"Son of the Morning"
by
Timothy Stillman
Golden Alton lay on his spring sun morning golden bed, and this was Day the First. A splinter thin boy, who slept naked in the warmth of perfection and the day that was an aura that blessed his tender hair and made him immortal and young forever more. Alton was Atom and Atoms, not love, make the world go round. Display on his naked bed with his pillow under his small pink ass, as he bucked and rode his left hand up his cock and made it twitch and surface and submerge and do all manner of wondrous things. For Alton was loved. Make no mistake about that.
As he pinched his little brown nipples to hardness. As he closed his green eyes and held his body fucking the sky which was just a little way above his head. The sky that was always blue for this boy who lived and laughed and had friends. Who everyone waited on. And believed in. He was the hallway of plenty coming down to meet the lonely kids. And this spring, this afternoon, that would include his10th grade English teacher, who was, not by coincidence, me. Alton of morning jacking. Alton of freedom of spirit and pushing himself into his hand and pealing his dreams with the other. All for sale and all for sale of the presence of one particular item for this Atom boy, which was in short the other person's soul. A commitable little deed. Not commensurate with anything in this small Tennessee town. Nothing of import or reason or civility or sophistication. Just one intractable wish.
Which was the soul that belonged to Alton Atom anyway. For this was the First day. And the English teacher, hello there, was hopelessly smitten by this boy of long wheat colored hair and neck that was smooth and delicate like a flower stem, by eyes that could flash sex at me from his front row in my class, while not looking at me at all. The class which I gave many written tests and essays to, so I could sit on the edge of my desk and stare down at his jeans, at the crotch in those jeans. At the Midas jester that was corralled inside them. The jeans needed to be taken off, pushed down and away, and all my tides would come in. And I would give him one perishable item I had no use for anyway. Which was not important, only that Alton come unto me and give of himself.
Alton Atom of a morning, five thirty or so. The farm smell of his world. The edict that said there is nothing more than a banner of a boy stretched out on his toasty warm bed, with his legs spread, and his mouth open and closing like a fish under entrancing fairy tale water. And his slightly buck teeth biting his pale lower lip and all of him a metronome. All of him a device of pure sexuality, as he rubbed his right hand over the light dusting of pubic hair, as he dwelled on how he would face the day, the last day of school, the first day of me. And the warmth that had a purpose, that had the sun in every atom of it, that had a face and on that face, features. As feather soft hands, now, roamed over Alton's prick, and it stood steel still as though it were looking over a horizon no one else could ever fathom. Not even its owner.
A boy of comic books, Marvel, never D.C. A boy of light dreams who luxuriated in the cradle that was himself. Who knew how to handle love lorn teachers who were of the male variety. Who knew certain tricks of seldom heard, that spread his legs wider in English class while I looked down at them, as he made his cock get hard by willing it so, so willowy summery he was, and to see it molded just by accident by his hand, as he studied his paper and thought of what to write next. As he stuck out the tip of his tongue and held his head over his paper and pen, so closely, so intently. Knowing all the time what he was really studying. And what he really was studying was by no coincidence me.
In warm, hot, air conditioner free morning, with the sun kicking around dust particles, showing them who's boss, Alton was inside a dream, and Alton thought of those blurry blue eyes behind the glasses that I wore, and Alton sensed in tidal waves the lack of laughter in my bones and the heaviness in my heart, and Alton did not love me or desire me. He just wanted me to suck him and he wanted to do the same to me in return. Call it charity if you will. I'm not too proud to accept charity. If there were adagios, if there were plenitudes, then come from the morning and make this Day One of the rest of my life. That would always have the dick print of Alton on it forevermore. My own Mann's Theater concrete impressions that would keep me longing the rest of my life.
Alton's hips thrusting. His groin going to town. A very wonderful, exciting town to be in, where the parking place for me was atop my desk and watching what could never be mine. For Alton was a boy looking for himself and Alton and his family had moved here from Chicago at the middle of the school year. Alton made friends easily, and he had many of them, powers that be praise Alton. Because he knew what they wanted to hear. Because he was sincere enough to know they wanted to hear nothing but insincerity, which takes a kind of talent to wage and to tightrope walk with. And in the morning, Alton Atom Boy picked up the crumpled Kleenex beside him on the bed, his hand skirting soft drifting against his hot bony hip and he put the Kleenex to his dick that was milked and milked and milked some more. He loved to see his cock erupt with sperm. He loved to see and feel the stickiness of it. To revel in it ejecting from his body, like fluid in a needle shot into the air I know not where. Alton Atom and where he came into being. The soft hard push of himself.
And nighttime would never descend. I dreamed of Alton every night in that year, and in many more to come. And Alton was the reason I got through the day, thinking of jacking off, him and me. If there were more reasoned reproaches than I used against all of this, I can still not think of them. Wrong and wrong and he did not spread his blue jeans of legs for me. It was just a natural habit, and if I watched his bottom as he walked out of class, if I saw the little twin pups of them jostled in just such a way that I knew the honeybuns were worth any gold in this world just to touch for a minute, if I longed to put my hand to his dark perspiring trail shirt back, and feel the grace in there, the powerful little animal animation inside him, the whir of power motors in his boy body--
Dreams last forever. And Alton would never go away.
And on Day One, Alton created sex. For the first time he would have it. Make it. Do it. Not for laughs or kicks or spite or revenge or curiosity alone, though all these things would be added to the mix. No. Alton would have sex with me because he knew things. Supernaturally knew things. And this jack off session at an end, his Kleenex holding a shimmery dewy load, his hand holding the Kleenex, falling tiredly to his side, his flat stomach breathing in and out hard. His dick still reverberating with the warm and the need and the justice of a boy being able to do such a thing. And send his dynamos thrumming. Humming the songs inside him surely no one but he ever sang.
Pillowy Alton needed a pink canopy bed, not this bland, just barely serviceable, off the assembly line narrow little boy bed he had had since he was a little boy and fit snugly in it. His long legs made his feet and ankles hang off the bed into air. His long arms were cramped against the wall and headboard, when he tried to stretch them and always, when lying there, he had to cantilever them above his head. His face was a narrow one. Almost a fox face. The kind that holds a sort of sublime cruelty to it, though Alton was never cruel. You could trust Alton. He could be believed. His word was his bond, and if he had hung around places in Chicago (down here it was always pronounced Ch-car-go) where boys shouldn't hang around, pool halls and the like, he was always innocent. Not just appearing so. But in actuality so.
He loved to be wanted. He loved to be wanted by men and boys and women and girls. He was his own lollipop. His own all day sucker. Who made everybody else his would be suckers--don't you just wish? Who wished his cock was long enough he could do it to himself. So near and so far away, and the clouds inside Alton's heavily breathing eyes, now, were back again, and his whole body was releasing its pre jack off tension. He believed that the days were good and little stair steps and he was the Messiah come down to earth to reveal what wonders heaven would hold to this man, to me, who would taken my hand, by Alton, the author and finisher of my being, and say come here and I adore you and please say the same to me, Alton Atomic Fizz Boy would say. Someday.
Which would be today. Which would be Alton instructing the uninstructable. Which would be Alton lying by my side and taking my hand and kissing the back of it. Lying next to me and holding me like no one had ever held me. Alton, this morning, which he invented, himself and the morning, with the warm sweaty pungent scent cross wires that he would extend in help, his body sticking with sweat to the hot sheet, even though a small fan was blowing on him, the fan that only tossed the stifling air from the open window and the room around, which just made it all the more unbearable.
For that one pointless commodity he would require in symbolic payment. If the Son of the Morning was anything, he would be this nocturnal boy who seemed to carry sleepy night with him wherever he went in golden glowy. Who was one for cambric shirts and tight jeans, no socks, even in winter, and the latest fad of teenage shoes--fat heavily treaded ornately made as though there was an architecture of houses he was wearing, the gingerbread kind with the dormer windows and the cupolas withstanding attics of much summer layered heat, these things, instead of mere tennies. With the marshmallow soles, so thick and cushiony and reverberating, that could make him spring up so easily he could almost fly.
And Alton, sperm turning luke warm in his Kleenex, thinking, wouldn't it be nice to just have everybody in class turned on at the same time? Smoke a little dope. Undress each other. Just have a go at each other like the hot humping beast has had enough of confinement, boredom, containment, and away with sleep that comes like a kicker at the end of tedium, that shatters nothing, forgetting there is even a door there to wild abandon right in ourselves. Hot summer air school. Long narrow windows open and the hummingbirds of heat beating against them. All tired out and tied up and making like morning was the same as afternoon when everyone knew it wasn't, he wasn't, for sure, after all.
Alton, naked, standing beside his bed. His hand caressing his soft drawstring of a penis, his eyes looking down at it, at the little wisp of hair and his little blue veined shaft that evolved into a fascinating spongy pink head with a slit that he now held and opened a bit, looking into that little incline that his sperm had such fun climbing upward toward. And then the party of its making it outside to the world and there were bells and gongs and happy smiles and party hats when it did so. But my god was it ever sad that no one but this boy, its progenitor, was the only one who ever saw it do that. Till this afternoon. After school, in the smell of chalk dust, and unwashed blackboards, and sweat still lingering smell from kids and adults. That school smell, in other words. The rotten egg smell coming from the science class down the hall. Those headachy green walls of the English room. Tenth grade. Who could forget it? Ever? It was like you were born right there. And parts of you never left.
"I think you're trying to seduce me, Mr. Eysman," Alton would say.
And that would be enough. I would take him then and there, regardless of who walked in on us. I would take him to my arms and we would talk those little umbrella bubble descending rain words that I read people talked in such situations. When the masks came off, and the party had died down, when the drinks had worn off, and the night was long and ragged. It would be funny and baroque and sad and melodramatic and silly and over the top, like a Valentino silent film, The Sheik, or something, and we would kid around, and explore and laugh more than a little. We would find the single party of both of us would love to attend the mutual party of the two of us. And it would be the last day of school. I would not see Alton again. I would not be back next year. I was to move far away. And always stay here.
The sadness would hurt. But I would remember him and the territory of him that I charted, as we would do all we could think of in that school room after everyone else had left for home and the root beer stand and the fast food restaurants and for work and for the lake and for the day that said freedom from teacher's dirty looks, and summer is forever too. The same way dreams are.
And Alton stretched his arms upward long ways. And he had a little tuft of blond hair in each arm pit. He observed himself in his door mirror. He stood sideways. He reached up to the back of his long hair and partly closed his eyes, as he looked at himself, and radiated out of himself. Girls would kill to look as beautiful as he. His dick was hardening again, little devil.
He tossed the heavy pelted Kleenex to the trash can which he would empty into the kitchen trash can and take the bag outside, after he had breakfast, his morning chores, the taking out of the trash, and the eating of breakfast, though the breakfast was the biggest chore. Because he did not like food. He did not like the idea of putting these foreign substances, which were laced with all sorts of poison that no one seemed to mind, inside his stomach, that would act like a combine, a machine, a mill, grinding the stuff away and then having parts of it eliminated. No, he did not like to think of his body as a machine. To demean it as such. He ate as little as he could get away with.
He smoked dope in pool halls in Ch-car-go. And he went to gay clubs. Where he was not supposed to be because--we don't like kids in there--cough, cough, wink, wink.
Where he was the smoky drunk center of wayward attention, so carefree, but so unobtainable, like a Greek godlet descended from the skies. Not toying with them. Giving them benediction, more like it. A word or two from him. A smile tossed vaguely in your direction. This was considered a bestowing a rare and valued gift on you that you would remember the rest of your days, that could never help but make you smile, no matter how wan you were to get. No one ever forced him to do anything, even when he was potted. They asked, and when he said no thanks, it was almost the same as yes, please. Almost. Close to the sun. Wings of love still intact. And the next cock you sucked, the next penetration, no matter how hot, no matter how fulfilling was nothing more than painted backdrop against the sweet blue sky confetti raining down in memory, that made a poetry lost and needed desperately of "no, thanks."
The walls and halls of still and dark. And Alton Atom Sun Boy to light it all up.
I masturbated every morning. I never ate breakfast because I didn't like to think of my body as a machine. I masturbated furtively, with only the index and middle finger of my left hand, directly underneath the head, because it was less pleasure that way and that was always the way I did it. It seemed more instinctive, rather than a choice, and I had never questioned it. For a time I had masturbated thinking of Joel. Of Jimmy. Of Randy. Of my first girlfriend, Jo. But they were gone away, and now there was nothing in my dreams but Alton Atom Ant Boy. And I knew what he was going to do this afternoon after the last bell rang.
I knew it because it had to happen. We had talked little to each other this last half of the school year. I had been no kinder to him than to the other students to whom I was always kind and who returned it in favor. I was in love with Alton and he knew it, because he never looked up when I struck my bold heat rays on his crotch, as I sat on my desk while my fifth period class wrote those endless essays, which I had to read!, (see what I go through for you?, just to see your legs spread and your dick harden as you unawares outline it with your hand?). But he had to know. The thing in my brain said look at me, Alton, hold me, Alton or I think I shall surely die. He never looked up. Not once. I had lost my feverish excited terrified fear of his doing so. We knew. He would not love me. But he would let me. My god. Boys know what is going on. I don't give a shit who says different. It's so. Don't you remember? Amnesia has set in maybe?
I thought of puns about the atom as I drove to school, as I awaited my boy and me and the seas we would plow together on the floor in front of my desk, and he would open to me and hold his naked legs round my naked waist. We would grapple with each other. We would jack each other off to the almost point of non return, non refundable, and then we would stop and we would feel the heart, each the other. We would place our hands everywhere. The hands that would drink from each other's body. It would be a dwelling place, a sod hut on a vast and lonely no more prairie, humid of human moisture and thirsty leaves of desire and sun up at the top which was to be always where we swam toward. And toward meant away from each other. Though I would willingly drown in the shadow straws of his pink lean limber body. And I would leave him one little thing of mine when we parted. Knowing he required it. Requested it. My son of the morning.
Our bodies sticking to each other in the hot burden afternoon heat, the thick moisture, the laden smells of school rooms that are not like the smell of rooms anywhere else ever in the whole world. Our lips caressing, our tongues licking each other's nipples. Alton's leaning upward on his elbows as he watches me suck him, as he puts his soft dreamy orangey hand to the back of my head and I go up and down on him faster and faster. As he moans. And smiles. And closes his eyes. And reels. Drunk with my taking the all of him in my eager wet mouth. The slurping sound of it. My tongue tickling his little slit. Tasting boy salt. Jesus, I'm hard now.
As he takes his hand to my own hard penis and massages it, as he feels the pressure in him building up and up and then exploding like a building laced with dynamite and cracking half the sky out with its exuberant force field stunning Fourth of July High Thunder fireworks, hooray for the red white and blue. And the gold of Alton, too.
Debbie of the big breasts sat next to Alton. She had a crush on me. She hung round me and she always found excuses to talk to me before class, after class, before school, after school. I had entertained the image of kissing her, of feeling those large breasts under the sweaters she always wore to emphasize them, of seeing her kissing Alton and then the both of them kissing me, feeling them up, and their doing the same to me. Alton on his knees, sucking my cock, while Debbie put those too full too red lips on my nipples and made the electric show up there as well, sparks a flyin', as her cushiony breasts rested against me.
But it would be private this afternoon. I would get rid of her when she came by after the last bell. I would be with my boy who would stand in the doorway to the room. Who would stand with his body weighed on, say, his left hip. He would be sultry. Magnanimous though. He would be wearing shades. Yes, I had forgotten he liked to wear shades a lot. Made him COOL. He would be unbuttoning his cambric shirt. He would put the tip of his red tongue out of his mouth, studying me, not some damned test or textbook or essay. He would smile, come hither. He would pull his shirt from his jeans, pull it up to his chest, letting me see it and his navel and his tits already hard. He would lean against the doorway. He would be, as Buster Poindexter so aptly put it, "hot, hot, hot."
He would pull off his shirt, shrug out of it, letting me see his stick thin body that somehow seemed larger, more of it, now that he was removing his clothes, than when he had them on. I've noticed that oddness on several occasions later on. He would rub his tits and he would look at me, and he would say, "hi Barry," make it sound like a song, and he would beckon me to come to him and I would unfreeze, walk to him in awe, then in sureness, and, before my Lord, I would kneel on that concrete floor to him, and I would take his big buckle belt and open it and pull his zipper down, as I reached one hand to his tits, while my other hand was feeling his radiator hot hard on, and then put it back inside, and pull down his jeans.
The extraordinary thing of my love naked before me, with his cock hard, his firm nut balls in my hands, as I look up the length of him and he smiling down. We would kneel down together. He would start to take off his shades. I would stop him. The eyes behind would be mysterious and hidden throughout all of this. Boys with shades or glasses, and naked, are an incredible turn on, I've discovered..
We would take off his shoes that were like Victorian mansions instead of shoes. We would kick Queen Victoria and all of that repression out the damned window. And he would be naked beside me, and I would come into his open inviting arms that weren't kidding now. And at that moment, at that exact happy moment, I would pay the piper for this time of supreme happiness. He would take my soul into his perfect mouth. It would, my soul, look like a little blue ball of Blue Horse notepaper. He would press it with his front teeth. It would emit a tiny electric spark and that was it. Not a big price to pay. Not even when I think about it later on. That way, he would always have a part of me with him somewhere, somehow, even when he had forgotten I existed.
I got to the school. Walked from the car to the back door of the building. Walked the empty dark halls to my class room. I put my briefcase on the desk. I sat behind the desk. I only had to pretend I was an adult teacher who knew something or other and deserved to be listened to, for those indefinable reasons authority figures are listened to, especially when they have no idea what they are doing, one more day. Which saddened me immensely. I was 25 then. The time of Alton. Old enough to be seen as adult. Young enough to be seen as still a boy. A magical, difficult time, for me, neither one thing nor another. Still in the process. In effect, being neither.
I waited for the bell to ring admitting the students into the school. There was a wild cacophony of voices and shouts of teachers to quiet down and stop running. Fifth period was forever from now. The students came bounding into my room, ninth grade English. I looked at them and they chattered to each other and to me and I chattered right back. I would wait for fifth. Then I would wait for this afternoon. And after Debbie was gotten rid of, even if I couldn't help not sparing her feelings, there would be Alton and me and Valhalla. What more, on this First Day of Creation, and the Last Day of the World, could anyone ask for?
the end