"Naked Jungle Boy"
by
Timothy Stillman
In the summer sky blue of the attic of my childhood magical mind:
Ran through the veldts. Dodging eight foot pythons with curled up bodies and heads rising on their thick penis standing necks. With their bejeweled eyes glistening with hatred and venom. Their pointed tongues sticking their yellow Y designs out of their mouths gaped wide and full of red flame flannel coloring and felt texture. Me, naked. Age 10. Strong with a curvy back and a stomach that was my own little feather mattress. My penis hard and strong. A good three inches. My balls moist wet little nubbin sacks. My arms pushing through the vast net nest of pythons. Screeching them and strangling them and knocking their heads asunder. Pressing their triangular shaped faces into those of squashed demon countenances dead and destroyed. Killed and bloodied and skeletal structure like stones of a church building crumbled inside their tight sleep skin, Notre Dame stones falling inside them, caught in the clutch of their throats. The stones fallen in angles. Broken to dust, many of them. Pythons like toy snakes with their coiled springs inside, tossed and mashed and smashed and disintegrated. Of me, Smersh would have been proud.
Ran, I did, age ten, body of bones, chest of ribs, hands that knew how to hold out to enemies the knife I carried in my make believe belt, the only thing I wore. And the African sun stretching out its yellow raw hurting hide to me and wrapping me in wool, like I was sick in bed of a Christmas Eve snowy cold blow night, but I in fever, covered with blankets in my cold room in my cold parent's house, and shivering in sickly heat. Laced with fevers of nightmares only the sun could have in the daytime. Yawns and yawls of cats stretched out in winter outside of me. Like broken toy monkeys trying to beat drums, with arms that were winding down, going away, arms that did not know how to hold or to beat the little sticks on their taut drum hearts. All of me tight and constricted. And successful and brave and bold and alone. And luxuriating in the aloneness. In the feel of my body with its tight crosses of muscles. Its laces of fevers that were thrown off my heat sweat like lances straight up at the sun. Darting it. Slashing it with my invisible Boy wings.
Legs pounding as I ran through the thick high huge green jungle grass. The plains ahead of me and beyond me and me beyond myself. With blue mountains off in the distance. Lost in lacy grape colored plumes of cold and snow way up there at the top of the world. Out of the grip of the primordial ooze in which I had set myself down. Good to run naked. Good to run through the fields of memories of bullies that in my attic antic mind I dispatched as easily as though pots of python stews back there good for eating and nothing more by, say, wildebeests and lions and tigers who had had enough feinting with them. For who I feinted. For who I stretched my naked body that had tight firm little melon half buttocks. My body that was berry brown and striking and elusive and shared with the eager African sun and the natives to the tribe of my land that would be full of jealous domains and jungle men who caught the hasp at the clasp of the day and closed the day into night so they could toss and turn on the savannas and the great chasms of sex and seas that were inside the bodies in such places, as well. And would wish me at them. Would wish the hands and the hot pride lion body boy who I was. Who would be actually teenagers--for to me then, the seemed men-- and who would know the stories of the wild child. The child who drank from streams with the shaggy wolves. Who was taken in by these wild beasts of nobility into caves and homes and companionship and loved and cared for, like Romulous and Remus, when no one needed them one tiny bit.
Catch the curve of the world as I toss it over my head to boys watching in all that frond latticed and hot blind sunshine land. Catch the trees of the jungle up ahead in the turgid heat. Watching me and catching eyes like slivers of meat thrown to me that I might see them and bite the bait and thus take pity on those lonely boys of the sand who must crawl round naked all day and all night in order to pretend that they will one day lucky them swim in the blue that is in my eyes and no where else. Watch them dazzle as I toss the curving horizon, as I speak a name older than time. A name that brought time somehow into being. Still and hurt and on the hunt and the animals beneath my skin as I ran faster than a gazelle to the forest/jungle standing in front of me. My deep green stained wool wood forest that was jungle and was trees of huge and brown skin wrinkled and old like the armor of an elephant's hide. As it scoops me up like Mother Earth would do and compresses me into its jungly interior as though I am fucking it. Entering it. Dwelling in my jungle friend and its feeling me larger than I am. The screen of time vanished and the limitations of one boy forever mangled as those python corpses back there. As I rush through little umbrella patches of light the huge green mossed leaves let through on sufferance and point of rendition of who gets to be god where and when and for how long.
The darkness takes me. Still. Stygian tangly tunnel in which I lie myself. Cool and cold against me. Cords of vines brush at my leg. Huge heavy furred tarantulas swing down on silver stranded impossibilities and dance at my face. Sticking their thick hairy legs out at me. Caressing me like a boy's fingers. Like love come to dance in flame heat in the massively oppressive still stark honey laced air that makes every breath a challenge, to any mortal, which I as this boy am not. But here the vines and there the tap dance tarantulas, tickling my nose and eye lashes and mouth, making me laugh. Here little secrets in convex and conveying shadows that shade down to a blackness, a terrible dimension rending emptiness, into which you could stuff at tree root angles- these thick gnarled things- the entirety of space and lonely turn adult nights in the darkest room of three a.m. imaginable, and still have room for a few dark other universes yet that God still hadn't thought of. And the vines darken green and are filled with colors of that and brown. With odors of richness, and fecundity. As though the ground trying to trip me up with rips and rows of bad growth sparse grass, darted with rocks and holes, but not tripping me, instead, springing me forward secure and sure, and right next door to the biggest elephant tree legs in the world such a vast amount of grass and blades so tall and tough and sharp and cutting that anyone with more delicate skin would have been lacerated by now. For a jungle is a world of millions of razors with multi times that millions of cuts that only the secret warm huge hearts of jungle boys can only know for sure the traversing of. And we are not and never will be guilty of telling.
I glory in my straining little penis. I glory in the brownness of it. I glory in the sweep of it as it stands up against my belly so tight and so hard that the largest of giant hands could never hit it and hurt it any. It is made of bone as tough and as mighty as the strongest ivory elephant tusk. It can also stick straight out, and proceed me wherever I go. It is the flag of me that I carry forth on my quest in my secret worlds, in my imagination, me, this quiet good boy who has never missed a day of Sunday School or Sunday church in his life. This boy who is hard and deliberate. Who calculates herein and knows the score. Who knows which are the beasts in their dark triangular obsidian shadows that look at him, who knows when the hyena hidden will laugh, before it does, and who knows which glare, which deadly eyes mean danger and bloody combat. Who has his knife ready at any moment in his invisible Wonder Woman lasso belt. Who has tasted blood of the enemy not one of whom has tasted this boy's blood.
This hot boy this boy who runs at a tilt. Who runs with assurance over clots and clumps of grass and curving tree knuckles and detritus of fallen decaying animal corpses. Who does fall never. Who is so young and so free and so alive sexually and emotionally and in fear never. Who needs the world not to surround him to study it. Who needs only his penis. Only his piece to touch and hold out to the whole of the jungle and say here I am. I am fucking the jungle. I am fucking Tarzan land and Boy land. I can come tomorrow and when I do it will wash the oceans away with my seed. With my great carnal wrath and my great carnal passion. This boy of concentric circles and sweat eyes beaded all over him to make him luscious and tasty. This boy whose body is like the ready to be plucked virgin fresh and new string of a violin that is being played by a master in a stunning concerto in a hall as immense of wood panels and filled with echoes of awe as is this whole continent which the boy calls home. In its heat and its immensity and its world that stretches from one fat full tree to the next and the little clearings inside that small traverse, but which is opal chained for always and goes on to the last moment of time tides it over, for then it will only be beginning in the first second of its adventure.
This boy of legs that stop for a moment. Of a chest that heaves in and out. Of a face that is pure and untouched and eager and needing and needy as is the body. A face delicate and blonde hair haloed. A face that is shaped like a cat's face. Shy mouth. Sly blue pools of eyes. A nose that is thin and small and sucks in air through its dainty nostrils. A face that knows the sound of cruelty and hardness that hides under a fake shallow gentility and knows it full of such evil smash underneath the rotten silk manners. As the boy jerks himself off. As the boy feels his buttocks with one hand. As he lays the jungle open and it clings to him. It relishes him. It moves with him in his sexual lusty pronging His great boy depravity and he pushes himself into the day around him and into the pieces of night in the jungle where he is undisputed king and ruler and for always monarch. As a butterfly lands on his left shoulder. His thin and glass sanded shoulders that push and rush and his body is melting love glowing lava, as the yellow butterfly plants a butterfly kiss on the side of the boy's peach fuzz cheek and nestles a moment in his long blonde thick shoulder length hair again, before the butterfly stretches its cathedral wings of stained glass images that would leave church moths' mouths watering and takes flight again in a melody of air and the climbing up of it that only it can hear.
The boy's mouth molds all sorts of expressions on it and in his face. It is a mouth that can be cuttingly kind. It can say exactly the right things at exactly the right time that are simply the perfect things to say and no one could tell anyone different. A mouth that can worry a piece of savanna grass and consider the world and everything in it as the boy lies at times on his stomach in the jungle, hearing always the sounds of the birds and the animals and the jungle and the very earth drawing breath, being alive and the boy being the prime reason for that aliveness, as he plays with his penis and rubs it against the friendly rubbery elephant grass, as he watches, with his mouth curled up slightly in study and thought and wonder and imagination, a colony of soldier ants who do not fire their weapons into him but walk by at a safe distance with military disdain and military respect and military bravado.
This boy who stops himself before coming dry and empty but coming nonetheless, with feeling and merit and of worth. He feels the building of his body. He feels the warm waves of sexual pleasure in his abdomen and in his groin. His balls are tight sacs now. His hips are little brown human moons in which the jungle hides its hands as it rides the boy like a colt and embraces deep and ember and fire eyes into him wanting to be him but knowing it never will be. In the spang of his longing. In the need to do this with someone else. In the need to be that dream of fucking. To be inside. To be his penis. In totality. To feel nothing but the dick's nerve endings all over him. To come and come without stopping. To be that wondrous mindless pall, that grand opening of the jungle flowers deep inside him that will never close their vast wise petals of flesh again but only continue flowering outward. As he lets go of himself but his self can never let go of him. He is his own man eating snap dragon plant. And ascends with his strong muscled legs from the floor of the jungle to easily and craftily and knowingly entangle his smart trusting little boy hands tight grasping on his first vine of the morning as the clock of the skies touch toward noon in some places of the world.
But here there is only a boy of grace and stealth hanging onto a great steel viable rubber vine that will unerringly take him to the next vine and the one after that, and he is sex in the air, he is tumble boy who has his buttocks and his penis and his hairless crotch facing to the world. The jungle still moves as though his penis is inside it. Hard and with a spear in its hole, this jungle world with its wet walls and its hot dryness on the top of everything the sun can lie down on the leaves. But not as hot as the boy. Not as excited and thrusting as the forest jungle. All of it built on the bright blue water the boy has brought. All of it angled up as he swings through the sexual tits of the vines that reminds him of the dugs he sucked on the wolves who took him in and sheltered him for he was such a gentle tender heartbreakingly vulnerable young boy who came, simply, from no one and no where at all. The ultimate orphan. All of him now on the vines, swinging in the sensuality of carnal relations. All this boy feels is himself, for he has never felt another boy or girl or human being of any kind.
Save in his imagination. And in his imagination he swings. He is a brown luscious berry off the bush before Adam and Eve arrived, as he ran away from their and their god's idiotic rules and regulations. He is so filled with sweaty cock thoughts as he bowls through the heat fry of air from vine to vine, all curved semi circles, as though they are tremendous tenacious huge jungle jump ropes that boys are holding at either end, as they watch this jungle boy romp above and float below and dance on the air like sunshine gone brown and sleek and full of fish qualities, gyrations in mid air with no need of ground to land on, sweet deprivations of their eyes as his hands cover his boyhood--wouldn't you like to see?, wouldn't you give everything just for a peek?-- as he slings himself slowly sensuously into the air on his network of vines, as though it is a tried and true acrobat partner who will never let him down, never betray him, never forget him, for he knew sure then and always people in the so called vaunted real world were totally incapable of doing anything at all but those three things on his once and future check list that they devised, not him. But that was the future. The fuck with them for right now.
Now was a boy who was sheer sensual steam. Now was a boy that the older teenage boys holding the vines lusted after and rubbed their bigger and oh so singular and lonely dicks for. He knew that the boys held the vines with one hand and stroked themselves with the other. The boys naked of sand and desert and needing the cold blessful blue boisterous seas of the jungle boys eyes to dive into. To sink into. In all that depth. And to feel the cold around them and to feel the merry go round taunts grow in their bodies and to make themselves available at the beck and call, these little sea monster suddenly enough, of this boy who would be their whole wide world and they would want it that way forever after. And the boy swung in the sunlight spearing glints allowed through the trees branches and leaves and embrace. It felt as though the whole jungle world was embracing him. Close and hot and meeting his need with its own. It felt as though all of the Africa he knew from the movies and the books had held him tightly all his life and had given him diamonds for balls and red jewels for tears and strong jungle bones that would never fail him or grow him or tire him or disintegrate on him like they did on so blessed so superior real humans.
Oh, make love to me sky threaded with the bolt cloth of blue and the white needle thread of clouds. Oh, let me play tiger cub with you ground of night and day and feral and lonesome and animals that crawl and that run fast and hard, cubs and fawns and little piglets, midges and ants and butterflies and blue birds of gray and green feathers as well, in the air way up there. Feel my young boy body. Feel me feeling you back. Let me, my jungle, put my legs around you and you will drive your huge squirming penis into my dry hot tiny asshole. Let me be fucked by you as you've let me fuck you. Let me know what it is like to be filled with the jungle unity of vines. Let me know the correlation of different textures of grass and ground and dirt and leaves and air and microbes and bacteria. Let me feel the all of you, the constant changing guards of you. Let those guards that seem to distant even close up fold over me and protect me and keep me safe, for even jungle boys need to know they are safe, because if they are that, then it must mean they are wanted by someone somewhere too. Let the plants that eat insects--Let the lemurs and the white rhino and the white buffalo and the piano keys of striped tigers in the night burning bright--Let all of that inside me. Let me fill with the vastness of it. Let it into me and let it fulfill me. Let the vines I am swinging on become your arms. Let the different colors and tastes and feels and designs and forms and shadows and games and sheer wildness of being and all the different vastly different things that make it all up--let it all be one and let that one make love to me.
Let him hold me and let me not want anymore. Let the arms of jungle vines caress and tenderly hold and move the mouth of the sun into your mouth as you kiss my jungle boy body. As you hunger with your mouth and your hands and your cock hard against me. For I shall swim crock infested waters for you and I shall battle hoards of killer baboons if it will land me in your arms and the land lock of those arms and the spittle of snakes could be the spittle of your tender mouth as you kiss me and hold me, but not at an adders distance as I expect this "real" life to let me do and that only. Watch the dancing jungle boy. Preen with him. BE with him.
Watch the jungle lover of mine lurch and sway coyly and get lost in vast sexual digestions that will contain for it and for the naked sand boys who crawl around in that vast desert where there will never be a sea on the horizon, save for me, and tell them to stop the vines from swaying and let me fall in their sweet hard molded perfectly impalement. For I shall give them the jungles and the steep mountains I rush up with hard breath to the cold rooms at the top, coming out of the maze of my own personal amusement park, at the end of my journey through my Saturday morning land when the sun is just beginning to curl its yellow red outlandish tongue around the day just outside the lip of my windows round my bed on three sides. I shall give them me. I shall will you to take my virginity you boys and I shall will you to teach me everything I never knew and then a few things more.
As the jungle boy, having made sure his bedroom door is locked, struggles in the thick growths inside himself. As he envelops the vines and the trees and the cockatoos on tree branches, these birds with their white comb plumes and their white puffy feathery bodies with their calls that are winsome and sad, as he deposits them inward and keeps them somewhere near the isle of never to be forgotten memory; all these things that were a part of his boyhood as he strokes his little penis on his little weak body that wears glasses on its eyes so he can see as well as possible his penis being jerked off and he comes and comes with nothing shooting from his penis but little invisible dreams he dares tell no one.
And there is the sound of the jungle exploding in him and around him and beside him and he lunges his groin and sticks his stomach out and his ass in and he is naked and sprung on the bed. His python silently moaning as best it can with its gear shaft whose main function is to break down, to crumble the stones of Notre Dame inside it, and to shrink and all but vanish, then to save up, grow stronger, and then to do it all over again.
On Saturday mornings. Early. Before the rest of the house is awake. When he was ten and was nothing and no one at all. And this deft play of his. A refreshing plunge into primordial jungle masturbation tapestry that this good little boy who never curses, never smokes, never even thinks about tasting beer sometimes, lives for and devotes his whole life to. Who ever knew? Who ever cared? No one, of course. It's why he became a jungle boy. He had to survive the best he could. Doesn't everyone?
So okay, how do you jack off, then?
the end