Date: Thu, 11 Feb 2010 09:43:02 -0800 (PST) From: Tim Stillman Subject: incest/bi KIDDING KIDDING By Tim Stillman They tended the more vulnerable of her sons in kidding. Nothing wrong with that. Kids kidding kids. It was nostalgic. If kids do not kid kids, then why are there kids? Except for the sexy reasons. And their beauty. Why do kids have to lie down with kids? The same reason kids kid kids. It's what they do. How would the world be without kids, and how could that be? She had her hands on the shoulders of her two sons. Her sons were naked. She was only wearing tights shorts. They tried to pull away from her, being embarrassed to be treated like infants. She turned around to the cast of "WANT FRIES TO GO WITH THAT?" Which consisted of naked boys, and more naked girls, who were in the process of stopping having sex with each other to look at the stars being walked away by their mom. Who said, I don't like the kidding. It reminds me of things I do not want to be reminded of. She then turned around, walked her boys to the car. The kids owned the car. In fact, kids owned the world. No one quite knew what had happened. There was a rumor that a military mishap, meant to be killing nerve gas, instead made the children of the world super smart. There was no battle. No one lost anything other than a going away of all the bad things. Sexuality was everywhere. Naked children were benevolent dictators, who had one joy of life, making others happy and having sex, which was always making love. Until the kidding. Making sexy movies, having sexy shows make kids kid. One learns that kids sex is kids funny and then funny is as funny does. Nothing grim about any of this. It was a celebration time. It was a constant Fourth of July, but in the name of fun and sex and making love. There was this slight enigma. It was not at the surface yet. It made it fit, thus began the gluing = the whole thing over again. And kids kid kids by appearing in their kid bodies. Bright kids, all. Different shapes. Different accents. Different pubic hair. Different vaginas. Different penises. Different color hair. They were not Billy goats, after all. They were kids and kids do kids and have a lot of time to kill and idle hands are compassion's playground. And kids don't grow up any longer. In the kiddy movies, the sexy movies, this stage shows, the boys and girls, who gave their bodies freely, from house to house or in their own beautiful homes, there were purely themselves. There was money. Nothing wrong with that. The houses were all colored blue. Her children love the color, as did all of them. Blue streets too and yellow window sills. The sun shining bright all day long. The children seemed to have magic at hand, a certain weaving within nature. To make it perfect. The temperature was never hot nor cold. The children never grew up. But here, none were lost boys or lost girls. The houses were huge, expensive and cool inside, had the finest of furnishings, the most comfortable and pleasure making machines. There was a thing known as conviviality. But now was a hint of kidding. Once, a child of the landscape and a landscape of the child, deadly sometimes, but mostly, a thing to live with, and to return. So subtly most of it, you were not aware of it any longer. It was at it was, mostly not cruel. It seemed to come with the DNA. It seemed to come with the make up of a child. That they were helpless against. It was, in effect, a pattern that had gone away a long time ago. Kids had fun now. They licked ice cream off girlfriends' budding breasts. Or parfaits off boyfriends' hard ons. There had been a social distinction very subtly setting in. And it had deadly roots and off shoots. Though basically as the beginning, jealousy returned, and tiny insignificant moments began to grow again. In films, which were 3-D projection on giant screens with boys and girls who could come out of the screen it seemed and play with the audience, many times better than real sex with children. There were age limitation. No child under the age of 10 or 11 were allowed to be in films or to be in sex shows. They were allowed to discover themselves in privacy. There were certain shades of shifts in which popular film boys and girls now considered. What had been fun, was still fun, however, the money became more important. They began -- -- acting. And it was beginning to be a little obvious, which made the audiences more and more uncomfortable watching them, for it began to bite the back of their conscience. And that in sudden death. The boys were not as carefree. The girls were not as ethereal. There was also a lack of lust. More eyes began going to the camera lens, filming them for the giant screen. The live sex shows were also feeling different. People remember. Even if generations ago, and missed, for it was somehow safe in a land that was not safe. She had had her sons, when she was in her teens. She had had them both together, when the boys worked on their first sexy film. They had made it without her knowledge and were afraid of what she would think of them when she saw the film in the audience. The cheers, feeling the lust of the audience and her sons, who sat with her, each of her boys scared silly, when the boys and girls came out of the film in 3-D and made love to the audience, including her, including themselves. Then, that night at home, she and they made love. And fell in love with each other. They became the stars of the films, her sons. At age 16 growing stopped. Adults aged slowly. But children aged after age 16 not at all.. But for now, as she and her naked sons got out of the car in front of their house, they, in playing with her breasts and pussy, and with each other, had forgotten embarrassment on the set, knowing they would start filming once more the next day, giggled and broke her heart with their loveliness, as she ran her hands around her naked bodies, so sensuously. Her youngest boy, happy, though tended in kidding. In this brave new world. Was happy enough, and yet there was a certain miniscule solemnity on his face that she had never seen before. It could've been her imagination. She hoped it were. She was blonde, like her youngest son. She had green eyes at her older son. Her older son was more squarely cut in body and mind; her younger son who took after her and had her willowy body. In the air conditioned living room, her sons took off her shorts all the way. As she took their hands and walked with them, to her bedroom of gold, and marshmallow soft huge bed, her sons had bought for her, as they had bought everything for her. She lay them on the bed, cuddle packages of love. Their hands at her pussy, their hands at the other's penis, her heart beating wildly, as were theirs, as each boy in turn, licked her pubes and put their fingers in her cunt, and she sighed and she moaned and it felt magnificent. She knelt on the bed between the boys as they moved over. She took the youngest son and posed him on top of her as she moved his erection to her cunt, as she opened her legs, and he began to fuck her, as her oldest son, rubbed his cock on her face and her lips and then straddled her breasts and began to move his penis into her mouth. The orgasms were explosions. And always, they said they loved each other. They had sex twice more that afternoon and night. They teased, they touched, they bit, they tongued, and they knew, the boys, there was no sex in the world better than they with her, and with each other. She watched her youngest son, almost hairless still, as he sucked his older brother, a nice patch of pubic hair, and she felt them and held him and hugged them. And rubbed her youngest boy to ecstasy. The youngest boy tried to keep most of the come in his mouth and did. She helped them clean each other, showered, had dinner, went back to bed and drowsily fell asleep. Later on, their mother thought perhaps kidding would stop at the level where it was. After all, kidding had not been part of her generation, but her parents. She had no way to gauge it. What she had registered as kidding might be this alone. It did not say mean. It did not hurt her youngest child's emotions at all really. He could be hurt by it, but if he lived with it, then it could have no power. He was her son. She was exaggerating, because she cared so much. Had Autumn comes to claim her and her children? It was always the world run by them would be very vulnerable, no matter how brilliant they were. No, she thought, tired, letting my imagination run away from me. And yet kids playing more than kids in sexuality, and lust, and feelings than they had, had made them conversant with the role of cynicism. And from this artificiality, they were becoming artificial. Or had they been all along? One time, a few months ago, she had a dream of them as a dromedary and she having charge of it, and rode it until he could not stand any longer, and sank to his knees in the desert floor of heat, and then she woke up, petrified. Later this night she got out of bed quietly so as not to wake her children and directed her naked body to the kitchen for a glass of milk. She sat at the table and drank as she had come to this conclusion. We have paid for peace in perpetuity. There is always a cost to everything. We have made our children, shadows on the screen. Who would not want to be the parent with a child up there? Beautiful beyond beauty, so achingly lovely. And that's all they were; we have made them as empty body forms, with robotic emotions, no matter how deftly played. That was the thing of it -- -- deftly played. We exhibited our children to show us ourselves as we want it to be, so we would not kill each other anymore. The problem was not in a nescient form of kidding. Not to kidding kids with kidding. It was the fact the attempt of it, being unawares of doing it so naked ghostly, making it pale cold and just barely existing, that was the problem. They were anemic. All of them. All of us. But, was it better this way? We were all happy. We love each other. We have no want of creature comforts. My sons will continue making films. I don't have to watch them. No need to be jealous. I have them for real. She finished her milk, walked to the bedroom. Her children awake, rubbing sleep from their eyes. To return to an atavistic time, so all those horrors man had produced could be visited on us again? -- -- no. Never ever. They took her hands and she lay on the bed with them. She looked at them, smiled, touched their faces with her hand. She lay with them; they cuddled together. As her sons began to fall asleep in her arms, she was aware of such blazing beauty and perfection and love, she found herself weeping. She kissed their heads, and they drifted to quiet, protective sleep, not knowing they were tasting her tears. And somewhere was the quiet ticking of what appeared to be a clock.