Date: Mon, 07 May 2007 20:40:28 +0000
From: Timothy Stillman <menovember@hotmail.com>
Subject: Steven

Steven
  By
Tim Stillman
as dictated from
A.  Gadfly


There was power in Steven. There was British strength to him. There was
prepubescent toughness there. Something that defied and if one were
submitting to pages of stories, one might do well to observe Steven at the
act, the art, and craft of being himself. He had muscles and was muscular,
but not overly so. He had eyes that were slits of narrow. He had
tough-minded words and he shot them off with tails of spittle as often as
not in his hearer's faces or that or thereabouts. He was hopelessly gay and
anyone who wanted to take him down would only do that after a fight of
strong proportions. Steven had a grace and poise, like a pencil mark that
dug into the souls of those lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to come into
contact with him. He was sexuality. He made no commandments. He was always
the meanest kid at the boarding school. He--excelled. Not at his grades,
which were of no matter to him. He--excelled at being constantly sexual, most
overtly so, and denying from his first appearance here that anyone who
wanted to tangle with him would beat the stuffings out of him.

He was a danger and he had long arms and he could plow into the other boys
and everything he did was a fight of dimensions. He had an anger at the
world and the world at which he expressed his anger was never at himself,
which someone clever, might have ascribed it, though the teachers and
proctors here were not sufficient to confine him, to nail him
down-psychology wise. It was all to interesting to see him and his smolders,
to see him and his leering, to undertake his lifted arms in the beds that
night, any night, and let any boy suck on him, his hard steel cock, as long
as they liked, for five minutes each exactly then, then Steven would put his
hands on their heads, each in turn, and send them to the floor, so the next
lucky or unlucky winner could have at him. Steven came only when he felt
like it. He was a magnificent boy come man. He was not a dreamer. He did not
care for books.  He did not care for any teachers' dirty looks, which is why
they only did it, when he was not looking, and in the midst of it, he would
turn round, or round the corner, and invariably catch them at it, making
them into harummpphing foolish versions of Mr. Bumble.

He was not a puppet, not Steven. And he serviced whom he liked and when he
liked. Everyone was at his power and his range of targets, for many times,
having sex with him, more like the phrase should be he stooping low enough
into the primeval muck, in order, thanks to his big big heart, to let you
bring him off; that and having had fisticuffs with him were seemingly the
same thing, in certain be jangled crew cuts that were outdated even then,
but something the powers in their flowing black Mr. Chipping's robes took to
be the lesson of suits of blue and ties of gray for boys who were too
hardened to be at any other more posh, more dontcha know, boarding schools,
and this was salvation here, for the likes of Steven, though there were
never more the likes of Steven, Steven so believed, on the face of the
planet Earth--which was a donnybrook kind of place all these misfortuned
children knew about to the core of themselves, at least, they had thought
they had, in their cold dorms, their colder beds, their dreary classrooms,
their spooky chapel, their Dickensian Bleak House of a school building and
all the barns and shacks on the grounds. There was no cricket here, no
squash. The only squash was served like vomit on the plate in their dank and
equally dark dining hall. All  hollows, before Steven, and all hallows
during Steven.

To think the prelates had thought they should not have allowed such a boy to
enter here, because he was so openly queer, because they feared for their
and their charges' safety, but they decided to, for his parents were gone
and dead, and there was no bed sitting room even for him, the age he was,
and discovered an hour and a half, give or take an hour or a half, that they
need not fear for his precious little psyche, for he was a right'un right
off the bat, or more to the point, a wrong'un, they would be bound. Terror
took his name or Steven took terror's name, and there were no cloddish
children here really. They had all been knocked about and did their
handiwork with their fists before him. And they gave him anything: whatever
cookies or candies or other foodstuffs relatives sent them; they wanted to
take their midnight turns with him. They wanted to feel his cock, for it had
made them, as they had been lancing it like a boil in their mouths, and
speaking of that cock in mouth habitation, who would be the lucky boy this
week Steven would pour himself into?, which lucky mouth would catch the ring
toss of the spun Steven rainbow, and did not have to feel the ultimate
sadness of Steven coming in his hand instead and laughing all the while.

He had a great prong, though there was only a little fuzz around it and his
large balls in a tight sac, and he was for all intents and purposes,
insatiable. He was one for himself and if he actually sucked some other boy,
and that would be a lucky boy indeed, that boy would have to pay penalties
for the largess of Steven that would fry the hair of a seasoned dock worker,
but gladly they did, and gladly they would do so again, even at the end of
the day's punishment, and before the punishment continuing for the following
day, until it was all worked out of them, and they at the back back and
further back of the line again.

So, did Steven get his due? Did someone finally beat him into beef stew? Did
someone grab him by the collar of the neck, and tell him he was not so grand
as the Arch Duke? Did love come along and sail him away from the land of
invincibility? What then, in this setting of loose change boys and prison
schools, in the land of Jolly Olde, did happen to him and was he ever caned
for his courage and his, let's face if, meanness, for he loved to see the
littler kids cry, and cared not a whit? For if he was in view and tactile
range of the cane of justice, it was he who used it on the boys and on a
proctor or two who got to sex some with the magnificent Steven. Did he
finally grow out of it, one fine day? It was that kind of a world that
accepted Steven whole--well, not heartedly--but that found him accessible in
his inaccessibility, for they saw themselves in him. He was never to know a
kind word, a soft hand, a pair of eyes that were happy to see him--coming--in
all the phases of that so-charged word--he was selfish and startling so, to a
fault, and it was never his fault, that fault, but always someone else's.

So Steven grew up, at least grew taller, and gained more hair and was a
decent looking man, who oddly enough, became a gentleman of leisure, for he
found society's pure society ladder easy enough to climb, for all the hard
work, all the spit and polish work was to be done by others eager for his
ever more impressive dong. I wish I could say otherwise, but he, who had no
stomach or interest for writing or for reading, became a writer, in between
being sucked and fucked round the town, and he wrote about his boarding
school days and his days before, and all the sex he had had, at any time of
the day or night. He, very oddly indeed, became a best-selling writer with
whom all his female readers, and more than few male readers as well, became
so enamored. His book signings at London book shoppes were mob scenes, which
the police had to frequently disperse. His books by now were in the hands of
children, sneaked out of secret places, nooks and crannies, behind tallboys,
etc. where their parents hid them. There were quite a lot of Steven ****
books. And he became a man of leisure and of letters. He became quite
wealthy and lived in a tony part of London, during the age of motorcars,
thank the Lord, because horseshit even in the roads of the tonier parts of
London smelled the same as in the less proper locations others chose to live
in.

Steven was to have many followers among the children who read his books and
masturbated like crazy doing so, by themselves or with each other, and eager
to find out more sophisticated things to do--turn the page, please--and they
did so with alacrity. So England created in itself by its citizenry many new
Stevens over the long period of history to this very day, and this is the
story of the original of them, that cold gray gleam of England, where
cruelty and snobbism and cold cutting hurts and slices of heads given to one
when one gets on the bad side of a Steven, and indeed, many male children
were named Steven by their parents, wittingly or no, so they had to be what
their literary ancestor was, to carry on the up hill tradition. You can see
them growing their still. And this is the story of their progenitor. I
thought you would like to know.

Now, the Steven House museum is closing down and it is time for all guests
to leave, or I shall bloody every Scotsman's nose I can find. Ah yes, good
for a laugh. Like to keep them laughing. Makes it less likely they will
think. The egress is right over there. Thank you so much. Do come again.
Little tyke, put down that bust of Master Steven--oh, yes, I see, then as I
am aged, Master Steven, with my own master's blessings, take and your fist
out of my face and go along and thank you all yet again.