Thus, Joel
by
Timothy Stillman
Joel, standing steel. Naked and young. Hard and stroking his penis. Pale and of long golden hair.
For the moment, for perfection. A molded sense of time. His body clockwork. His hand on his warm circle balls. His delight he has no pubic hair yet.
A season of himself. A lifetime of himself. Taking this one snapshot from a million miles in space. Achieving this time, and the apex of it. Tickling his nipples. Giggling inside. Achieving this time and the solitude of it by bringing his boyhood to squeezing appetites. The desire to dry cum soon and then pushed back and then hand taken away. His penis grumpy, jumps like a puppy and Joel laughs.
As though trying to nail sea to shore. His hands on his butt now. Exploring the soft tiny terrain of them.
As though trying to achieve an ability to say this is me in this moment. This is me in an expanding moment of wanking and freedom and totally Joel who is me. In a forward move that is capturing time in a capsule. That is the longitude of dreams and reality. That is a foreshadowing not of grim, but of supremely happy. As he imagines the prettiest boy in the school, make that second prettiest, going down on him.
A time of lotion on his penis that sticks straight out, to lube it, to imagine the touch of mouth on it, A time of sex kitten rhymes where it all fits. As he dances now hip hop to himself, the rhythm of inside, where no one else has ever dared venture.
Yet.
Where it is a succession of happy heart and happy mind, as his penis begs, as he touches it again, new friend, discovered not too long ago, and built in box of happiness, surprise, Joel. A suggestion that would take away the furtiveness of the shadows of his room. A suggestion of personal reflection. A pond away. An ocean away. Oh come cum soon. I want to do it too.
Something that would be the world made of flesh and bones and the secret smile that is always the most important, as he opens the smile slit of his penis, uncut and four inches, pale pillar that Samson could not pull down; the slow removal of his clothes, as he stands in his locked door room, in front of a full length mirror and dazzles himself with his naked smile; always the most successful, as he rubs hard, and sinews and stretching back, as though he could be Joel, the world, and Joel, the stratosphere.
Here in a locket that would be of name and initials and flowering surreal, and something that would always upset the institute of sanity and sanctity, as this would always end in something which began, which had never happened; which was the fielding the cross would institute, and this the feeling the fevers would maintain.
And his penis the cross, the salvation by which a world could be saved; oh, if one could just stay this way forever.
If one could always take the flames and tug at them; surrender the motives of film and stop frame. Could look down on Joel Steel. Could look down as though looking up, as if one could stop life at this moment, could stop life as the trend of now. Not one follicle of hair to grow. Not one inch of height of self and of penis to struggle toward. No more fashions or past or future. Nothing left but the heliotrope that would surrender and be his evermore, this stream of framework.
This whole body turned into erection mounting, friction motion of suggestion as though it would always tap the secrets like tomorrow and make them come live in his bloodstream. In this feather surround, in this time when it said every molecule in his body, every thought in the mind is here and sound and realistic. Every forensic suspicion is there in the centerpiece of masterpieces that were the ancient paintings and the more ancient books, this tome, this suggestion of looking up and down was artistry enough; he was the artistry and the painting by the artist. As he turns sideways, laughs at the sight of his hard on sticking out to tomorrow. Turns round, examines his back and butt over his shoulder. Wishes someone else could do that for him, to him, for real. Someday. Not now. Not this perfect moment. For that would spoil it. This is far too important.
There is nothing of supreme motion, but of dilettante, but of savoir-faire. There is what life has run to here. He is the reason the building blocks built. He is the reason for everything.
As though, up ahead, not now, but then, it would always be of challenges. As though it would always be of life lived, life run, and all the problems are little chipmunks that dash this way to the opening of^×everything.
He palms his warm tight nut sac.
This was to the opening of^×lack of propriety. Lack of skills, which become skills because of the obvious. In a moment, freeze frame, out of the body, because he knows this is one of those moments when everything works, when everything is of a piece, and this becomes the tangible, the fancied motive, when there are no motives, when others exist to watch him and in amazement. Come see Joel planet, he thinks, as he kneels in front of the mirror. And hides his penis between his legs, then feeling the warmth of it, the hurt of it and his balls, thus letting them pop free spring up penis again.
To see what this flex or that will do for him next. To turnabout and to feel the circle of his perfect miniature balls, which are the world, is the nexus of the everything, the nexus that exists for the transient that is the permanent. That, without them, he would be only Joel, and with them, watch his diver's grace, as he looks at his excited penis as he pumps it. And thus to see his runner's calculation along the cinder track round the world in autumn spinning and see the mirror grace; see the excavation that would always truss the mornings and give the mirror what it longs for, thus himself, and pull back and rub stomach, long stomach, and play with belly button and kiss his own shoulders, and smell the aroma of sexy Joel, thus the piece of peaceful songful splendor, of peaceful motion of winsomeness, of young, and of himself, of young, and of beauty, and the smile that extends forever fingers and forever lives.
This of suggestion.
As he plays sex games in his mind.
That feels good. That feel naughty and happily wrong.
This of suggestible motions of diagrams of himself on blackboard, of trig and mathematical equations and the things that make him up, the circles, his balls, and the lines, his penis formations, its little mushroom head spongy, and the parallelograms, his penis as it looks to him in shaded room now, and the triangles, his tiny tits, and the music of his head and heart and his excitement, and his motions that are soft and hard and slow and languid, that have nothing more than the seeming formations of barriers.
There, the shades of his eyelids, pulled down to half mast, there, his tongue tip touching his pale little lips, as he opens his eyes and does his best to^×smolder--there his hands gripping strength, and no one has to ever condemn or judge for he is his own court of affairs, he is his own history of evolution, and if he could, he would bronze this moment, and never move from it. The cold autumn wind blowing on bare Joel, from the opened window as he stands before it; chilling himself.
The night of Friday, one week before Thanksgiving. The night of supreme amplitude, when he has forgotten if he is a beast or a croc or a sea serpent or a mermaid; this faction of his muscles here in the upper part of his arms, as he bends his left arm and clenches his fist upward, as though he is testing strength for a Charles Atlas advertisement on how to be strong and brawny and above all the bullies of the world. As he pushes his penis down, then lets it sprongggg up again. He swears he can hear it laughing.
The pulleys of Joel. The trapeze muscles of Joel. The trapezoid that is what he swing from, little monkey in the mind. Little sullen truths as he looks at his face in the mirror, shining back at him, golden hair pulled back from his head and streaming gold stream down his back. There as he gets up and posits himself in the mirror again, in the stand apart legs. His hard on stiff, his balls slightly swinging.
There in the perfect pitch, where his body is at this moment the best it will ever be; where there is no ravage of time and no punitive measure of too young; there in the formative that was tempered with his massive pulling down the pillars of Jericho, oh let me, says his penis, oh Joel, let me, I might cum tonight, you never know^×
--as though he were this splendid beast, alone in the world; no one pulling at him and prodding him, but himself. This exempt. This example of what one beast risen from the lair, risen from the mud and ooze, and here all pale and nadir. And here all pale and risen to the zenith. And both at once and the same time. Both here for the pushing of muscles together, then the expansion of them apart; then the strength of ebb and flow; this world of himself; this world of cold night; and this world where he faces it, dressed in himself. All of his body directed to total and purest pleasure. To rocket out of himself. To close eyes in gooned ecstacy.
Dressed in something that is other worldly, other planet, as in his now heavier excited breathing, feeling his rib cage and stomach moving up and down, what he cannot figure out is a segue into himself, for it all starts in here, and they admire him, they worship him, they adore and supreme accolade him, he, the ultimate acolyte, and he is pulling backward now, his back bending into a bow. Everything is sex. Everything is wanking. This is that and far, far more. Let it stay this way forever. Oh please. His penis and hands are now one. The finish line is closing in.
He is panting, like a beast in a jungle. Ready to send his penis to glorious feeling and ecstatic out of time and calculation, letting it take over totally, and close his eyes and make him one giant feeling and exceeding rapture machine of boy, one more time.
His sacrifice and his mercy and his hands with their little blue veins and his eyes closed like night has descended into him as well, as he knows without doubt, that for the rest of his life, he will describe the arc of the past into this of the tunnel of this night, this moment, this salvation. This wank above all others.
And it will never be up to him after this, somehow, and he will never feel the supreme joy of Joel as he has and is right this moment.
All tilted and all whorled with fingers soaking in the magic of his penis and his teasing of it and his refusing to look at it in the mirror, for as long as he could not look at it, which was a grand total of about three seconds.
And all startled as though he is startled himself, each time, but this time, somehow more aware, somehow more himself than he had ever known before^×he splendid in extremis, and suddenly seeing himself in his own flesh, in his being. one person, grand and afraid now, grand and on the edge of the bring of coming, in the vision that is his alone, and arching backward and then plummeting forward in an arc of jism that squirts so far, that splatters on the mirror and on his thighs and on the floor, oh god what will mom think?, will she notice?, can I clean all this up? My god, he marvels at it, looks at it, touches it and feels it warm and watery. He puts a bit of it to his mouth. It tastes warm and salty and sticky. My god, did I do that? Did I produce finally at long last, cum? I shall take my bows now, thank you one and all. It was my pleasure.
And watching his cock spume still a bit more, and he takes his hands away, to see it move and gulp now dryly, as his penis moves on its own, from side to side, this arc of magic silver awayyyyyy, that is so vivid, and so long, past the length of himself, past the wonders of whatever would take the screams that he feels building up, colliding inside himself.
And something in him lowering already, wondering, even past the part where he finally came, wondering at the magic of this time as opposed to the thousands of times in the past and in the future and in the present as he lives it, the millions and billions of things around him and of him and in him and for him, as he gasps and holds his middle and bends over and waves and waves of pleasure wash over him and into him and away from him, as his body becomes limp and his long hair and face sweaty, coming down now from this great high, as it seems he is strumming apart, the grand moment over, now a memory, now something he would try to re-attain, but never would.
Still him though. On a higher rung. Grown a bit. Oh god no. But think of it, this way, his molecules move, and his DNA forms what is known as him; all the gestures, the eating, the sleeping, the turning, the walking, the studying, the testing; the resting; the pleasuring; all the ways his face looks in this sunlight, in this shadow, to the eyes of those who worship him, to the way his hands look and feel and move when he writes, when he celebrates himself; when he digs deeper into his mind and psyche and middle and pulls out the invisible magic that looks different, as he does, every second of the day, every position of himself; every link of him that looks different to everyone else; knowing he will never look one way to anyone; that he will never see himself as himself in even mirror because of the lighting, because of the reverse imaging; because of the lack and the abundance, and what comes into his mind and what colors his vision of himself and the vision others have of him.
A flowing, fluid vital dance, and he wants to let out, he wants to salt and consider and derive and find this moment, this freedom of fireworks and his success, and the supreme beauty of Joel now and forever more when all his friends, all his boyfriends, all his teachers, all his want to be friends, love him and forever, and the comet screams cross the silver sky and the emptiness is a firmament. And the emptiness is a river and a brook and an ocean and a defense and a supremely brave opening of himself to everyone and everything, and why this time and none other? Why is this the perfect point of his life? And no matter then rejoicing and falling back ward on his bed, sleepy, wrapping himself in a blanket, already dozing off, will clean up early tomorrow morning, he promises himself and then forgets what he has promised, as his eyelids close on the ceiling shadows and he whispers his pledge heard round the world:
Joel, I love you.