The Eternal Youth, written and (c) 1993, 2003 by drow elf. Version 2.0.
Version 1.0 of this story was written in 1993 and somehow posted on Nifty in 1996, as I recently discovered to my surprise. Ten years later, just yesterday as a matter of fact, embarrassed by glaring defects in the old story, I decided to completely rewrite it, and progressed rapidly, the story having profited by lying fallow in my mind for so long.
When The Eternal Youth first came out in 1993 on alt.sex.stories, I received excessive praise, 6 fan-emails, over which I gloated as any new writer would. The praise stopped me from sorely needed revisions, and my sequel was worse; and partly to my dismay and partly to my satisfaction the sequel has also found its way to Nifty. I wish to replace the old version of this story--its location on Nifty is listed below--though the date should be the present, 2003. This is a complete rewrite, and many plot elements have changed.
It would be churlish not to give thanks to Nifty for posting this story and others of mine written under various aliases-- My stories were acquired by Nifty thru means other than myself; no doubt by fishing the Usenet newsgroups in which I posted them.
These are mine. There may be more, but it is difficult to tell by the titles. I list them in order from best to worst. Might I have earned an author's section of my own on Nifty?
nifty/gay/beginnings/for-bruce (which is a true story; the rest are fiction)
nifty/gay/incest/lucifers-nephew nifty/gay/highschool/eddie-revised nifty/gay/highschool/eddie-playing-hookey nifty/gay/authoritarian/spoiled-rotten nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/the-eternal-youth nifty/bisexual/sf-fantasy/the-eternal-youth-sequel
(the last two I would rather were eliminated, because I think they are bad.)
And this was written by a friend of mine: nifty/gay/highschool/jims-story
Also, one of my stories is in Nifty's "REJECTED" list. (I won't say which--probably deserved rejection.) Oh what the hell--it is called "Just-say-yes," and can probably be found on Deja-News. An interesting possibility is that the same Nifty editor may have climaxed to one of my stories and been offended by another.
Nifty really is a force of good in the world, manna for the queer masses, and the direct benefactor to some of my heated sessions by computer monitor light.
I wonder how many different people I've helped along the way to orgasm thru the years, unbeknownst to myself. I wonder who they are. How I wish each story had a hit counter and a reader vote indicating reactions. Did you achieve orgasm? Do you like the story? It boggles my mind to contemplate the thousands around the world that access Nifty and possibly read the products of my thoughts--
Like every writer I crave feedback and acclaim.
I am drow elf, and it is May of 2003, and I am somewhere in the world, happy and not alone, and the candle of my life has more wax yet to burn. There are sometimes others who I've encountered that call themselves "drow elf," but I claimed the name first and ain't dropping it (what's drow spelled backwards?)
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[The following introductory sections I left largely unchanged since I wrote them in 1993, though I have removed comments that I no longer agree with. ]
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"The Eternal Youth" - A Blast From My Past - Another moving melodrama intended for television audiences (of the future).
The contents of this story are made possible by Puschen Dickinson
Written by a Literary Gentleman in the year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Three, that is, XMXKCLCLIIVIVX or something. Damn it's been a long time since I was in school.
WARNING***************> Trailer park moralists,
Tooth fairy believers &
Twenty-below-the-average-IQ Fundies,
This may offend your delicate Sensibilities. Please do not read any further! The last thing that I want to do is offend your delicate Sensibilities. I lay awake at night worrying about that.
You HAVE BEEN WARNED and cannot later complain that I sprung this pornogr- uh, literature upon you. THIS MATERIAL IS NOT INTENDED for anyone and I am posting it while asleep and unaware of my actions, as I suffer from narcolepsy, or something like that, and cannot be held accountable. So there. Pppllttt!
I just thought of this on the sperm of the moment!
WITHOUT FURTHER ADO,... Let us begin.
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THE ETERNAL YOUTH
Written (Sometime) and (Somewhere)
by Drow Elf -- r a d i x m a l l o r u m
Io credo, che saranno radi
Che tua ragione intendan bene
Tanto lor sei faticoso ed alto.
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I
Commentary on AIDS
I dedicate this story to young gay/bisexual men like myself all over the Earth. Our numbers are legion!
Nick Tails is one gay erotic writer who I admire. Is he really dead, as per the footnote in IDLEREC2? I believe that he himself wrote this footnote as a dramatic finish to a game he tired of playing, that is, the writing of erotica for computer users.
Nick Tails wrote the following :
nifty/gay/authoritarian/getting-what-you-want
nifty/gay/adult-youth/boyology (this is his best)
In this age of AIDS, fucking, sucking, and even kissing are out until the plague is subdued, which may take a lifetime, but at least you will have that lifetime. Mutual masturbation, massage, using toys, and using your imagination are ways to be safe. Monogamy is a possible reliever of this condition, but you must be sure your partner is faithful. This requires an old-fashioned device. No, not the chastity belt. I'm talking about Love. Genuine love and loyalty, as well as honesty and openness, should preserve a monogamous relationship.
If both partners fully realize the threat of AIDS, it is hard to imagine one partner being unfaithful. Cheating on your partner in the age of AIDS is a double betrayal, because you put your lover at risk of dying of a horrible disease. But being realistic, it could happen. That is a chance one may or may not want to take when he is in love.
I visited the local gay bar last night for the first time in 6 months. As I sat at the bar and surveyed the crowd (the place was packed!) I asked my friend how many people he thought had AIDS. "About half!" he said. I thought he was kidding, but he wasn't. As the night wore on he pointed out an acquaintance of mine who rumors said had HIV. I looked at the fellow, a young, promiscuous rascal, and began developing my theory of who the AIDS plague will take and who it will spare. I plan to survive it; I know that much provided I am not already infected from my less cautious younger days (I did practice safer sex then). How about you? Will you survive this age of AIDS?
I mention the plague because all of us need to keep very aware of its presence, and not forget. We can never be careless. We must always have AIDS at the back of our minds. This is not a completely negative thing; monogamy and stronger relationships should result. But, damn it--we have to stop the casualties that AIDS is inflicting on the race; it's taking out some of the most lovable people, while the Puritans march merrily on.
I do sometimes wonder whether HIV was hatched intentionally, in light of its victims, and the cruelty of bigots.
II
Introduction to my Story
MY GREATEST WISH would be to live forever in eternal youth, with an escape clause: I could only die by violent means. Otherwise, I would be immune to the aging process, disease, and poison. Immunity to violence would unfortunately enable some painful situations, such as Prometheus' fate.
As I've said, I don't care to be an invulnerable Terminator, but I would like to have enough time to do what I want to do. The list is endless, my friend. If I had time, I'd become a scientist for 50 years, then a doctor for 50 years; then a writer...etcetera. I would live every role imaginable. I would accumulate wealth and build a great lair where I might endure the centuries, reading every book written by Man and watching every movie (would this be more a torture or a delight?). I would seduce both genders in every race and indulge in sensual delights for thousands of years! Then perhaps for an eon I might become a monk and live in meditative seclusion, pursuing spiritual goals. Science fiction writers suggest that an immortal would get bored. Sorry guys, but that is bullshit. The world is full of endless wonders. I regret not having time to explore them all, and having to die in a mere 80 years, the last decade of which I will be enfeebled.
I am happy to have the time I do have, short though it may be.
That little essay should have shaken off shallow thrill-seekers looking for simple smut. Ciao, guys. To the more patient I will reveal my intention in this story. I am going to write a fantasy about an immortal youth whose hot little body has felt the throbbing cocks of gentlemen through the centuries.
This fantasy will not appeal to all tastes. The central character is not the brute or jock that some gay men prefer. He is a wonderful, willing and worldly Boy, predestined by his exceeding good looks for an erotic odyssey.
The thesis of the story was inspired by the AIDS plague, which is one reason that I spoke of it earlier. When you discover the secret to the story, you may understand that in my fantasy, a virus is at play, but its only resemblance to HIV is the method of transmission.
I have my reasons, not easily explained, for releasing this fantasy to the public. Simply, I feel that my sexual talents have been, and will be largely wasted, to no great satisfaction or purpose. I have enjoyed brief flings with acquaintances, but seldom have these trysts approached the least of my fantasies (excepting a few memorable occasions, however). I perceive that few are any better off than I in this regard. I empathize with people like myself. I offer the finished product of my labors to unknown readers who I hope will find a sweet (however brief) bliss by sharing in my fantasies. The human existence usually being one in which sexual intimacy is uncommon, furtive, risky, and costly, fantasies such as this are welcome releases for our common biological urges.
I may receive no money, no thanks, nor even acknowledgement, (hope springs eternal where the last two are concerned) yet I write this out of a mystical desire to extend cerebral tentacles that will fondle unknown readers; stirring their pulse with a paragraph, bringing them to orgasm with a sentence. No, in my lifetime I would not be able to engage every reader that is following even this sentence. Some of you are no doubt good looking, yes? Some cute enough that I would be thrilled to know I was getting you off. This story is from me to all of you, a gift from a young man who you might have wanted to know intimately. Yeah, I guess... We might have made hay. Instead we share this fantasy.
Without further ado...let's rock.
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I remember distinctly what I was doing in 1716 because it was the year I became immortal.
I was working at a tavern in a small English village along the road from Dover to Liverpool. The Crown had left me recently orphaned, having two months prior executed by public hanging my desperately poor parents for thievery--another story unto itself, which I am loathe to repeat, it pains me so. Let me only say, no component of my grief has to do with shame over our family name, for our name meant nothing in the world, nor can I find shame in stealing when the alternative is hunger.
Just arrived into manhood was I, with no trade to earn a living by and no family nor friends. Long shall I recall begging for crusts of bread door to door and being curst for a vagabond by soldiers. It was a wonder I did not starve to death before I found work at The Randy Troll Tavern, where the tavern-keeper's wife took pity on me.
Having been malnourished during childhood, I was slight of build for my age, though not homely. My complexion was clear and tan, my hair long, black and smooth and I had unusually bright blue eyes. Mind you, I was not vain, nor even aware of any possibility of possessing beauty, then. Instead, I was humble and deferential and thought myself undesirable. It was only later I learnt that my good looks shewed through despite all the hardships I had endured. Sexually, I knew next to nothing, having experienced little but hard labor in my life, though I was acquainted with the rites of Onan like all boys. I was soon to learn a great deal more.
At The Randy Troll Tavern, my only wages were scraps and leftovers, but the tavern keeper's wife fed me bacon on the Sabbath as a Christian charity and let me sleep in their stable. The tavern keeper was moderate enough towards me when sober, but once he got a few drinks in him, he would whip me over the most trivial matter, and I learned to fear and despise him.
On a Wednesday night, May the 16th, 1716, a handsome man clad in black walked in, who by his fine clothes and arrogant carriage one might have thought a gentleman, but on closer inspection one saw the too-cunning face, the sharp eyes, a ready dagger, and I surmised him a merchant at best, or else a smuggler... Two armed associates followed, one a burly huntsman with a crossbow, the other a fat thug with missing teeth and an old inaccurate Dutch blunderbuss tucked in his belt. Inaccurate or not, the blunderbuss could serve in close quarters, for I had seen it put a man down before. It was not the accepted practice in our parts to carry such weapons into a public house, but who would argue, with no magistrates about? These three were not to be trifled with. As if by mutual agreement all our other customers averted their eyes, for here was Danger.
The two mercenaries roughly expelled a dozing drunkard from a table their boss desired. They sat down, and the smuggler (as I now thought of him) beckoned for service, his eyes finding me across the room like a hawk finding his chicken. I had no choice but to approach with trepidation. This tumbled from my lips, meekly: "What will be-- your p- pleasure-- Sirs." The huntsman and thug said nothing, but stared at me as if I would be better off dead. The smuggler inquired if we served decent wine. I lied in the affirmative; in truth my master watered it. The smuggler said to fetch him and his mates a bottle, a loaf of bread, and butter, and be quick about it, for they were thirsty after a long walk; but he smiled as if friendly. I asked if that would be all, and he purred, "if I have need of you later, I'll let you know."
I was trying to decipher that as I walked back to the kitchen. Feeling eyes on my back, I turned around to find the smuggler staring right at me, sizing me up, seemingly, inspecting every part of me. Whatever had I done to offend him? The huntsman and thug were not occupied with me, yawning or stretching their arms, tired after their journey, craving their food and drink, and afterward, sleep. His henchmen did not intend to murder me; what could his stare mean otherwise? Confused, I hurried into the kitchen.
The tavern keeper was sprawled in a chair nursing a bottle of devil's brew, a horribly foul and potent concoction he made himself with wormwood and grain alcohol. That a man could drink such poison and live was beyond my ken.
I gave his wife the order for bread and wine, and she silently began preparing them (I not being trusted with the key to the wine cabinet), avoiding idle talk now that her husband was in his cups. Abruptly the tavern keeper grabbed my arm and asked me if I was doing a good job, his breath making me nauseous, his spittle spraying my cheeks. Knowing better from previous beatings than to resist the ogre, I kept still, nodded. He used me as a support to get on his feet and walked out to survey the main room. "Who ye serving just now?" I pointed them out. "Oh ho," said he, eyeing the smuggler's fine garb, "Fine gentleman, that," he said, "and ye bloody well take care not to spill any wine like ye did last month, Larson!" For Larson was the name I had chosen. I thought it fitting. My sire and dame, as you will recall, had been hung on account of larceny.
Careful not to spill anything, I slowly advanced, being watched by the ogre and the smuggler. I spilt nothing and with relief laid my burden down on the table. The smuggler told me to stay nearby to await their next pleasure, while one of his men seized a bottle and drank directly. His fellow took a bottle for his own, and the smuggler did likewise. The bread was consumed in like fashion; they had no use for glasses or plates, forks or knives. Such is the way of those with great need, I know.
With his thirst satiated and his hunger resolving, the smuggler again eyed me closely, particularly my waist and below. The certainty arrived that he was staring at my body as a man might look upon a woman. You may say I was naive, but keep in mind that I was a young man of scant experience.
The awareness of being ogled -- perplexing! -- just crossed my mind as one of his men beckoned for more wine. As I delivered the bottle, the smuggler pinched my bottom! Startled, I dropped the bottle onto the floor where it broke!
The tavern keeper had been overseeing my work with sharp though bloodshot eyes, and now bellowed curses loud enough to be heard in the outside street as he rushed me. The thug and huntsman, who had slaked the better part of their thirst and were experiencing the first glow of the wine, laughed at the uproar.
The smuggler's face shewed an emotion that reminded me of concern (for me?), which I instantly dismissed as improbable, but he shouted a command punctuated by a kick, and instantly the two mercenaries ceased laughing, rose from their chairs and faced the ogre, who now hesitated, his cowardice being instinctual, expressing itself even through drunkenness. The smuggler said, "You see that we have had an accident with the bottle of wine." The ogre glared at him, then at me. The smuggler untied his money purse and withdrew a handful of copper coins. "This will be your recompense," said he as he dropped them on the floor. "Gather your coins and leave us." To my surprise the ogre dropped to his knees, and finding significantly more copper coins than were merited by his loss, he actually exulted and stammered his thanks before bowing his departure. That a man like that possessed courtesy had never occurred to me before, but as I was learning, everyone has their motivations through which they may be plied.
I stood paralyzed, unsure what to do, but before I resolved to either stay or leave, the smuggler had pulled me by my waist to him. "What's your name, lad." "Lar - um -- er-- Larson," I managed. "My name is Ian. Who is your Father, Larson? Not that man--" "No. Um, my Father is dead-- and so is my Mother." He considered this in silence, then said, "Your master uses you ill, does he not?" "I read in the Bible that servants must obey their masters." "You are lettered?" "Aye, a friend of my Father's taught me when young." "Well, I give you a new Law, that servants must overthrow their masters, if the masters are tyrants."
He held my bottom. I shivered, and then recovered as he began to caress me back there. I assumed I was being teased, taunted; he was a bully, and would laugh at me next. I half-expected a mood-change, as I had become accustomed to from the ogre, and a vicious blow to come, and felt neither enjoyment nor resentment of the liberties he took. His men exchanged glances--raised eyebrows, slight grins--but said nothing. One bought another bottle of wine and the two shared it whilst eating their bread. The other customers studiously avoided looking in our direction, and the ogre had been chastened for the night and would bother us no more.
Ian withdrew his hands to his groin, and said, "Larson, get us two rooms. One for my men, and one for you and me." This surprised me again. A strange intuition came--he intended to have sex with me. Undesirable me? This made no sense at all. I wondered if sex were possible between two men. Perhaps this was just my imagination. At any rate, a room was better than the stables, and the prospect of being in a room, with no work to do, was pleasant. Was this mere charity? Was he just being kind?
My questions as to his intentions were soon answered, for once in the privacy of a room, Ian bolted the door, turned to me and said, "Strip." Such a lamb was I then; it did not occur to me to do anything else but obey the strange command. My clothes were simple, humble and easily doffed. I stood before him naked awaiting his pleasure.
Ian's eyes devoured my body. He touched himself as he gaped, eyes riveted upon me, unblinking. I saw my beauty--a fresh concept to me-- reflected in his eyes, and grinned, beginning to enjoy our game, growing aware of my power.
He peeled off his clothes. I caught my breath as he revealed a fully erect cock, enormous to my eyes, a club. Ian grinned, proud, then seized me in his arms. So warm was he, like fire! He embraced me tightly; it almost hurt until he relaxed, and then I thought, this was not bad.
His hard cock throbbed and drooled against my stomach; he was enflamed, his eyes glowing. I wondered what he would do with that cock of his. Curious, and -- eager -- I wanted to touch it, but dared not. He held me while pushing me down, bending me over, still standing. My hair brushed the floor; my hands supported me. I heard him spitting, then rubbing himself. I felt him at my bottom, prying my cheeks apart. A suspicion dawned on me then that I could scarcely credit, until I felt his cock pressing at my shite-hole (for such I termed it then--other names would be learnt later).
In shock, I turned around, confronting him with fear in my eyes. He chuckled, caressed my face, and said, "Do not be afraid." Then he caressed my cock until I grew hard. My fear having subsided, though not completely conquered, I permitted him to guide me back into the position he desired.
"At first," he said, "you may feel some pain, but bear with me, and after a moment you will begin feeling good." I nodded, feeling him again move between my buttocks. I felt him--going in, slow, careful--the pain mounted. Then he penetrated, and it felt like a sharp stab, which killed my erection. Part of me wanted to run away, but I stayed. My eyes shut tight and I clinched my hands into tight fists. Slowly, he penetrated all the way and then began to fuck.
My hole was on fire. I whimpered a little. His fucking quickened, and I thought to myself through the pain, "So this is what women feel." In time, I began to settle down into the idea of being fucked; I relaxed, and quickly after that regained my erection, and the pain went away.
How strange that I enjoyed his cock go in and out, and me a man myself. As fluid began dripping from my cock, my hole tightened around Ian's cock, and the sensation made him moan deliriously and shudder. He had cum inside me. I felt him leave my body and regretted the loss. To satisfy myself I stroked my cock, seeking release, for I had known that practice since the age of 12. Ian knelt beside, eager, and I shouted my ecstasy as my seed shot into his waiting face and open mouth.
Then we slept, entwined in each other's arms. I slept the longest, to my eternal regret. When I woke, he was gone. He left me a note, which I keep to this day, full of strange portents and instructions:
To Larson, my lover of last night,
Good to know that you can read, else I would have to wake you and tell you these things which are better read an hundred times. There are things not easy to understand or even believe.
Know this, and keep it secret with you, unless you wish to hang for Sodomy. With my Seed you have acquired Immortality, for I am myself Immortal through the same means and have conveyed the Gift unto you. Do not believe Me, but judge for Yourself fifty years hence, when your looks will be Unchanged. Be warned that you are Impervious only to Age, not hard knocks, so take care of your Person.
In parting, I give this personal Instruction. Before the tyrant of this house, you are Docile like a Sheep. Can you be something more than a Sheep? Become a Man, while I am away.
-- IAN.
I discovered no other trace of him or his companions anywhere in the village. I wept, would not eat, and generally acted the foolish Miss at his desertion (for such it was). It is true, I had known him only a night, but consider, who else did I have? What friend? I resolved to search for him, wherever he might be; to the ends of the earth I would walk, careless of my life.
There was a matter to be resolved before leaving, though; an account long in arrears that needed to be settled. I had made my own interpretation of Ian's advice, and laid ambush for the ogre. When he walked outside to answer Nature's call, I jumped out and with a savage cry, smashed a bottle of wine across his forehead. Was that not appropriate? It was a meager revenge for all the whippings he had meted out to me in the past. As I watched him curse, bleeding, in pain, swearing mortal vengeance upon me, I thought better of letting him live, and took out a knife and cut his throat. Those of the modern world would not countenance that act, and I foresee the pulling away from me when I confess it now. But the moderns live in different times, and did not watch their parents dangle before a jeering crowd.
I set off toward London, city of opportunity, not believing yet that I was truly freed from Man's great flaw. It was to be 10 years before I believed, when I examined myself in a looking-glass, and saw no difference from the boy I was that night. Within, though, much changed, all to the better.
[End Chapter 1.]