Making Love to Mark
by
Timothy Stillman
His name is Mark. He is sixteen. His voice still pipes at times and is soft sounding, shy like he, his eyes are dewy and perplexed seeming for some reason, as though he has done all the proper things all his life, has the art of communication down perfectly, perhaps too perfectly, and he has always, till now, been apart from others, as it has always seemed he has lost something--a kitten beloved, a once in a lifetime flower never to be grown again, and cannot ever get over looking round for it.
He is very tall. A bit over six ft. He does not know how to fit his former child body into this sudden, it seems, tallness. It makes him even more endearing, this constant surprise to himself. The ground was so much closer yesterday, it seems to him, than today. He is thin. His hair is huge and full, yellow and somehow silver in the sunlight. He is making love to me. The room is dark, save for the moon in the window above our bed, above our heads. It makes his hair look gray. It makes him look more intense than usual. He looked like a dandelion this afternoon by the grotto, when we took our clothes off, so hesitantly, so awkwardly, daring the other, that very first time. He looked like a stalk with all end of summer in him. Blow on his hair and the world would vanish--politely.
He is politely inside me. His face is politely giving and politely hidden in old masterpieces of paintings that seem to be swaying over his eyes which, blue in the light, are dark in the dark room, and his lips that are so red are not red at all now, and he is all the paintings in all the world that says this is success and this is ruination for him, but how can it be both at once? These thoughts, reflections on the reflections thereafter.
He is in me delicately. And he becomes more insistent with his now unsheathed cock, here in the room he has lived in all his boyhood, the bed and he becoming longer over the years. The air is damp and moist. As are we. His penis is a circus in me, this his first time, me having to help him in, and he pinioning his hands beside my pillow, and my face that looks up at him with love, with the embarrassed touchings of each other this afternoon leaning further into us, and us becoming still embarrassed, and at the same time, less so in the process.
I pull on his and push and yield, and he begins to circle his long fine penis in me, a pale one as he is pale in the sunlight, as his body lies longly on me, his chest and legs and groin moist against my own damp flesh, his tits fitting almost identically against mine, his eyes closed to begin with, after we had taken off our clothes in the dark, this seeming somehow more erotic than even in the sunlight of this afternoon where anyone could have seen us.
His face is a study in perplexity. He is enjoying this, but having to get it right, though I too was a virgin until now and I must get it right also, though he seems to think the whole act of fucking is up to him alone. My shorter legs wrap around his long stalk ones. For it is all stalks he seems made of, the stalky arms and legs, the stalky long sweetly funny and nice neck, and especially the stalk of his erection inside me, in the deep dark closing hot channel in which he has finally landed, that I guided him so carefully, with smiles, into. He in me. Full and content. At long last. Peace. Never go away. Beauty, stay. His face is a circus poster of happiness staid back because if he smiles then it and I will go away and the spell will be broken.
The circus he makes in me--dainty, then not so, then roaming it round me, and letting me grip it and letting it go, and he pushing it further inside--watching the rides, the carnival shows, the exhibits, eating the cotton candy--disarmed, but pretending not so, but still the little boy in him, even now, here in the summer of Spain, here in a place of furtive glances and bold plumps of hands on bar maids rumps, and the smell of growth, of green grass and leaves and shrubs and all of it encompassing a slate blue sky of day and a dark hot sky of night, green and forests and jungles, we are animals tonight, and we are of summer fecundity, and it is quite marvelous to see his face right at mine, he looking right at me, though he did not look at my eyes as we felt each other's naked bodies this afternoon, he careful to avoid that, but not I.
And in the dark he is even more noble looking, and the moon makes shadows of purest milk on his face, as he moans and ahhh...ooooohhhh....and getting more and more fierce with the thing, in his proper manner, his problem it seems, I imagine later, all along, always so terribly proper..and then the wisp of a sigh and then his breath warm and sweet on me, and our flesh merging in perspiration, there only being a broken ceiling fan above us limping round in half hearted circles when it can do that even. Circling shadows of God on the ceiling, dim and unimportant, as though we will grow into all this green just outside the room and become one with this glorious earth smell of us and it.
And in the dark his face as he leans it out over me, as he forgets I am here, as I hold his penis and as I squeeze his tits, and his hands on my shoulders, and his face pulling lengthening as though he is in some shape shifter werewolf movie, as he and the moon become together more than he and I, and his face strains, and some struggle is going on in his mouth and in his eyes as though he is putting himself together after having been pushed apart somehow.
The angle of his penis thrills me. It vacillates inside me. It dwells and drills inside me as he becomes more insistent, and can I really be seeing this boy on the cusp of man become one before my eyes, true and honest shape shifting?, as he holds me together as he remembers what he lost, a teddy bear or something when he was quite young in his boy's room, this very room, and has not found it again and never will, and the heart break of his knowing it no longer matters...
...and his face is so studious, so filled with the novel he thinks he will write someday, the runnels of his veins, and his muscles and his flesh and his senses and his nerve endings lying full on me, and remembering everything, wishing to fill in details I have no head for.
And he sighs and he talks without knowing it...yessss....lovveeeeeee...oh please....oh god....your tongue...tickle the head.....lick it...bite it.....oh please........oh stop....not yet......let me....and the sounds, the aches of sounds, the delights of his sounds, the painfulness it seems of them, the vast import of them, and there are a million successive expressions on his face, so many they cannot be charted and clarified...as he tries to crawl deeply and totally into me.
As his body is a tense virgin letting go of the thing that had made him himself for so long, the boy so proper, the boy who would never say jack off or wank off, but always masturbate, and find himself a bit embarrassed even to say that word as he said to me this afternoon, and orgasm, another word he said this afternoon, feeling quite daring..quite clinical as though he were an old man, a teacher, and above human hood, as his muscles bunch, as his tendons now strain...as he is closing his eyes tightly...long eye lashes I cannot see in the dark but which I have to rise to a bit in order to kiss them...to remind him I am here too....
please...suck me...oh please gobstopper me...eat me....eat me...all of me....play with my balls....hold them....oh let me come in....ah ahahahahahah.....
And his cum erupts and pounds into me, as his head and body jerk, as though he is being broken in half, his voice of cries, and his cum bathes the inside of me, the roar of it, the spillage of it, the majesty of it, the completion of it, and he strains his entire body off me, and he holds himself above me on his toes and his hands like a bridge over me, and arch of boy, an arch of Mark who will be my true love forever more, nothing can ever part us..all our childhood we had known...but never till this summer had we been desperate enough for each other to try for it, faltering, halting, shyly, bumblingly and then and then at long last...
...coming back for summer from our respective boarding schools, and lovers and he strains and his penis pours into me and he is harder and harder than when we started and it seems it will burst and I feel it leaking out of me, the cum and my own wetness...and he holds and holds like a suspension bridge and across his face I can touch so close I can touch it like I can touch the moon shining on it so close the heat of it I can feel without touching it, and his face is "Starry Night" and the "Mona Lisa" and flowers in a field, and couples out on a summer lush picnic, some disrobed, all emboldened, looking brave so unadorned, directly out at you, and eagles clattering toward the sun, and Icarus on wax wings falling from it, and dark faces and old faces and nameless people in the sweaty back breaking labor of sewing seeds in fields under a merciless far too yellow, far too demanding sun, and he stretched his penis in me, and he then in one huge gulf of boy breath falls onto me.....
I imagine his back and I remember his pretty hips and his penis is cupped in my pubic hair and we hold our organs together and we breathe hard and together, blasts of breath coming in and out of us, as though shared each with the other, and I come then, and he holds me as I tremble as we tremble and I stumble into him and he falls into me and his face is against my neck and I comfort him with my hands, though delicately, tentatively, even now we still touch each other tentatively with our hands, as we did this afternoon, being respectful, not truly sure the other is really there, and if truly there, then one or the other might run away....always ready to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please come back, I never will again....don't, please, leave me alone...
and he puts his hands on my tits and he kisses them with his moon golden face, and he kisses my neck as I kiss his hands and we lie there for a time, so winded, so weary, so excited, and so scared. I cannot speak for him, what we thought then, but I can speak for myself, and I can imagine he thought pretty much the same thing too....which was.....
Oh dear God, what have we gotten ourselves into?
As it appeared as if somewhere in the air, right over Mark's naked left shoulder, a door into the darkness opened, so I closed my eyes immediately, please never let me see what is behind it, let me forget immediately that strange alien light casting from it, and we held each other even more tightly. I wonder if the door he saw opened in my neck or chest or the pillow or the window or the moon or my face, and what he saw on the other side of that door, if he was braver than I, if he saw anything at all. I meant to ask.
But no one asks questions like that.
As for who am I? What am I? It is quite impossible to say. I am no one. And everyone. I am someone a boy named Mark loved once. What more could I be? I am his Boswell...leave it at that, please. He is my love. And it is summer. And there is the night sound of crickets and the summer green noises and the occasional calling bird knitting up the sky of dark with embroidery of stars. Counter point to the noises of our making love. Never had the phrase "making love" made sense to me before.
In his parents' cottage away from everything. And we lived in Spain, and had a little happiness, many years ago. It still makes me smile. It still makes me remember. I hide there still from time to time. That is who I was. Mark. No one else, before him, or after him. Only during. As it was meant to be.
silvershimmer@earthlink.net