Jay-Sunward
By
Tim Stillman
(For the very real Jay, deep friend and miracle, this story is lovingly and happily dedicated)
"Let us be lovers, We'll marry our fortunes together"
Simon and Garfunkle
A man gets used to giving up, before he even knows it. Take a reading of the Novembers in his soul and you count the scars on the sky and realize you care more than ever. I was there on a business trip. And living in a summer hotel. I am by the pool in a deck chair. I am graying. I am tall and I have my eyes fastened on that boy over there. The one at the diving board.
I think his life is filled with tomorrows and there is no hint of winter edging round his own soul. He is taller than me. He has a Monroe and nipple hoops. He wears black Speedos. He casts a shadow out there to the blue sparkly ice colored water in the over heated sun. He looks forward and never at the kids diving off the board. He holds something in his chest with his arms covering it. He has been through pain.
I turn away when I am about to fall in love. I wait for the joke. Their own turn away. I remember my hair long and my body slim to the point of emaciation. My hair used to be brown. That boy over there, with the brown eyes and the body already beautiful, but adorned and gilded even more, had a state of peace hard won about him. There was complexity in him as I opened my eyes again and found him not there. Sighing, I tried to get more sleep in the midst of the sounds of splashing and children and Ipods and the trial test of can we have more summer fun if we scream a little bit louder, do you think?
I felt something on my shoulder. I brushed it aside. It came back. Damn bee or fly or something. I looked as I brushed--and stopped my hand in mid-flight. It was a toy lion. And it rested like an angel on my shoulder. There was a hand with a wrist that had a clock watch on it, a clock watch that looked like one once worn by a boy I loved in vain some time ago. I looked upward along the arm and saw that boy I had seen by the diving board, now standing over me.
He smiled down. He had thick dark raven midnight hair. It covered his eyes now and down to a nose that was a proud distinguished nose, and lips that were full, a chin that was strong and noble. He held that stupid somewhat worn stuffed lion on my shoulder. I began to get up and go away. I was used to getting up and going away never. But others I had known, had that knack down pat. I started to leave, but his hand held to my shoulder.
He looked at me and said, "I think I could use a friend. Could you?" His voice had a slight British accent in it. He said, "Go ahead. It's all right. All cool."
I started to. I am used to people not noticing me or mistaking me for someone real. And then I looked up at him, his face and hair in the sun. I might have been wrong. I thought sometimes a person has a chance, one final one, or the first and final one together, so fighting what was normal for me, I remained. I remembered me as a child. I looked at him as tomorrow. I had forgotten childhood and tomorrow could be in one cinemascope framework for other persons.
He sat in the deck chair beside me, comfortable, secure in it, stretching his long bare attractive legs. The sun bounced on the concrete and off the water, reflecting dazzles in my eyes. He was a boy of romance, of remembering past the pain and remaking the future still, because for all my cowardice, he had strength and the main thing he had strength for was for not hiding, though his hair hid his eyes sometimes because he wore contacts since his eyes were two different colors. Though I told him I thought that was sexy, he never let me see his eyes without those contacts.
He said if I wanted to come to his room for a while, he was catching some extra summer work here at the hotel, so I went, because I finally had no where else in my brain to hide. And in his cold air-conditioned room, something happened--something rare and fine. It took some time, but very little actually. He said flat out as he brought me a beer and we sat on his bed, that he was gay. He told me some terrible things that had happened to him. I told him some of my minor horror stories. Close to the bone.
And he leaned over to me after about an hour of conversation in that room of teak and sunlight blazing in through blue tinted windows--blue sun--blue boy--and he said, "That lion" he had taken it from my shoulder by the pool and put it in his lap, "do you know how many times I have fucked this lion since I was nine or ten or so?" I thought, okey dokey, let's move to the door calmly and slowly, but unknowingly my mouth had instead asked, "Really?" And he nodded and showed me the cum stains inside the toy lion's mouth and bottom and asked me if I would like him to demonstrate.
I said-"ah..well..." so he smiled, a sweet open smile, blushing a bit, took down his Speedos, revealing a very large penis with a piercing stud in the head, which he took off with long practice and put it on his Speedos on the table, then he began fucking this toy lion in the mouth. And something happened in me. Something that was so unexpected for a man who had given up trying to figure out anyone, for it didn't matter anymore; nothing seemed to be aware it was alive, so why should I be? But he did.
And he blushed badly and beautifully as he began to fuck this childhood toy, hard back and forth, his whole body into fucking--my cock rose fast and stiff-- reminding me of my own very sexual, alone, childhood, always knowing that such things were not incongruous, then, but having forgotten, this boy named Jay who was 18 and a young man, not boy, still remembered. After trusting too many of the wrong people, after having been not loved or fitted in, he said, for so long, he still had that toy lion and he still fucked it and watching him in front of me doing it, made me think this boy of unsmiling face, when around people he didn't trust, when outside in a world that had too many intangibles and snares in it, in this room, with me, with some other few friends, became a child again.
Not that he remembered being a child, but that he became one, and made me ashamed I had given up so early on and turned sad and sadder, without remembering the boy of the clock watch and how I used to be, fresh and happy of a summer childhood day. And that was the beginning, in that hotel room, of our salvation.
A boy with dark hair and dancy hands, a boy who was so supremely sexual taught me things sexual and taught me things him and me. He was so adventurous and so giggly, when if you saw him in his disguise, you would never know, but he and I climaxed after climax--we fucked, I had never fucked anyone, but he taught me how.
His boyhole was tight and hot and muscular, when I tongued his winking spot, it made it pucker and he pushed his butt back into my face. When I fucked him, from the front and doggy style too, being in him was being in the center of him, past his tight ring, his muscle, knotted, into the caverns of him, up and up, the dark heart interior, the all of him, feeling his dick throbbing along with mine up him--
--like a million mile fall that I was raging into, creaming in him as he screamed my name, exciting me impossibly, as I held my hands to his sweaty convulsing back and body, my eggs pounding against his hole, his bum, and he shooting on the bed and we camecamecame and then collapsed; moments after, he was ready to begin again, though he said he had had few things stuck up him before, and then nothing would stop him, till he fucked me--oh as he rustled his huge dick into my ass and this time I screamed out his name, his hard cock not all the way in, I couldn't take it all, but he was ramming into me and my whole body dissolved around his cock. And he came deeply in me and I was split into two become one become one even more so. Together.
He had been pushed and had been hurt and had been so used, so I didn't want to hurt him ever. But he said I didn't and he wanted to try things. So.. I learned how to fuck him and even fist him, which made him cum blurs of sticky white thick stuff on my hands which we licked off each other later; we blew each other and we sucked and jacked round the clock for two days and nights almost, time together stitched between times we had to work. When I had to leave for work, fucked out, goony, happy, spacey--oh the sticky of Jay--everything always and forever Jay--and giggling still, he would pose nakedly for me and put on this innocent face, and I rushed back to him and fell to my knees and held him once more, then he dressed in his Speedos and went to his job too.
It was in this room our very own private world. What is sexuality for if not to make children of us all? Free and easy and comfortable and wide-eyed and trusting evermore?
He ran everywhere--he was giddy, he was happy, he wanted to, he said, please me, because he saw some of me in him, saw that turn away from me and decided he wanted to make someone happy so they would be glad they were living on planet Earth today here and now, and he broke my heart when he said that and I held to his chest as he cuddled me, as I did to him.
Late nights we swam naked in the pool. We bathed together. We came in the pool, we sucked each other off best we could in that cold blue with the moon light laying white dream dusts on it way up there in the night. He was poetry and he was illustrated with his body jewelry and he told me about London, he told me about the darkest nights of soul and time and where the sidewalks end on the other side of the earth. But in between, we danced, we were constantly naked with each other, we fucked late night by the side of the pool, we kissed deeply and we never let our cocks and his boyhole and my hole be rested for a minute.
He was a man who could be a child. I was a child faking being a man. He was constantly exciting. He had never been with anyone whose dick was cut. I had never been with anyone who had a foreskin. We found each other's cocks fascinating and examined them for hours. I would hold his dick against my cheek and delighted in pulling the foreskin up and down with my fingers and with my teeth. He was all the Saturday mornings of childhood rolled into one person. He was brave, my God, he was brave. He had looked at the sun and had kept it in him when it was not sunny, for it rained and was dark a lot where he came from.
He was always running in his head and he was always up to fascinating things. At times he asked me not to use him and throw him away. I held him and I cuddled with him, and his life gave me life. He was all the time devouring Pixie Stix for the sugar rush. There were drugs and booze, yes, the sad frequents of escape thus needed. We took a bath together. We laughed. He was a Saturday morning of children's cartoon watching on TV, and he was sexuality combined. He was both at once. And he reminded me. He reminded me.
He was a celebration of life and zest and that wonderful lack of need of atonement which comes from being able to reach out a hand still and all and find a hand reaching back, trembly as a leaf and twice as skitterish, and we were off in a land of skies that were soft sailing, and he came with that huge cock so many times, three in a row, sometimes four in a row, he was a roller coaster on which I was the single passenger, as I stood flat-footed much of the time while he deviled me with his being a bad bad boy and I had to lie him cross my lap and paddle him lightly with my hand while his cock grew hard against my leg, and that led to bed time and led to never going to sleep with him.
We were too busy being exceedingly happy. We were too busy with him teaching me things that would have shocked me with anyone else. He held my hand as we went out of his apartment, and down those metal steps to the concrete, unashamed, and we ran to the pool naked. He held my hand as he fucked his toy childhood lion. He would say I have been a bad bad boy today and I would say uh oh, what did you do today. He would put on a sweet innocent face like the sun couldn't match and I would hold him to me and we would giggle and I would say hey time for a fucking you think? Or time for a bath and let me get you thoroughly clean and dry. And he would squeal. And would shout YAY and he would shout my name when he came, when I ate him out, these horrible words for these delicious human comforting human things.
And time flew. And time for me to go back home. And time for me to say goodbye. And we held without talking. He made me feel the first time in my life glad of my body, unashamed of myself, not having to apologize all the time, not having to explain and be careful what I said, and the last hour of the last night we were together, one month before he had to go back home to his regular job and his home, I said, let's not.
He raised his head and clapped his hands and I rubbed his penis and drew the foreskin up and down as he wrapped his hand round my cock, and we remembered how I had helped him use soap and warm wash cloth on his cock to make him cum like I had learned to do when I was nine. Which provoked so many different cums for him that night--I had put his cock in my mouth just as he was cumming, and I had fucked him front and back right after. We were then like gods who crested the wave and held to each other straining our bodies back and cumming on each other, he by force of will--.
I said let's not leave each other--and he giggled and looked at me with patience, this wild ginger dervish of a boy/man waited, holding his breath, as his head was in my lap nuzzling at my softened penis. I played with his hair. He liked me to pull his hair and head back when I was mouth fucking him. I asked--started to--he flinched--no, I would not ask. So we found a place. We as it goes stayed on. He got another job. I was well off anyway financially.
One night he came home late from a party. He was rubbing a bruised shoulder and a bruised hip and heart. I doctored him. I asked him. He started to answer, but stopped, he was a person of the need to fix things broken by others of him, on his own power. He said wait, let me ask--we had been together all our lives it seemed and we had been together all the times in between--he asked if I would like to be his lover. I smiled down at him, and turned away at the same time. He put his hand on my shoulder and said he would try to make up for that other boy because he knew how I had loved him so very much..and I turned back to Jay, something he had gradually taught me to do without fear of getting a shot in the head like so many endless times before, because we both understood that far too well, he too early on, and dealing with it, me too early on and spending my life falling downward with it and the next tidal wave along.
He asked me to be his lover, his boyfriend. I held him and I massaged what hurts of his that I could, though he did it far far better for me, as I just held him closer to me. I did not weep. I felt so self-conscious. I felt afraid. I felt so very much in love. We had said we loved each other before. We who had been so without love knew the precious commodity it was and never from the first ever said it lightly. He the courage of the diver diving in. Me the fear of the cowardly rejected.
I said oh yes Jay; I want so to be your lover. He said then let's be, let's truly be. I kissed his clothes off and worshipped his body and worshipped above all else him. Being with him is a prayer. You know..like sacred. We had both been introduced to the betrayal, the twist of fate, the forgetting, the silently walked away from, and were so always aware of that, but as I went to get something to put on his bruises, he had gotten that toy lion from under his bed (he had learned to hide it all his life so no one would throw it away, for it had been his first true childhood friend and he loved it in a beautiful way, an almost monastic way, cumming in it was a token of supplication, as everything he had had done to his body in its own way, all telling stories like Ray Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man" did--here what was London, here what was New York, here was the dream and here was the sweetness and here was where he hid when there were too many Novembers in his own soul and there was no whaling vessel to hire onto)as he held the toy to me and he said, he sure would like to have you fuck him.
And Jay smiled that sunbeam smile as he brushed his midnight hair away from his eyes. Younger than he looked. Dreamier and sexier than he believed. I would spend the rest of our time trying to convince him of that and enjoy the sheer giddiness of sex with him, and listening to those squeals of joy and life and love he has for sex and oddly enough for me. All the wasted years of mine seemed less wasted now. So because he loved to do sex with me, I smiled, blushed more than he ever did, pulled down my jeans and briefs, and started fucking that little toy lion in the mouth while Jay dropped his own shorts and began rubbing his cock on my leg.
We came together.
We still do. He moans my name. I moan his. He is Jay. And he is miracle of summer true.