un- cut. Mine cut. His straining arms round me as he turns his head
to me; his hair is golden fine and long. filled with the taste of winter
come. The night is forever. We are further north than Alaska or Greenland
or Iceland. The snow comes in waves. The wind crashes about us. There is
the sea of blood inside us that greets our hands and our penises. Taken
to an interior solitude. The halls of ourselves we walked so unsteadily
when we were alone. That monstrous human word only lovers unloved know
how to unlock. To go inside. To find one another there, shadows clouding
us. Cloaking us. A hand to a chin. To a cheekbone.

Don't be afraid. I am here. Muscles tighten. We are beginning to make
love again. My breath hot on his face. His chest touching mine, delicate,
slowly, our flesh adhering to each other; fine down and streets of him to
wander lost with him which is not lost^×but treasure chest and toys
inside. Love will out. I long for his penis in my mouth. For it to fill
me, as he moves upward in our shadowed room, as if he is made of moon
milk and dreams. This and he, sitting on my legs now as he leans over
like a cantilevered bridge and he comes for me as I reach my fingers to
tighten his tits like a remote control for a Joel machine, but no
machine. Alive, really and truly. This dream and he lingers as I touch
him. As I love him with my hands.

And he presses his hands beside my eiderdown pillow in our huge
marshamallowy bed and his penis head touches my lips. He feels my mouth
open and I receive him. At first, just the tip of his foreskin, which I
marvel at, for the slit in it perfect alignment with the slit in his
head. What otherworldly beauty has sewn him so perfectly, so rightly
added up and supremely mathematical and geometrically ordered is even
that small detail? I push his foreskin back. He shivers. I feel his
pre-cum at my chin. His body is hot and feverish. As is mine. I take the
full of him a bit at a time. I turn my hands to his hips. I press down on
them as he enters me.

I mouth fuck him as he pinches my tits and shoots electricity through me.
I bite his penis. He draws back. And he smiles at me, wickedly. Drawing
then forward again.

 His aroma is like that of winter wheat. Like the sunset a long time ago
on a forlorn summer Saturday afternoon late when it seemed the entire
world had ended. But now, another beginning, and I stroke the base of his
shaft. I hold his tight sac balls. It is all so furnace heat feeling.

I want to have the deepest essence of him in my mouth. I want to learn to
breathe at the exact same second he does. I want to exhale, inhale the
same exact second. He is bones and muscle and lightness. He is the Joel I
needed all my life. And I feel him excited and he calls my name, as in
our sexual dance, I hold the globes of his ass. As he says he wants me,
to dart with me, down all his days, and running through all his nights.

He is running with me now, making me more than I ever was before. He is
suggestion and the taste of vanilla, as he reaching his hand down to my
hard on, to touch it at the top of its base, to quiver it, to shelter it
in his hand that knows more about me than I know about myself. More than
even my hand knows about me.

 I am a road. He is the runner with the long gold hair in the cold night
air. I am the cinder track his summer tennis shoes run on, and I hear the
sure and steady breath in his runner body and I feel the clacking of his
teeth, as I bite down on his tumescence. I feel his hands supporting
himself and his legs hard/ I am the mile run through. I am the man making
him cream and cream again as he loves his way into my mouth. As he
shelters his hard on within the tight bright moist hole of me. And he is
everything. The world can go on without us now. This time: WE ARE THE
ONES THROUGH WITH YOU. THIS TIME, WATCH US NOT GIVE A DAMN ABOUT THE LOT
OF YOU.

We huddle after it is over. He strokes my hard on and my bum. We live in
the golden winter sunbird cages of each other. I lie on my side. My
finger tracing his ribs. I bend down my tongue and touch him all over. He
makes me cum by putting his hands to me and saying my name with love and
oaths and fealty to me and I cum quickly in his warm hot moist hand. We
need the starlight in his eyes. There then is the starlight, as if right
on cue. We need music soft and low, and thus it starts. We are in our
cabin in woods dark and dense. We want to fuck each other and we begin
the process.

He is somber now, for he wants to get it right, as so do I.

But in the morning, we will run into the snow from the shadows of our
love, we dressed in cambric shirts and heavy jeans and boots, and we will
run screaming laughter and full of life and red and gold balloons and the
sun in ourselves. even if the sun in the sky doesn't deem to shake its
lion head at us in that morning tomorrow. We are him, as I stroke his
thick gold hair. As I kiss it and his face as he takes my long brown hair
and touches it with his pale limited lips, so frightened of all still and
so trusting of all still, because of the fear. Androgynous, us, both then
and forever. Ivory skins for both of us. Dressed in our bodies that could
fool others, that did fool others, when we wore matching clothing and
attended classes that way^×brother and sister? Girlfriend and girlfriend?
Boyfriend and boyfriend? All the above or mix and match or neither?

But what was in our groins gave us away and we had given each other away
so many times before we met and became us for eternity. We had been here
in search of love but instead found a particular quality of cruelty and
loneliness dealt to us individually, by the ones playing the romance
cards. So hurt were we, that we had squeezed against our back bones and
the deepest insides of our minds, swearing to ourselves never to come out
again, never to let another monster engage us with indifference. Then
somehow, us. Then somehow, a painful, a last gasp for love just in the
nick of time---and his name was Joel. And I love him. We had been
together earlier in a lifetime ago I think. We had been trying to find
each other. Instead, we had found antithesis and little else. But as S.E.
Hinton titled a novel, "That Was Then, This Is Now."

I am in Joel's hand as Joel moves my legs up to his shoulders and wraps
his arms around me. He begins to spread my legs, to open me like a
Christmas gift.

 I think, as we make ready, this is an enchanted forest tale told at
bedtime to two sickly Pale. Waxen faced. Sweating in the cold. children.
That to find Babe the Blue Ox and a certain beanstalk with Jack climbing
out, just outside our window in the snow powdered blue deep and true,
would not be a shock. As Joel, indeed pale and wan, smiles at me, as he
looks down at me, and then at the part of me I can't see, as he lowers
his penis slightly, slightly into me.  I gasp and quicken as he touches
the ring with his head, and then I hold my hands to his chest and I am no
longer running. Not the way we used to. Not even, Joel, the runner, for
now we are home. Each other's home.

And tunnels of loneliness lead to eternal winter and being fucked by my
Joel and the sheer Christmas bells and garland and shiny ornaments inside
me flourish as the tree of me exhales at the very same time Joel exhales.
Then we inhale together, and out again, as he fucks me and only me. We
jettison the bad memories. We jettison the little cruelties. The huge
betrayals. As I am speared by my true love as he whispers I am his
darling. As he goes deeply inside me.

And in a thousand Decembers, in our place of the world, snow scenes and
beautiful nakedness, where to yearn from a bad and alone dream, is to
find the one yearned for, right there beside you, stroking your hair and
saying to you, "It's all right, love. I'm here." Kissing your
forehead. And holding you as long as you want.

And he is here. As am I. The day the running stopped.

And Joel is my darling.