"Joel-A-Rama"
by
Timothy Stillman
"Sweet love child/little one made to love/don't be afraid to love/I'll show you how..." Herbert Kretzmer/Anthony Newley from the movie "...Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness?"
It had become a Joelcircus of a world. Barnum, P.T., himself would have been proud. There were Joels to the left of me and Joels to the right of me. The name that had been my talisman for lo these many years had sought flourish and had blossomed bloom and had produced--TA DA--the little gold leaf imp himself. O cuddle the night away with teddy boy Joel. All snug in the comfitwarm with the heat surging round our bodies, slithe and tove and miracle permed here in the 22nd century where the boy town was Joel on the half shell.
And the winter world outside blew and strove and tripped over its heavy wind and its bleary snow, as we cuddled in our roundbed, and our arms round each other, for today Joel was 14, and this was his birthday.
Which was, not coincidentallym mine own birthday as well. As he held me, so naked was he, in his arms and he put his gold betrothed hair to my hands and surged my nipples through his mouth, so warm and pale and tiny tiny little elf with the beads of sexual Olympic perspiration on his angled thin rib poking out body, his boney knees and elbows, and he put his head all a little heart shade on my chest.
He said was he good to me. And I said shilly blume had nothing on you and he was the most winsome boy in world today. Movievid boys had nothing on him. The sole and single reason everybody and his goddam brother and sister too had thrown away their hologram VDE players, for those shadows on a wall screen were patheticamundo, compared to him, as we love to gape at his bod and to wonder supremeo.
But boys come and boys go, and they are delightful mincepie either way in the shadow of the winter snow, though Joel was here forever and I with him and his perfect little ivory soap of a penis was standing straight up and it flexed against my fingers as I flexed them against the little balustrade of boyhood, which made Joel giggle so sweetly and hug me deeply.
As I ran my other hand down his feathery backbone and watched his wild hips wiggle as though he were of old and going to the grunefelder for something illegal and druggy when he had finished putting up with me, but that was long ago, and no longer needed.. That was the old me and the old Joel back when we were both young and nowhere at all, babe, o so far away. But now he stays with me. For a month. Little pieces of time named Joel. For a play of naked skin, and the other outward worlds can hit the road and strive for Mars for all we care, we know not where.
We've got each other and that is all the nestle a guy needs in the Joelcity. Here with the fireplace blazing peaceful, and Joel's china bone hand feeling me up and tickling my pubic hair; as the room walls and ceiling glow in soft friendly light with its sweet marshmallow colors, with this boy neck I massaged every morning and every night, and we've got each other by the goombas as he strokes me, I stroke him, we stroke lights in our eyes, and I kiss the top of his warm forehead and feel the sweet blood rushhhhhhhh.
He shines into me and asks me if I love him far and above all the others, to which I thrill and tumesce and push him onto my stomach, our gollacks clacking together. I tell him for one single solitary month, which has three days and three nights to run, I shall follow this him of one moment of his life grown huge galaxy wide, with every fiber of my being and never ever leave him.
Which turns him petulant, and makes him move his hips off my erection--whoa there, my wiggle worm, as he sits humpily beside me and sighs and grouses, fetchingly playing with his dick, saying he is the best of the lot, and anything more is just tradefair like he was a common trollop or something. I smile at this because it is so nostalgic and such a kick in the head and call me Sadie to have Joel, my Joel, jealous; me being the one he is jealous about. I touch his nipples and pluck at them and suck at them with my teethies, and each time I do, his penis throbs harder and thrusts upward further.
Lovesome reflex action, you agree? Here, I'll do it again. See? Don't you want to see my dick long enough to touch my belly button? he asks pettily. I will, Joel, I have and will.
Which makes him thrust himself out of our circular bed with all the electronic erotic fingers playing our bodies, our backs and fronts and our asses all the ruminating body operas and bone melodies, and he asks me to turn the harpsichord down a bit. But I tell him it is the city of love and that is impossible, for it is boon to ears, for no wench shall have thee, or the sea either. The sound of these tunes, music, love, want to give us ourselves and make us wine to each other for as long as I have and as long as you--
Joel now standing at the foot of the bed that has no foot of the bed. Joel tender. Joel with his little three incher up in arms, so to speak. Joel with his hips puckered, canted outward, resting on his left leg. Joel with his face pained though flushed with still-pleasure. Joel with his clock watch, how retro that, on his wrist.
The clock watch that keeps sliding down his bony wrist, and he nervously always pushing it back upward, only to have it slide again. Joel looking at me with his solicitous sleepy dreamy heavy lidded eyes. A boy made for bed. A boy made for sighs and whispers. A boy to wake to on a winter's morn of frost and crystalline.
A boy of tight economical flesh which is delicate as a maiden's memory after her first larskpur. A Joel who is a bony bunch of concentric nerve endings that give so much pleasure it is beyond wordsmiths to say. A nice surprise, great and entrancing, that nerve endings of lovers are joined in the two and sometimes four and ten and twenty and whatever combo any minds turn the comp controls for. And we all blend, re-blend, and make the feelings all our own somehow different, in the very chrysalis of the slightest turn of the heart.
He tries words he had tried before. Words that he hopes will make me keep him with me. Words that will make my hand stay the button that will push him away only to bring the Joelcircus around to another beat, to another stairstep in the lovely luscious lude cavalcade that I have fallen into, and luck is my name for I was frozen dead as an ice cube back in the 20th century, for I wooed and lost my Joel, only to awaken here in Lollipop Central where my Joel is my world and all his lost and hazing tears will not prevent my running to him. Not all the tears that he could cry could keep me away from him. No matter how he wishes it otherwise. My bounty of the butterfly boy.
How I wept so often over him, back then far gone. Away from him, and now the naked soul of the world stands on the thick makeawish magic blue pile carpeting so thick it covers his naked feet. To see a naked boy of Joel time, to see him crying, sets my dick to flying, and my heart to racing. For no one, not even that old vidstar of long long ago, Mark Lester himself could cry like Joel does, and that movie boy could cry like a sonofagun, got me so hard I thought I would damn near cream in the damn theater, I tell you that in confidence.
And Joel aweep--goodmakernightnurse--it makes me throb like a Celsius star that gets the giggles and can't stop itself, thrum thrum thrum. Cause the sexual giggles come to my dick and I race to him, bound from the bed and the fingers of electric that are meant to juice us to more and more professional talent and competency and sexual redundancy. Not that it matters the bed fingers can do it better than I could back when, or in otherwiseprobably now, but we take the little whogivesanap pills every morning, and I am the Bull of the Gods, by god. So who the hell cares about any old otherwise anyway?
I rush to my boy and I kneel to him and pull to me the fabric of the love cloth of my Joel; and he puts his arms so circular around me, as the harpsichord plays Call Me a Love Bunny, which has all the cherished words of Cherry Boy the number one wall screen fest star with luscium computer generated couplets and high octave trilling that plays for us now on cue. That he looks like Joel at any age preferred is not by accident. The real Joel unfortunately can't sing a note. Thus Cherry Boy was created.
The soft voice and tender words and music start the tears streaming out of me as well as Joel, and we hump together on the blue forest world of carpeting and he cries against me as I insert myself into him--arrow in bullseye, A-OK, Joel, with his ankles on my shoulders. The perfume of sexual musk sprayed into our bedroom at just the right moment by the perfect blend olfactory machines; and the intercourse lights that spray our world of love just perfect colors of beaten coin golden with a little blue green patina for that special je ne sais quai satyr touch to the proceedings.
The perfume smells now of forests hidden in young boy dreams when sleep descends like an evening thrush deep inside the umbrellas of his fondest secret sleepy boylust desires.
We are caught in our love quest, our sight on each other, floating senses mad between the stars; as I am inside the back portal of the ship that guided me through all those long on loan nights back when I was experiencing what I thought was reality and what I thought was narcissus unbound because my Joel then would give me of his laugh and a joke or two and some of his time, which was beautiful and dear and lusted after and deeply appreciated; but then, o but then, that lone drive away from him; and at homeless home, that lone hand dillyfliddle to the memory of him as I tried so impossibly to hold the so fleeting boy warmth of him in my barren soul.
But--now--STARS AND LIGHTS AND TRUMPETS SUPREME---NOW-- the fawn lad beneath me, calling my name and mine alone. My hand rubbing his stick peenie, rubbing his tiny nub balls and he feeling the all of my all in him and his smile is lambent and crescent, and the nulliwubs are singing tonight that I am able to make music in this boy that even the cherry boy illusion could not himself do if he was lucky enough to be me and no one is that lucky--did I just say that? What a glorious Joel honey pot I have fallen into.
Joel, can I ever stop saying that name?, thrusts little blanks into my hand and against my chest and he smiles up at me as though he is the one and only for all time Christmas gift birthday gift there will never be any need of replacing, (which he keeps trying to convince me of; he does not understand how right he is) and I rush myself into him as though I am crossing the Rubicon with the need to wed spiritual and romantic and realistic and religious and mythic and the sheer old human love button we all have to push from time to time in order to remind ourselves why we are on this planet.
For most happily this society knows why we are on this planet, as the plush blue rubs against us and carols us with its own music and the sky becomes the ceiling turned into a sunset on a mountain in a world and land far away. As the blue and red lights lush down on my Joel as I shoot my cum into him and his muscles dig my penis for as much as it has in it. And thanks to the little pills known as happydaysaturdaymorningtoyouinJoelland, it never runs out of mirth, liquid cream wise.
The carpeting is cresting in sea waves, and is massaging the both of us and reminding us of the forest imps we no longer have to chase after, not in these days, having caught them in tandem and totality, for real for real. As I push into the gloved feeling of Joel and the gloved feeling pressing down friendly like all round us; as Joel is lost deep in the forest grass of effluvia of mythic Grecian nights of long ago; and the music grows sad and melancholy for it knows we are to have to wait whole minutes before we are ready again, just momentarily dreaming on the sail boats of each other, drifting sleepy children clinging safely on.
And Joel says, please, sir, let me stay.
And I say, Joel, I love you far too much for that. And the marshmallow walls weep because Joel weeps and the fragrance pumped into the room is the scattering of stars when the eternities are through, done with, and are shone the door, for of course, Joel outshines them all. He puts his arms around me. Tightly.
He comes unto me. Joel puts himself on all fours in the glovy forest floor carpeting and he snuggles my dick which is hardening again and he kisses my balls with his boy mouth, as I play my hands over the all of his naked body. And candy canes shine in the hologram above us and we turn into each other's favorite sweets from which the wench boy of my dreams has become the rotogravure of my heart or somesuch like that, and we devour Christmas which is inside each one of us. Inside me. And the other me's of the world. And the vast other hims in hymn of Joel We Come Unto Our Christ Child At Long Last.
And we lay splayed and slayed and we touch the breath of one another and give it back with our kisses, and are drunk on each other's majesty. Joel 13 asks if Joel 12 was better or Joel 14 or 16. He said in that peachy little whistle boy voice, they get knobby at 16, they think they know so much, but at 10 they know so little, and are trifling boring (oh Joel you are wrong so wrong about that) but they think they know so much; oh I imagine 10 is just fine if you want to have your way and make him feel like a fool, but he has to go through all that business of learning how to suck your cock, whereas he has never done so before, but I'm broken in and know how indisputably.
I, Joel said, this Joel here and right now, as Cherry Boy music is replaced with tendersoftpenisintheevening sea and lighthouse chanties, have the shadow of your dick in my mouth all the time. I know the countours of it--intimately.
You don't have to have the fake or the replicas of the real me, Joel continued as I felt him up. As I lie like syrup around him and within him and draw him to me in the close quarters of my groin where my moneybags is ready to break loose from the cashier's window one more time. Oh how golden molten to lie with my lithe lad and to partake of his body warmth and know the snow cold bloweth outside our room, but our hearts are little warm lambent chapels we have donated to each other.
In which we have lit candles one for the other, and tangled our nerve endings together for the quiet and rush and the thrum and the vibrancy and the sheer orgasmic overthefalls we go, that my old young Joel from back in hinterland never experienced with anyone; not even one tenth of the sheer magic and mad sexual endowments we here experience every moment of our lives.
We do not live in quads of rooms in cheesy sci-fi rotten torn and tangled old buildings, we are not like eggs in an egg carton, all lonelywhitesuckedoutsouls, while the world is a hell rush of nightmare outside, with monster vampire teethed kagaroos with massive fists and a kick that would take you from here to Mars, and even more monstrous walking dinosaur whales towering over the ruins of the nuclear winter world, ready to find us and step on us who are living in such limited fragile peace with it, with the anvil of doom forever over our heads.
No, indeedy. For the world has become Eden Garden; and the boy with the apple and the beckoning tongue tip is Joel who can't seem to understand this is not about replicas, this is about the real thing, as he reaches now for my snake of knowledge, most boldly and unafraid, most lustily. Screw god, it's our turn now..
And as he snuggles his bare butt against my left leg, as I pry his hips open and he languorously rubs my balls harder and pulled tighter, I tell him of the trellis and the stepchildren theory and plan that had been worked out by all those brainy scientists who had set up so many worlds up so carefully and perfectly. I told him about certain dimensions we could each be put into, having our world exactly as we would like it.
And that it would not be the last of him, but he said it would, it would be the last of the December Joel. That when he was done, when January rolled into town; bleak was the world of his eyes because he would never be again. For, he thought, wrongly, he would be changed and nothing was worth that little death.
I told him the rules to play by are the rules to play by, and that in this, I was not the author, ( had seven plans I could pick from; I picked this one) and he agreed with the Aristotelian logic of that. Who after all could not? How fulfilling that was--to play by the rules, when they all worked in my favor. It was a refreshing thing and I understand now why rule makers are always so happy with themselves.
Joel moved sensuously up to my chest and straddled me as he inched his little incher brick hard tremble worm to my mouth, which of course I put inside and tickled with my tongue, because a little Joel incher has got to be somewhere after all, as I hugged his butt with my hands and he rode me like a cowboy as he torqued my hard on, and the scent in the room was of marmalade and brownies and hot coffee on a chill morning and blue berry muffins--for what reason I don't know, but it worked--and we ravaged ourselves silly.
As the snow pounded at the windows, longing to be happy thusly as were we.
It is you, Joel, I told him later on, thrusting round with him, on floor, on bed, on ceiling if we wished, as the night turned to day and the day to night and neither of us caring a whit about the tumble of any worlds at all, save the one of us, as the squeegees came our periodically and washed us and cleansed us and perfumed us and then the dryer blows came to dry our bodies and our hair, in this world where we needed only each other; eating and drinking anything but each other was not thought of.
They are all you, Joel, I told him, let us reason together. They are Joel at one minute after three a.m. in the year 1971, August 15. They are Joel at one minute past eleven in the morning on a crisp biting clear cut cold November eighth, 1973. They are Joel at nine and eight and ten and fifteen and sixteen and whatever age I desire. And every thing in between. As are all the other me's at every second of their lives all over this world, with all their own Joels, as they like him.
They are the Joel of tomorrow and of dreams and of hopes and of fears and of your night snoozes and mine. They are Joel run frame by frame, from all the different kaleidoscope visions from all the possibilities there are in this world and all the others.
They are the Joel of your first day at school. Joel in high school, growing all gangly and out of sorts with the world and everyone in it, save, of course, me. They are Joel of your seventh Christmas and Joel of your first orgasm and Joel of your first tears and Joel of your first disappointment and Joel the first time I met you and Joel the last time I said my sad beyond telling words of good-bye to you; but now, let's run the clock hands back and go in reverse. There are all the Joels of that. The number of numbers of Joel are not conceivable.
And the Joels of this universe and this dimension and all the innumerable others and I have all the time I need, all the time I want, and I don't have to worry about breaking my glasses cause who needs glasses in this wonderful brave new world?
And Joel of the moment and Joel of the hour and Joel of the nanosecond and Joel of the morrow and Joel as you wish you were and Joel as the adult Joel would see yourself, right or wrong, and every possibility was right, and the child Joel cocooned inside the adult Joel who gets the quicksilver urge and makes the child of you different than the adult of you can ever imagine having been, and that makes all the fancies and the facts split off and tumble and reattach and reboquet into any flowers there are.
And, I said, my long spiel tiring down, (for we have more interesting things to do), there is all of you, every combination, every inch of inch of an inch of Joel and his time and his being and his thoughts and his imagination, there is in all of this only the real Joel, this exceedingly complex and wondrous device of joy named Joel:
Joel of jamies, and Joel naked in the snow at his farm, falling into a snow angel; as well as Joel of the furtive looks and school yard crushes and angers and tantrums and testimonials and the nobility and the kindness and the love and the wisdom, and the clock watch, of course, and the boy who is naked with me and all the fun house mirrors and all the mirrors of you within mirrors of you within mirrors of you-- you are all a million times a billion and it will never end and you are a part of all of them. You feel it all, you are Joel eternity; we live and breathe Joelair, and walk in Joelworld, and sup on Joelwindsong forever and a day.
Joel, with a new satisfied, knowing smile, (well, wouldn't it make you smile if you were Joel?; bet it would) said, "why don't you let me be able to sing?"
I said can't you think of something more fun than that?
He sighed a moment. Grinned impishly, and told me in no uncertain terms, he wanted to fuck me now, so I turned over in the carpeting which had turned to white heavy snowfall illusion though still we were warm as toast, and I got up on my knees and elbows, as he pushed himself--
--ah god ah yes ah sweet boy pose and poesy and poetry--inside me, as he tumbled sex words coarse and profound, as he put his elfin hands to my back and my spine and began pushing into me and putting one hand beneath me rubbing my hard on, as the dillygroup jubilee sang I'm in Heaven and I'm Pushing the Buttons From Now On My Own Damn Self, and he shot into me his first cum, a silver Christmas bunting flourish inside me and it was Joel deflowering the world and the world deflowering Joel, and when we were through, I turned over to my little thrush boy and I held him, like happy Jell-O, and we were giggling clear mountain stream over pebbles and rocks.
Your first cum, Joel, I said, and with me; now how about that?
And Joel giggling, mouth to my tummy, making very rude sounds; then, later on, Joel asked, it never happened like this with my other--with the other Joels? And I said never ever, this was the red letter day for the true Joel, the real and one and only Joel, who was right this minute, officially, a comer, and Joel laughed and kissed the nape of my neck and my throat.
I shot jism, he shouted out in schoolboy wonder and maxim glee. Then he said I will always be with you, and I said the Joelbible, the only true Bible, not that any of us has any time or need to read these days, puts it like that exactly--The Joels You Will Have With You Always.
And we tumble back into bed and the fingers massage us and embolden us and the bed of circle and canopy of pink opens into a huge bright Lilly flower and we are the bees nectaring it from each other, and drinking from our dreams that are our nows and our nows that are our vows, and everybody, all the other Joels, all the other Barrys, in this world are doing their own versions of approximately the same thing right this second, though of course, all are vastly different in each tiniest aspect..
Don't you wish you were here? Where everybody is loving Joel at whatever age whatever time whatever angle whatever slant of sunlight and moonlight and day and night and wisdom of him; whatever little snowcoldfever of him that they want.
And Joel is my true friend, our true friend, who will never turn his back and walk away, for indeed the whole wide world is fucking and sucking Joel here and now and to the end of time, and the kingdom has come, and later on as I spurt on his chest, before the wimegee devices clean it up after we're through playing with it, my Joel says, isn't it lovely?
And I am most sure I agree. And as a special Christmas present birthday present for Joel and me, the December Joel gets to bunk with me and the January Joel, (surprise, surprise--I'll tell my December Joel soon and amaze him) and though that is slightly irregular and will be deliciously confusing, I've fixed it with the Big Cheese who runs these honeycombs of dimensions, and I can't wait....
...but right now I've got to go; a boy is coming, who will never leave, and we will never grow tired or sad or lonely or old or die. And the world is just fucking Joel silly. Good old world, good good good old world. Boy, it's great to be alive--didn't used to say that often back then long ago yesterday. Fuck long ago yesterday. Fuck reality of then too. Or better yet----
How about three or four Joels or more in loveland all at the same time? Would that be too many Joels? Bite your tongue. Or better yet, bite the Joels' everything. Mmmmmm, maybe I could call them the Flying Joels; name them after the ancient sky diving Kings, The Flying Elvi...Ha!
But enough of that.
Yes, Joel. I'm coming.
(Thus endeth the final story in my Joel canon. Or is it the beginning?)