"Jacking Off With Tawny Boy"
by
Barry Eysman
Tawny boy, color of a lion cub, jacking away in the warm autumn woods. Tawny boy naked and supple with his small hand on his little hard on pencil point, stroking, feeling good. There in his splendor, there in the myth that was himself. Lying on his side on the gold brown leaves, his legs together, his penis and sac tight. The little V of him. The eyes of his closed and opened autumn boy face. Soft in sighing. Ripples in his flat tummy with still some baby fat left on it, just enough and not one bit more. Tawny boy with his hips pulled inward hard and the fabric of him like a drawstring let open and fallen sparrows from it of all the sexuality that he was beginning to inherit, at age nine, now his, now the flame of him that was long black hair and a pixie nose and just the perfect alignment of freckles across the bridge of it.
Tawny lived to jack off. He thought of nothing else day and night. He was wood hard all the time under his jeans and his Underroos and his world that was secret and of magic light. The moans he made this afternoon, Saturday free and boy careless with the things that hung off him and the things that went on the inside of his mind and heart, and he loved his penis. He took Polaroid's of it. He could look at it in the mirror for hours on end. He was always close to cuming. Always close to the edge of rites of passage that was this feminine boy with the cuddly arms and the infectious giggle, and the body of Tawny was an arrow, was straight to the heart of the first person to look at him and never to look away again. Glisten the glans. And grip the little nut balls. And place his hand on his little roseate tits and pinch the hardness of them. Feel all of the boy. The hairlessness of his body. The grin/grimace on his face. The studious seriousness of a boy jacking off. Like no boy before or since could do it better.
And in the trees there were the rustles of the autumn creatures and in the sky was the aroma of wood smoke. Tawny with his heart shaped hips and his penis that went up so far and no further, tough little hickory twig, touch it and feel the lamentations of all the deepest boy dreams in it. To lie then ease over on his back and feel the deliciousness of the warm ground against his long hair and nape of neck, against his spine and hips and legs and to open his mouth and to emit the silence of golden and sheer pleasure for the sake of itself and nothing more need be accomplished than the click inside of the boy and the warm wash feeling in his abdomen and his groin little bird soft and little bird hard. All the feeling caught like a Christmas present ahead of time, beribboned and gift wrapped in his fragile feral chest with the ribs that were the cages that would one day capture many hearts to keep his company.
Naked little boy and his eyes opened now and his mouth a perfect O, as he opens his legs and lets the whole world the whole wide little woods see him like this. See him splendid and brave and tiny fingers that tapped on his penis that was so hard it could never go soft again, and his balls throbbed and held tight to the bones of him, and his heart beat hard and his perspiration gave him a sheen of redoubtable perfume. As he humped himself and raised his body off the ground. As he gave himself with his left hand to the dreams that he extolled around him in his solitary celebration of self.
Pink body and pink fingers and pink toes that curled that dug into the loamy ground. That centered him in the utopia of sexuality that was an aura around him and he was so caught in a rapture that was dear and profound and sweet beyond words, thus if he could have sucked himself he would have, if he could have placed his penis in his hole he would have done so. His body frequent fire as he became lost in paroxysms of the rush, of the fever that was a most kind sickness, as his penis turned warmer and warmer as though a torque in it had been adjusted higher and it seemed a tiny bit taller than it had last week or yesterday. Tawny thinking of the boys and the girls who would want him. As he wanted them so much. As he wanted to teach them the secrets of his body, wafer thin, and his ears shaped like those of elves, his hair matted now with perspiration, his right hand's fingers playing with his tits and then making a bridge of his torso and feeling the way his abdomen ducked downward a bit, just a bit, to his groin, and his hard on that was the stuff of dreams. The stuff of Tawny who would like to cuddle by winter fires.
Who would like to undress the second most beautiful boy in the world, for there was no doubt he, Tawny, was the most beautiful, this shy bashful child who could not hold another's gaze for even a moment without turning away without turning crimson. Tawny and his need to be bare and his need to see the still blue sky above him though night was beginning to set in. This boy who anointed school restrooms stalls with quick daring j/0 with warfare just outside the cubicle, and the church he was forced to attend, who would lie at night with no one around, on the sacristy and would unzip his jeans and pull out his penis and jack off in God's house, thankful that such built in pleasure had been made in Tawny. See the boy and see the great heart of him, see the lion in him, stenciled around his big brown eyes with the lashes black and fine and long making his eyes seem like those of a spring fawn.
How he reached to himself and tickled the ridge of flesh below his balls. How he liked to say the sex words to himself. How he liked to say fuck and all combinations of it because it was told to him such words were nasty, and the way they used them, they were. But not the way he used them. The way they used each other was nasty too, but Tawny would never use anyone, for he was a boy who loved to give and loved to hold, if there would ever be anyone but mom to hold. If there would ever be for him anyone to truly and sensuously love. One day.
A field of boy complete, with thin face and a mouth that was a little wreath, a boy who was so delicately composed, it seemed he had been created by a deft water colorist, his mouth, his sigh, his body that hurled itself now with abandon, his nakedness in the woods, his whole fabric said take me now, take me and make me yours please anyone who wants for I am starved for affection, starved for love, and Tawny graceful and in the throes, Tawny in the song that was only himself, and his fingers now, those of both hands as he lay his body down again, reached for his groin, tickled it, tickled his cock, as he raised his head to look at it, and it was pink as a ladyfinger, it was like a sweet love bullet of boy, it was the only gun he aimed to fire off again and again for all his days not to bring death, but to bring life, for that only made perfect sense to him.
As now he stroked the sides of his face. As he licked his fingers and stuck one in his mouth and sucked on it. Which made his tight penis even tighter, even more caught up in the sexual soaping that he felt inside himself, even though he was not able to shoot, he still felt the far reaches of joy and fulfillment inside him, like candles lit into his dark corridors, for he did have some, but mostly he was a boy made to love to be loved to fuck to be fucked to suck to be sucked, though he had no experience, though what he heard other boys and some of the girls say put him off tremendously, still he needed the spigot of himself, still he revered himself at the same time he knew he was nothing and no one at all, the dichotomy not making itself odd to him, just one of the acceptances of his life.
The boy watched his penis and amazed himself by its jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean, as he wished he was dressed in multi-colored silk scarves, so he could dance his dreams and take the scarves off slowly, one at a time, to the oohs and ahs of everyone watching him, and seeking his fingers and seeking his hands that he kissed and caressed with his mouth and tongue delighting in the wetness he left on them, as he kissed his left shoulder, as he pulled now on his penis till it tingled, till it almost but not quite hurt, and Tawny wished for some boy or girl, though preferably boy, they could show the girls a thing or two, couldn't they?, Tawny thought in his manufactured security and knowledge without rue to come in the ashes of later days unknown, how he would love to hold another boy's hardness against his own. How he would love to kneel naked with another boy, Joel perhaps, and they would be kissing and holding tightly and their penises would be hard and touch tips together, oh god the sweetness the taunting of just the thought, as Tawny performed for no one at all, in a performance that was far more than just an act, no stage show for him.
He dug his heels into the ground, heard leaves crunch under them, wished he had someone to suck his toes and tell him they looked like little radishes, wished he had someone to kiss his ankles and on up to his legs and nestle further to the thighs, then the golden retriever of a boy, for Tawny favored golden boys, to tickle Tawny's balls with his tongue, to take one of them and almost put it in his mouth and then backing away, then to blow on Tawny's erect dick, then to push away from him, to be the sea coming to Tawny in a long desert season, but a fickle sea, a teasing one, a tormenting one, for just a little more, then home was given him, because then it made sailing into the sea and its warmth and comfort and salvation even more beautiful. As Tawny rubbed as Tawny felt electric arc lights ache in him and bite him as he bit his right shoulder now, as he wanted to draw blood and salt, as he wanted to be the school tramp, as he wanted to be the little fairy boy that everybody called him because they wanted him, and if they laughed at him before him and behind his back that was because they were jealous, that he would walk like a girl, that he had the face of a girl, and the willow body of one everywhere except where it counted.
He was a boy of graceful movements and kittenish gestures, and he never stayed still for long, was always fidgeting in class or at home doing his homework or at church, because there was a life to be lived, a world to be celebrated, a world to be introduced to the wonders of Tawny Boy who imagined bicycle spokes in wheels of himself as he rode his boy bike to the limits climbing up the hill of sexuality, climbing up the hill and at the top to climax supreme, as his muscles in his legs and groin and stomach tightened, as he lay down in his do with me what you will reposing, and he stroked the sides of his thighs inside and out, he tickled his innie belly button, he reveled in how beautiful he felt, how it seemed as if he was the only light still on and vibrant burning in a world that seemed so terribly dark all around him, as he bucked and as he opened his mouth and tiny sighed and pretended that he was sucking Joel's cock, Joel amazed by Tawny Boy and creaming in his mouth almost immediately, as Tawny now sucked that invisible cock on that invisible boy as the clouds in the sky took on the gradual color of fire and night was beginning to take away the day, but there was Tawny rubbing his penis and miming sucking the other boy, Tawny body jack knifed, and legions of little soldiers in his tummy marching to the great volcano bursting almost soon almost now.
Other boys might like dinosaurs, especially T Rexes, which everybody persisted in calling them, like they were close personal friends of the giant behemoths or something, other boys might like wearing baggy jeans and rap music and hanging around the video arcade in the mall, other boys might like girls and go after them and find out who could conquer whom first, and all of that was fine and good, but Tawny who always wore tight clothes, as tight as mom would allow, and who could display his basket with his hands just in his pockets and the molding of his hard on through his jeans was surely just an accident from a little winsome boy who was scared of his own shadow at the same time scared that shadow would leave him and where would he be then, without its need of himself to shade it? But Tawny was close to spurting now spurtless. Tawny was of the need of Joel beneath him and sticking his little carrot in Tawny's bottom, how great that would feel, to have a boy in him at the same time coming as Tawny did. Tawny of mirrors and phony conversations, Tawny a boy alone, laughter maker, insult devisor and the insults always were on him. Kids and adults said things to him, all those nasty cruel things like they had the right to, like God had given them special permission, and perhaps, just perhaps He had.
But Tawny count down from ten, as he spread his legs and shouted out to the whole wide world that would never hear, eat me, stick your tongue up me and devour me, suck my dick almost out of its light socket, bang my balls with your butt and let me know what it is like to come finally in your magic undersea kingdom, as Tawny rode the waves of sex, pure boy sex, pure sex that had nothing to do with anything other than the sheer brave incalculable tormenting willful selfish burning aching screaming mad desire to do to his body what everyone else did to him--fuck himself with his hand, not fuck him over like they did, and to find that interior land where the hills are the naked boys who would rise from their landscape and chase Tawny across the plains and the seas and the veldts and the craters of the moon if need be, for Tawny would be needed one day. Would be more than a boy with hair to his shoulders and a little beyond, who liked to flick his hair to the side, to toss it back with a slight movement of his head, in a certain way when he cocked his head to listen to teacher and preacher or mom, how in love with that little intimate gesture he was, and Tawny would adjust a boy's arms around his own shoulders and they would lie down in the green grass and they would kiss passionately, open mouthed, tonguing, lovingly. They would eat each other alive. They would sup and devour and dwell and explore every secret garden and hiding place.
No more would Tawny have to try to walk like the other boys, no more would he have to hear their mean words, no more would he have to hide in himself the very real ability of being able to fly, for Tawny was solely and totally himself here in his sex spot, here in the place he ran to every day after school and hid out on Saturdays, until it got too cold to be here, and then he would have to take his pleasures in his bedroom, as he imagined fucking Joel against Tawny's desk, the window blinds open, the world to see and to amaze itself with Tawny's deep and seductive passion, passion Tawny had to hide when he was around others, boys and some of the girls he would like to walk glide sail up to in the school hallway between classes and put his arms so tenderly and sincerely and care free around their necks and kiss their lips and tell them that he loved them, and what in the world would ever be wrong with that? But he had to learn to walk flat footed, he had to learn to keep his eyes to the floor, he had to learn to try to deepen his cartoony voice a little, as best he could, he had to learn not to want to touch people in passing because everything in him wanted to do so, he had to learn not to smile certain ways, not to smile at all really, he had to learn not to be so terribly wounded when boys and girls and teachers turned to the side and did not look at him when he walked by.
But now Tawny flamed the feathers that were stroking in his groin, now his hands rubbed his abdomen and squeezed his tiny walnuts, now he stoked his penis like a hot log in a fire beside which he and Joel and Mylene too, if you want to know the full truth about it, would sip hot cider and sing old campfire songs, and the night would be a good place to be with friends keeping watch over him while he slept and then his returning the favor to them. Then....the rush. Then...the over the water falls it comes. Then....the roses in him bursting and singing in song...in tempo...in tandem...as his body bucked...as he squeezed his penis...as the orgasms came...one...then another...then another...he bet he was the only boy in the world who had more than one orgasm at a time, funny sounding word, silly sounding word, orgasm, but was there ever to be a feeling more comforting, more exciting, more scintillating? As his body dish rag limp fell. The marionette with its strings cut. As he experienced the waves inside, the deep crimson monster waves that seemed to flow higher and higher, till their white caps almost broke on his face, and came closer and closer each time to drowning him for good and all.
He lay in bliss. He lay whispering Joel. He lay in secret solitary love. His coral pink cock in his pink hands, cock still almost hard, his balls tingling like his teeth did when he brushed with sparkly toothpaste. He was a boy in rejoicing. He was a boy giving birth to himself and to all the time there could ever be to find and to know and to fall in love and to be fallen in love with, for he was a most romantic boy, a boy who believed in feelings and honesty when it didn't hurt, when it felt good, and as the night came on, Tawny Boy drifted to sleep for a time, and the wood kept watch over him. In time, he woke, put on his clothes that had been in a pile of unneeded unwanted hated civilization beside him, and he walked home in the dark, but with the moon to keep him company, the tickle in his penis still playing tag with him, keeping him unalone, and in his balls and abdomen too, the little hideaways no one else knew about, or cared to know about, but the moon that smiled down on the boy and pronounced him good and true and worthy and a most remarkable boy indeed.
the end