"Boys of Christmas"
by
Timothy Stillman
They were in the penthouse apartment, across Fifth from me. I didn't mean to be a boy gazer. I never knew before I was one. But one night in November. A frost. A snow flurry. And I with my gin and bitters, sitting at my own penthouse window, lights low, music soft, in my comfortable leather lounging chair, masturbating yes, even at 25 I still masturbated alone. All myself. Always. I loved living in the city. I loved the places you could go and the things you could buy.
You could buy boys of course or videos of boys or books of boys. You could get whatever gratified for the moment. But I wanted more than the moment. I wanted to be loved. Not to be a trick. Not to be a joke. And I rubbed my dick and felt my balls and felt deliciously careless sitting there in front of an uncovered window that deep dark New York lighted landscape night of a world. I had dark hair, long, to the shoulders. I had a whippet thin body. Corded. I took much pains to look my best. And I saw them.
It was that simple. A snow fantasy. The flurry that blew across the darkness and the light. A moment when there was sudden soft drinks in my mind as well as had been in my hands. They were of course boys in that penthouse over there. And they were naked and doing things to each other. I froze. I waited for the laugh. For the practical joke. I had never seen them before. I had never known anyone lived in that penthouse, which had been dark each night for the five months I had lived here across the street.
And they were boys of lights now. Making their own incandescence. Boys of magic producing out of the coming winter rivers of snow and ice and sharp edged wind something more than what mortals could even quietly obtain, regardless of how subtle and sneakily they whisper walked to the wind mountains of the gods. They were as naked as two boys could be. And they were sharply in my vision. As though I could reach out and touch them. Or they could reach out and touch me. One dark. One light. Both with tiny bodies, say age ten or so, and save for their hair coloring, they were obviously twins. They were graceful and tawny. They were creatures of the snow. Not of this city. Not of the posh penthouse and not of the streets and its sleep of subways.
They held to each other, exposing the sides of their flanks to me. They held chest to chest. The shadows darted in their eyes and their mouths formed O's of exclamations as the dark haired boy reached for his brother's penis and held it closely between them, using his fingers to play with it, as the light haired boy rubbed his brother's butt and they addled against each other, they were two chimney sweep boys of pure cold beauty and they lay standing on each other. They were fragile and they were wild and the light haired boy pulled away a bit and bent a little and sucked his brother's pale red tit and made it hard; then started working on the other one. The dark haired boy pulled back and put his hands on his brother's shoulders and they were in ecstasy and the tits were bit, each in turn, one boy's, then the other's.
They were ice sculptures. They were snow's reasons for reminding us of the pulsing of life. They pulled away now and held hands and were like a carnival ride unto themselves. As though they were jonquils turning round and round and they were laughing out of their sweet box faces. And my penis pulsed so, watching them. And I felt the blood singing through their bodies, and they were swans, with gently curved backs, and they were the ultimate of nature that took on, that dared take on, the bodies of slight wisps of boys, and thus to disperse the length of the legs, the length of the arms, the way the boys went back to each other and kissed so longingly, so passionately. And when they lay down on the wine colored deep carpeting, they were not hidden from view. I could see them all tumble legged. I could see them doing somersaults and boy pyramids, with their tiny slender ass holes pointed directly at me, and their backs with bones of spine. And their balls seen in the gap between their legs.
The music had stopped. But in my mind, it continued. The boys were of light shows and the darkness was their perpetual curtain as the blonde boy took his brother and held him down on his back, gently, and the boys giggled, as the blonde boy reached down his mouth to his brother's who reached his mouth up to him, and they were jungle cats dropped by plane from Siberia, and they were always to themselves and they were the secret, the intimate. And in their minds, I could see memories of them in the bath, washing themselves and each other and playing with all the wonderful growing things of the boy body. The secretions of souls. The elocution of bond and honor. The fact that one soul had been born in two bodies and they would never be alone if parted and could never be parted and thus never be alone.
I wanted them. I wanted their bodies on me. I wanted their warmth to stretch across my growing internal tundra of not caring, of giving up, of letting the day take me into night, but they made me care and I pushed my penis in their direction and imagined one boy sucking my now hard tits and one boy kissing my abdomen and kissing right above my pubic hair. And my penis stretching harder and harder. I imagined them saying "we will never leave you or betray you" and the boys were now one atop the other, boy buildings going on right in front of my seeming preternatural eyes in the jungle of the city that was now made of nothing but boy glass and the boys themselves. I pictured them as Christmas. I pictured them as love of the only kind there could ever be that was worth anything.
And the blonde boy was on top, and he was entering his brother, his hands on the black haired boy's shoulders, his legs on each side straddling his brother, and the boy on bottom sighing and raising his head and moan came and then ahhhhh and then hard and then smile and then romance, as the blonde haired brother went into him with his tiny cock. Their cocks I had seen were like little hard pea shooters, their balls all but invisible. Their bellies were concave and their ribs were a beautiful cage of boy, and the boys had now come, swiftly, falling off, the blonde boy, from his brother, as they lay there on their backs. As they stroked each other's hair and touched each other's faces so delicately. So brave and warm and so fragile in the mix as well.
And I came and came. And my Kleenex filled. And I watched the boys in their boy games. I watched and remembered as they later, after washing up, gobbled each other's penises and kissed and licked each other's bodies entirely, and how then the blonde brother sat atop his brother's lap and let his dark haired brother push his hard on into his brother's ass, and how they jiggled and how they giggled and how they came beautiful blanks. And how their faces and heads were like bouncing down happy stair steps of trembling and proclaiming as they came and came and then rested on each other.
And I've seen them every night ever since that `blessed November night. No one else is ever with them. They never tire of invention and I never tire of watching them and of course the classics repeats are much fun too.
It's close to Christmas now. And the boys now wear stocking caps that are the color of Christmas candy sometimes, and they wear old fashioned stockings and clothes like you see on boys in films about English boarding schools and they play games like they are sitting in a class room of a long ago winter and while the teacher and the students, other than they, have their minds on their work, the brothers reach out to each other, sitting one behind the other in school desk chairs and share a quick kiss before the teacher and other children notice them, and then another later on, and then not caught, and then the teacher or the student or students catching them out at it and then the fantasy involves from there.
And their games are never ending and their young hearts are forever, and by telling you these things, by setting them down as they happened or did not happen, take your choice, I wish anyone who might come across this a very Merry Christmas, and may there be boys in your peppermint gift stockings hung by the fireplace with great and loving care, to surprise you come Christmas Day.