Teke Blossomed Forth
By
Timothy Stillman
Teke was dark as the African night around us, and he smelled of musk; his hair was wiry, long and thick like buffalo hair. He subsumed me, and his mouth was sweet with sweat in the summer deep veldt, and the sonorous wind whistled to other youths, other than us; there in the temperature swelling doxology that was his body; whereas I was light as blond sunshine, and fair of body, and frail, to Teke's strong muscles, to his prong that was blossoming forth into the stifling air.
As he held me, he one inch taller than I, in the midnight lair of our arms and hands and legs and standing together, naked, and he protecting me from the white boy's nubile fear of black and desperately in love, and in love with the blandishments that cut his teeth hard and white into my lip, creating a tear of blood in it, which he backed his head away from and which blood he sucked into his mouth, and then he tasted me again and he knelt before me as he re-enacted the tattooed rood, and receded his muscles in his shoulders pliant and tough and rippling, and strong, and his mouth like a vacuum cleaner on my own prong that stood out for ultimate enjoyment, the taking of a New York boy here on safari vacation with his `rents, thus the double deliciousness of this unconscious wish to blend with the heat of the boy my own heat, to deliberately mesh his sweat with mine, as he took me, as I had taken him, the seed of what I then perceived as wildness, perceived as the top of a savannah the little Bushmaster plane had flown over today with the pilot and my mother and father, the trees dusting in the air currents.
As we had arrived, stupid jungle clothes, fresh and well pressed, tan and soon filled with sweat and illness and damp and limp and wishing to get back to the air conditioned hotel as fast as possible, so laughable and so foolish and gawkish, oh how Teke told me how he laughed later on, which made me in the first moments slightly angry, in a land that was filled with such mystery and historic inaccuracies, to me at least; why did the people here talk with a British accent, me unschooled in so much in P.S. 97, because my `rents wanted me to taste the other side of life, the side that reflected different swimming pools and different conveyer belts, not theirs, not what would have been mine, and would be mine in ten years or so when the glass canyons contained and cozied and cupped me as it had my father all his adult years.
But now was sexuality and now he knelt before me and his red flannelled colored mouth took me into something that was so wonderfully abandoned, that I would forget he was the mirror image of me in his own way, in his `rents own way, for he had never had a blonde boy and he was also from wealth but his family's wealth was taken from duping stupid tourists like we were, and yet, in akimbo I studied his flanks and reached down for his dong and rubbed my fingers now becoming finally experienced in his thick dark pubic hair and I pulled on his foreskin and he sighed round my cock as his thick calloused hands, for he led safaris now and he extremed himself to their stereotypes, as he would bellow like an elephant when we were locked together and he told the story superstition of the magpies to me like he told to the white bwana devils, and he would laugh with me, for I believed the wisdom of it first, then I laughed at him and at me, and we were on the ground now in the thick hot fiery bugged grass.
I sucked him and his darkness and the history of his country and his race and his ancestors and his lies and his truths and we were kneeing each other now in the groin, soft limbed me, and strong limbed him, and there was a certain hatred in is that we did not mean; for it was linked by an intense sobriety that had come from neither one of us having had sex with a boy, or girl for that matter, in our lives. And this was the cream of him that was rising. This was the thick white jism that rose and exploded star spume out of his thick black cock, that was so dark, like all of him, save for the pinkness of his palms and the soles of his feet, as I watched it glop on my face and the smell was, I thought, in my unintended racism, like a new world, something that a boy grown man could take his time in and examine the fronds of the elephant ears, could tell which ponds were the poisoned ones, could speak all the dialects of all the tribes around here, when a simple majestic city rose like a huge lighted bright big tall glass building toadstool so close to here we had to close our eyes to it when turned into that direction.
His balls were almost furry with pubic hair and I loved nestling my nose there as he kept cumming white on my neck, and I wanted to taste his ass hole, but I was repelled by the thought as it intrigued me, as he held my head and took my face filled with his jism, and he kissed me hard all over the face, licking his cum, and my penis exploded then and he held me tightly round the cock with his left hand and his right arm round my splintered waist, his fist oily with my cum, as though we were having an orgy of ourselves and each other and it was of holy dimensions, as I held to him and cried and sighed and spasmed, as I held to his black shoulder and we shuddered together, as I looked close at him and wanted to see the stars of the sky in the black night of him, as he felt silky on top the muscles.
As I smelled the gritty raw sweat, mingled with my own, in his hair and licked it and licked between his black small hard tits the sweat of his chest, and then we fell to our own silent wondering, as though there were bags of gold at the end of our thoughts, and there was not me going home with idiots in two days time, and his not going back to his own world of jerking off tourists and longing for a blonde boy taken off in a plane and never to be seen again.
All the gun metal of our thoughts and the fresh bullet striations of smells of each other, that we would soon dive naked into the lake near by, and we heart the vast magisterial calling of some wild beast to another wild beast, and never knew our hearts could beat so hard and never knew we could love our own hearts so much, and his fingers full of Africa drilled into my ass cheeks as we sat before each other, and I drilled my own pale fingers full of New York winter into his, and we wanted to split each other with our cocks, but were afraid of the pain, but the want was still there, and I said his name, Teke, and he said mine, which was a name so insufficient, and so foolish and laughable, and Teke was elephant tusk dipped in the deepest Stygian depths, and Teke was all boy and all man at the same time; he was not ashamed of sexuality; he was not ashamed of being a homosexual, which was a terrible thing to be where he was, and I was ashamed of being homosexual.
I would deny and deny but the plot always was to come back to Teke, and Teke was only and we lay together in our exchange of cum, and our prongs were hard again, and sexuality had been to us these last two weeks what was hard and what was work, as though we were trying to build our mansions into each other, a resting place, a working place, a factory of glass and stone and steel, a factory of quiet and silence and ease, a factory of ulcers and heart attacks and 20 hour work days at the office, pushing papers around, and leading tourists with jokes that staled and filled with flies, the same kinds of flies that now ate at us, until Teke joined his father's own business in the city of lights we tried not to see now this night in our sweaty eyes.
This was work. This was reality. This was what meant something. This was taking someone from one continent and depositing them on another, and finding instead of a puerile plaything, a playground for masses of times that would lay up like sick numbers of sausages on part of the plane ride home with only the desire to get to the rest room and take some antacid, in that sick sterile plane air conditioning, and to recede the whole thing into a dream scape where elephants were thank God protected and Teke made sure no animals were hurt, in clear and precise language^×this is a click safari, anyone with a firearm of any kind will be lead immediately and unpleasantly back to their plane or boat where they can go to their hotel and sit in air conditioning and watch Jay Leno, capish?
And Teke would take no laughter, not from them, and not from me or from himself, and I wondered as I took the tip of my tongue and tasted round his black wide certain assured eyes why anyone else lived in any thing other than his delusion, for it was his delusion; a boa constrictor could take him as easily as me; he could know how to cut out the poison immediately but he would be sick, it had happened three times with snakes, he said, with something amounting to pride, and if he saw his world as this one^×
-- this little bubble where he was a scout, where he was the looker out for his land, the denizens of that land could and might kill him as easily as a heart attack might take me at eleven at night at the office I was to fill, as a heart attack might take him at the same time at night at the workaday office his father would hand down to him, and we both would pursue wealth, because that was our central theme, and we would not think of ourselves of now, back then, whenever, and I leaned over and kissed the appendectomy scar of his and tongued it and tickled it; let's see some animal you adore in some preserve try to save you of appendicitis, I thought, and we giggled and he held the words of jungle tribes from movies he had seen on TV, as had I, and this was work, and this was real, because this was not real at all, anymore than the future forever away from this, no matter he still within scouting distance to say the least, and all was ending, and sex was a moment and I turned over without letting me be afraid and he touched my spine tip as he reared up beside me.
It will hurt, he said. I nodded and felt a rush of sweat from my stinking arm pits. I did not dare to say a word. I will not do it, he said, you are my friend. I lay there for a time and he knelt there for a time, and he put his hands on my shoulders that were shivering with fear in the wool smothering night and he lay on top of me, and his hard on was at my butt, but did not enter in, and we lay there and kissed each other's cheeks and then he moved off me and lay beside me, and in the moon and star spin dark, in the high Savannah grass we kissed all over and we loved all over and I drank him one last time this early early morning and I wanted to drink Africa, all its pride and all its wars, and all the injustices given to it, and all the wounds, and all the pains.
And all the victories, and all the brutal colonizations he had told me about, and I wanted to drink the land inside to me, I wanted to be black like him, and black even purple black so in the bright high juggernaut suntime of heat day impossible to bear with any weak breath at all, but all I did was to drink in the milk thick sperm of another boy, another visitor to this planet, another unsure, no matter how seemingly sure, another mortal.
I wondered later if he had tried to drink in New York from me, the city, the seasons, the hustle and the snow and the heat summer and the tenements and the townhouse where I lived, and if we tried to drink in reality of each other or even of ourselves, or what images we had seen and read and imagined, that pushed us farther than a continent away from each other, even as we sucked each other's dicks and tasted only, each other, and we would never forget, we said later, and we would email, and we would write, and chat on line and send pictures and webcam and do sex for each other, and he lied this, and I lied that, and we knew and we held each other closely then before we had to dress and get back before dawn awoke or our parents found us not in our homes.
As we held each other closely, belly button to belly button, pale cut cock with soft slight blonde pubic hair, to black uncut cock, how I had loved to peel it like a banana, and our mouths joined together like steel and iron magnetized, we might have already been separated by half a world, for we hated each other for the lies, for they were sincere and honest, and so were we, and we meant them, god how we meant them. And how we could never possibly live up to them, even in our lives, whoever we wound up with in our own individual worlds.
And this was then the start, or close to it, of our disillusionment. I think we would not have had it any other way. And I think we spent a life time wanting each other, trying to write that first email, get that first convo and use our camcorders, a lifetime, that lasted a week when I was back home in our penthouse. And I separated from everything. As did it. That was the week that was a whole lifetime, the real thing, the coming to terms week. And at the end of that week we failed. It had been horribly easy to do. And never were to see or read or meet or touch each other ever again. It's called reality. I hardly love it. But that is what it's called.