Date: Sat, 06 Oct 2001 12:53:16 -0400 From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com> Subject: The Lark - G/M Y/A Fantasy The Lark By Tom Cup Copyright 2001 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving an adult/youth sexual relationship. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ************************************************************************ Author's Note: This story is being release simultaneously to Nifty and the Tom Cup Library to thank all my readers for the love and support shown me. Your comments and encouragement have been invaluable to me. Thank you. ************************************************************************ This story is part of the Tom Cup Short Story Library. Join the Tom Cup Library at: http://tomcup.iscool.net to support this and other stories by Tom Cup. New at the Library: The Lion of Bolognia Chapter 8 (Kevin Chapter 22) Calvin, Chapter 27 Angel, Chapter 12 David's Christmas Present (Revised) The Day My Life Began by Miguel Sanchez A Place Called Home, Chapter 6 In Memory of Steve, Chapter 1 Terms of Living, Chapter 2 Tommy -- The Return, Chapter 2 Haying Season (Short Story) Thank you for your support, and as always your, e-mail is much appreciated ************************************************************************ The Lark By Tom Cup I was twenty-nine. He was a beautiful and charming being; unlike any I had ever seen. His hair was a loin's mane of red sunshine; eyes of Irish green that whispered only a hint of his agelessness; movements full of grace, slender; boyish in physique. But it was his laughter that caught my attention. His voice sang and danced around me. As I turned to seek out the sound, our eyes met and he smiled. All the sounds of the tavern around me vanished in that moment. My only thought was that I would throw myself at him and beg him to make love to me. "I'm Robert," he said extending his hand as I approached. I took his hand in mine and electricity shot up my spine. No stiff hand of death here; no, rather, the warmth of an angel. Smooth. Soft. Youthful. Inviting. "Manuel," I replied. "Sit. Join me," he said. "Sure," rushed from my lips as I took the stool next to him. "Can I buy you a drink," I inquired. That laugh again, it sent passion stirring through every fiber of my being. "Something red I should think," he said. I replaced the beer I ordered with a glass of the house red and joined him in a toast. "So," I began, "I've never seen you here before." He smiled at me knowingly. "And I have never seen you here before. Tell me Manuel, are you planning on seducing me?" Now it was my turn to laugh. "I think I'm the one being seduced," I said "This is my first time here in a very long time," he said staring into my eyes, "The place hasn't changed much." Now, I had been coming to `The Lark' since I was eighteen; three full years before I could legally attend the gay Philadelphia bar; and I had never seen this guy before. I would have remembered. "How old are you?" I inquired. He smiled leaning forward and replied, "Much older than you would believe." "Okay," I said inspecting him more closely; but the more I looked at him the more youthful appeared, "You can't be more than twenty-one, twenty... My god, you could be mistaken for a teenager! How old are you?" His head flew back as he laughed then he took a final sip of wine and placed the glass on the bar. "Come on," he said, "Let's go to my place." We walked slowly toward Society Hill. I was amazed by the wealth of historical information that my young friend produced from memory. He spoke of the building of Wanamaker's' in such reflective tones that I almost saw the men constructing the building. He spoke of the difficulty in casting the Liberty Bell and the events that lead to it being donated to the City. He reminisced over the Musulu. I had heard many of the stories before, of course, but he made the stories come alive, like a favorite uncle reading a pet bedtime story, the stories nuzzled your heart and became a faithful friend. I was drawn into his telling of the stories, and he was bathed with a glow from the telling. He watched me, smiling, as I examined his place. He loved wood. Lamp table, coffee table, mantle work, bookcases, and vases all made of various exotic woods and all, so he claimed, made by him. I found it hard to believe that anyone as young as he appeared could produce the quality of the work in the room. I also did not for a minute believe that he own this home in the midst of Society Hill. But I wanted to believe him. I could not help myself. The look of his eyes, the curve -- and wetness -- of his mouth, the flow of his hair, the length and delicacy of his fingers, and the very shape and moments of his body pulled me into his world. I needed to believe him. I hated the fact that I was one step away from being over the hill. My youthful prejudices were coming to haunt me. When I was sixteen, just coming into my own, openly experimenting with my attractive gayness, I would never go near a man over twenty-nine. Men older than that, no matter what they had to offer, did not interest me. Now I stood at the threshold of thirty, waiting for age to place youth outside of my reach -- pull it away from my touch. He sat invitingly on the sofa -- left leg crossed over right, -- his left hand beckoned me. I staggered forward. All my fantasies were caught up in the moment. It didn't matter to me how old he really might be -- fourteen, fifteen, sixteen -- he embodied youth. I desired him. My heart raced, my breath was shallow, my sex hardened. I may be twenty-nine but I'll have this boy tonight. I may never have another night like this but I will have this night, with this boy. He was wonderfully pliable. He bent to my every wish, my every desire. We lay naked together, him beneath me, our flesh burning each other. My mouth covered his lips. My hard member pressed against his, throbbing. His hands cupped my ass. I played with his hair, breathed in his scent, drew pleasure from his firm skin and toned flesh. His body, vicariously, became mine. "I know what you want." Did he? Did he know as I enter the sweet tightness of his dark passage that I wished to remain there forever? -- That I would give my immortal soul not to age one more day, to remain this side of thirty, to forever hold the keys of maturity and yet claim the prize of youth, as I was at that moment united with his young body? -- Could he understand how when he turned me away and went back to his long, lazy, afternoons of camaraderie with schoolmates that I would be crushed? I would be thrown down, cast away, forgotten and left to age, alone? He was nibbling on my neck as I continued sinking deeper into him. God, I did not want this ecstasy to end. His hands massaged me. His body danced beneath me. His mouth sucked my neck. The sensations built until I became feverishly hot and faint. I ground my cock into him, feeling it swell, charging toward climax. I screamed as the hot magna of my passion erupted within him. "Now we are one," he whispered. I sank into a deep, satisfied sleep. ***** The room was dark when I woke. His tender figure sat on the bed, still nude, watching me. He was beautiful. I wanted to weep. He hadn't left. He was still with me. "Happy birthday," he said. "What? Oh, my birthday isn't until tomorrow... how did you ..." "You've slept through the night and day. Today is your birthday. I gave you a present. I gave you what you wanted." I sat up. "What? I have been sleeping..." "Shhh... Don't worry. You don't have to work anymore; you will never be older than you were yesterday. Just as I will never be older than the sixteen year old boy that I was 208 years ago." I ran my hand over my neck. I understood. We went back to the Lark. I was twenty-nine with boyish energy and appetites. I understood why he picked me. Just as I understood why I picked Jim. I had heard him complaining about turning sixty. Life, it seemed to him, was about to end. No young twenty or thirty something would ever look his way. That was the way things were for the gay. I smiled at Robert as he drifted toward a downcast middle-aged soul. I sat next to Jim. "Can I buy you a drink?" I asked. He smiled. I lay my hand on his, sending electricity through his body. I would give him what he wanted. Life is such a lark.