"One Boy, Lonely"
By
Timothy Stillman
I'm out of soft drinks. I've limited smoking to one an hour or two. Therefore to keep my mind off both things, I am writing this. It's tough to write it. If you read it, it will explain itself best it can. So let's get on with it, Tim.
Picture what the title says--one boy, lonely. He was a very good child. Not particularly smart in most subjects, especially math of any kind. He was thin during school term, and heavier during summer for the obvious reasons. He never said curse words. He wasn't terribly fond of his mother. They had arguments a lot. He said his prayers, kneeling at his bedside every night.
And as he grew up and the hormones kicked in, he found sexual thoughts in his mind all the time. Not involving other persons, or even himself, just his tremendously exciting fun and good feeling from masturbation. He discovered it at nine by happenstance and could do it in seconds, sometimes four or five times on a summer day or weekends during school when he was alone.
He made a pact with himself sometime in early teen years when his brain and penis betrayed him and forced him to think of other persons in order to masturbate. It was an invasion of his private world and he resented it tremendously. The pact was this (he was, in the real world, though it seemed quite unreal to him, forced to be in the MYF, the cub scouts, then the boy scouts, to be in the band, to be in church, to wear those damned perfect attendance pins in his coat lapel there, enough of them over the years they looked like military medals, to play very badly in the little league, far out left fielder of the windmill arms when a ball accidentally came his way, as he ducked and closed his eyes tightly):
This was his private world-what he rushed home to do as soon as he could--no one would interfere in it. This was a fortress of solitude (he loved Superman) and he could imagine all he wanted, because he never was to do any sexual things with anyone else, this he believed totally, and for an awfully long time it was so.
When he was 15, his mother, who wanted him to be normal, but not to think of girls really very much at all though he was supposed to like them, but not think--you know--and be kind and decent, let him start buying Playboy. A longing dream of his fulfilled. He never bought it and hid it. Like he never bought "Peyton Place" or "Anatomy of a Murder" and hid them. He was not allowed. And he was a very good boy.
The first issue she gave him for his birthday. She had taped typing paper over the pictures saying things like "don't look at this for a year." With her being as she was, he wasn't sure whether to take that literally, but very soon, he did take the tape off and found himself staring at the very sexual face and neck and chest and arms of the great beauty Telly Savalas in a hot tub of sorts with somewhat bare-chested women--a pictorial for the movie Taras Bulba. Hot damn.
But the centerfold was nice, a naked woman with dark hair, shown standing up, from the back, turned so her left breast was partly exposed. It instantly made the boy hard. Before this, he had lived for the Christmas Wish Book, boy, so to speak, did he have wishes, and masturbated to the pictures of boys his age, and younger, and older, they posed quite suggestively in their briefs and underwear and pajamas. The fact that he got as turned on by a photo of a woman and many Playboy photos to follow did not confuse him in the least.
He liked boys. Boys on TV and in movies. Boys around him seemed like little adults and he didn't really like them at all. But he liked women too now. And he imagined in little time being a young boy being taught sex by a beautiful young woman, never his mother, god forbid, but an older sister; he being an only child, or more specifically his summer friend's sister, with her brother helping them do it right.
So that became more and more a sexual fantasy. Especially in a January issue, in which the centerfold, beautiful and impossible as ever, even to herself, was also in photographs of the page you had to turn down to get her whole picture. One of those photos was a black and white one of her with her young brother having a snowball fight in I think a park in Chicago. That boy turned this lonely boy on, but not nearly as much as his face being mere inches from his sister's naked breasts in her centerfold. The peeper had found nirvana.
So at this point, we have a boy---ok, me--who in his teen years imagining these things. Soon, Dan Greenburg's novel "Philly" came out in Bantam paperback. It was about a boy less than my age then whom the maid introduced into sex. Greenburg is a fine writer. The novel was one of suspense. And excellent as always. So that was a huge turn on for me, though re-reading it recently, and it has indeed stood the test of time, the sexuality of it was very tamely written, but it worked for me back then.
As did "The Hand-Reared Boy" by science fiction writer, "Brian W. Aldiss" which was published by Signet in the time I had fallen in love. Aldiss' Horatio Stubbs has sex with everybody, brother, brother's girl friend, boys, girls, teachers, older girls, older boy, and that wonderful dorm daisy chain where nobody gets left out, a "sexual Maginot Line, from his child years to his adult years. At a boarding school, he attends, toward the last of the novel, he has sex with a fragile, lonely woman, who, he learn, can only can have sex with boys. Horatio finds sadness for her, brokenness as the book ends in melancholy. The book kept me going for years. As did "The Trembling of a Leaf" (nephew with aunt) by John Colleton, published by Pocket Books, and of course "The Harrad Experiment" by Robert H. Rimmer, in spite of the arrogant off-putting writing that came to the surface all the way in his sequel and his next books.
But Harrad College was hot. One of Bantam's biggest sellers, with one of those classic front cover art they did then. I wrote a Harrad High School novella that had some persons writing me and suggesting directions for the next chapter. There was only going to be one story, but people I never knew helped me build from it and widen it. I wrote it as me in my late teens and earlier on would have written it, the feel of it back then, what I had so desperately wanted to read, and somehow it worked. Forgive me, Mr. Rimmer.
There were and are films about the topic of young boy/older woman also of course, but this is not meant to go too far in that direction. Though Mark Lester is truly hot in his young boy/older woman scenes in "What The Peeper Saw," (he has an affair with his father's second wife, having dispatched the first,) and in an awful movie, "Redneck," as well as his naked scenes with his girl friend, with the camera a bit too far away, but in the end it pays off (sorry, need a smoke, I'm getting silly) "Love Under the Elms."
Here's my reasoning for all of this. Of course, I knew from an early age, having sex with boy was wrong, even in fantasizing. Therefore my attraction to older women, which Playboy made me realize (and yes, I bought it for the stories, non-fiction and interviews as well--in those days, it was the ultimate in top rate writing; sadly these days it is in, I feel, its nadir.) The Christmas and January issues back then were stuffed full with work by some of the best writers there were and still are.
So to belay my guilt, and to stick to my fantasy world being my own with no imposition allowed, I would imagine teaching Jimmy or the boy across the street, how to masturbate to the Playboy pictures. I was, in effect, trying to be good. And this was what I came up with it. I didn't plan it or think about it really. I had no ulterior motive. I was a lonely child and teen and adult. I fell in love and miss him to this very day.
I've apologized for things all my life. I am sick of it. I see very few persons of high moral values apologize when their hypocrisy is revealed. I felt comfortable in that fantasy, then, but it's drawing to a close. So I write this, giving it away. As I've always had to give things away. Enough people have told me it's my mother I fantasized about then and now, so, though not true, they've managed to kill my true fantasies--I never fantasized about my mother, and it makes me angry that persons say it this without knowing much about me at all, and about her they know nothing at all.
Now I will spell check with my bad eyes, then send this in for possible posting, and have a smoke while I go to the quick food store and get some soft drink. Take care, everybody, Tim.