Date: Sun, 03 Jun 2007 18:06:38 +0000
From: Timothy Stillman <menovember@hotmail.com>
Subject: "It Was a Decidious Autumn Morning"

		     It Was a Deciduous Autumn Morning
				    By
			     Timothy Stillman

(responses very much appreciated, and thank you for reading my story)

They had come to the woods and taken off their clothing by the stream. The
air was cool and the sky was gray. It was the morning of first love. Words
formed them as they looked at each other. A withered hand touched at the
boy's body. A body of strength and integrity and tender meshing of skin
patterns and colors. Loosed and tightened and come together as woods heard
the echoes of their love.

As the boy turned away from the man, who had created everything he needed in
life, but the boy. As the boy of gold and cream reached outward away from
the man whose eyes were so constantly. As the boy studied his hands, turned
them palm up and then palm down. As the man studied the boy's spine,
straight, his buttocks, dimple above each one, and curved. Legs strong and
smooth and hairless. Time was for them and the man felt his own erection
strengthening.

It was one of those sadly happy days. He had only to say the boy's name and
the boy would turn to him. He wanted silence though. He wanted the golden
heart to sing. He heard it, he believed, minimally. He heard it because the
day was cool and getting cold and he walked to the boy and wrapped him with
the cloak of man hood and warmed him. As the boy still turned away from him,
pulled the man's arms tighter round his shoulders and held the man's hands.
There was such a way to go, the man knew. The stream beside them flowed
silver. The stream was a natural boy in its course, filling down and round
and rushing away. For boyhood was a rushing away. And the man put his chin
on top of the small boy's head and felt the warm weave of hair.

The boy shivered in the cold. The man looked down the boy's slim hairless
chest and saw the penis small and erect, sticking straight out. The man felt
his heart beat increase. He felt a moment of grace and wished it could all
be warm boy and coming to be warm man with no one in the world besides them.
No one in existence other than a moment of calm redirection, if he could
only get over the memory. And the boy said nothing but said it eloquently.
And the man was so clumsy with his large hands. And the boy said a name. And
the man wept at the name and the tender voice box that said it, and he
wanted the boy with him to make love. For he had had everything in his life
he had ever wanted. Except love. And he touched memory and tomorrow and read
the pages that had created he him.

And he turned the boy round like a wistful frightened child turns a top
around, until the boy was facing him and the man bent down and worshipped
the boy by kissing his forehead, each brown closed eye, and the tip of the
delicate clay nose, and the lips of the boy who kissed him back. They always
kissed him back, though they never meant it. He felt the boy with his own
naked body as the boy reached out and touched the man's nipples and chest
and further down as well. And the man and the boy were hard together. The
man begged autumn to stay. Begged it not to go the way of all the other
autumns. And the smell was that of buttermilk fresh boy and soft silent trod
upon brown and red leaves of crunch.

The world seemed nice now. It seemed as though it had turned into a
cathedral and the sky was a huge pastel pastoral picture of whatever came to
mind when certain colors blended, as they did now--the bright eternality of
the boy, the sexual kissing, the tongues touching tip to tip, the hands
reaching, the hand reaching out to touch and touch in return and the
knowing, the gentle gilded prospect of the knowing--all like neon, all like
electricity burning, burrowing these two animal creatures under the loam of
love, under the loam from which they would never be extricated again. And
the man knelt to the boy and the man was of reality and of promises always
kept for everyone else, you see.

And he was tired of promises to everyone else, you see. He was tired and he
wanted surcease. He was tired and wanted home. He had ached through life,
brilliant and successful. He had denied himself everything because he was on
the horns of memory, which had spurred him on to so much and so much of it,
excellent. He had succeeded alone alas with turning the clock back, in his
own mind, alone. He had spent these days with this boy, with this one, here.
And who was to prove it otherwise? Who would make him an alibi for a
lifetime? Who would tempt to succeed at one more than the precious golden
rules and the boy helped the man downward onto his scarred knees. As the man
touched the boy's uncut penis, with face and mouth and hands and the warmth
of breath. The warmth of something more than a summer falls.

For summer falls lie. Summer falls have shrillness in them and whistles of
deafening power that you can only hear with the scream in yourself that says
make it stop, make it be over. Please. And the boy's hands reached out to
the man's stolen and bent shoulders, shoulders he must have taken from
someone else, shoulders that he had stolen or borrowed, because they could
not be his, how could his shoulders have become so stooped? And his mouth
took in the golden penis and the day was so beautiful, the feel, the touch
and taste of autumn was here in this penis and the small balls little globes
of winter heading up to warm space where diffidence and contradictions did
not matter in the least. He took his measure of the penis, he calculated it,
he knew exactly when to suck it, when to stop, when to move it round in his
mouth, when to look up at the boy's sighing face and closed tightly pleasure
eyes, and when to make to boy cum exactly the right time, and over and
again.

And then there was the ever after. As the man lay by the golden gurgling
stream and the boy lay on top of him and warmed them both. With clothing of
nature and never having to explain and never having to give account. The
freedom and the slavery and the salvation and the loadstone, as the boy
pressed into the man and the man felt the boy's tight buttocks and pressed
the boy into himself, into his stomach, and thought of the satellites in the
sky and the planets in their course and the sun still there, just hidden
behind the sodden gray. As the boy leaned his face to the man's chest and
lay his head on that chest. As they moved in sexuality counted time. As they
moved into bereavement the boy did not understand, nor did he need to. As
the man looked into the eyes that were the right eyes. And stroked the boy's
long gold fall and it was the right color and the right texture, maybe more
so, maybe more beautiful than was, or at least remembered.

The man was a time machine. The man was a time clock. The man held the boy
and felt the soothing astounding sexuality of him, the open free and
unimpeded running of the game of emotions and soon the running away or
toward, but this time, when the boy left him like a boy leaving home, like
the stream off and running because it has no other choice, because they are
partakers of a moment and then off and gone and finding new hills and new
skies, not because there is intrinsically anything new about them, but they
were new in a boy's eyes, in all the boys' eyes and that was the delicate
madness of it all. Things that were and could not be explained. Things that
happened, experiences, travels hugely far and wide, because they traveled
only a little space and sometimes not at all, and thus the vast distance
from one side of a moment to another-star field to star field and imagine.

The man had come and the boy had played with the cum on their stomachs and
their chests. The boy put some of the man's cum on his own penis tip because
he was too young yet and liked to pretend it was his own cum there. As the
man whispered soon and sooner still. And there was such loneliness in his
voice, as though the trees had spoken in waves of winter come wind because
somehow they knew. And the man rubbed his scarred hands down the boy's back
and he knew, they knew, it was futile, that the man would unlock the boy's
back soon even though he would try to delay it as long as possible. That the
man would stop the Joel creature and still his breathing. That he would stop
him as he had stopped the other Joel androids he had spent so many of his
last years devising, because he had been so sore and so lonely and so angry
and so unreal ever since the real Joel was gone lifetimes ago; therefore
since the man was a scientist and knew how to merge mathematical facts and
longitudes with music and murmur and heart song....

But as the naked boy lay beside him stroking the man's now flaccid penis,
rubbing it slowly, like the boy was remembering a song he was far too young
to remember, playing it in his mind fondly like a childhood that had
forgotten him too, as he knew this was he.  As it came to him, the man never
got the music exactly right, never got the moment and the time and the
sweetness right on key, sometimes closely; maybe this was the closest he had
ever gotten. And that, the boy knew, was the worst thing, because the man
would go on and on trying and trying. That all those boy shells in the
laboratory behind the failure doors had wanted so to love the man, had
wanted so to assuage the man's enigmatic sadness and had been so good and so
perfect and so lonely themselves. The boy thought as he touched the man in
please, hello, in please, stay, and the man touched him in goodbye, my Joel,
goodbye my heart, again and again. The boy thought and wanted to say these
things, how he needed love too, and just because a clockwork key stops the
android from moving, it does not stop the too real hearts in major lineage
from being alone and sad and tearlessly weeping in their long endless days
of remembering love and thinking could he not see? How blind brilliance. How
very foolish and so stupidly ironic.

And the man looked at him as an almost but not quite home. And the boy said
his name and the man smiled as best he could, lonely winter smile. The boy
could do only what he was able to do. He helped the man up and then did what
was not required of him, maybe from this his friend would see, the boy took
the man's penis in his mouth and loved it and loved him and looked up at the
man's face and saw it shrouded in sadness and sorrow and the loneliest of
all the shades--the next boy he created, this would be Joel perfectly, this
would be an end to lonely days, not seeing, the man, how old he had become,
how here was a friend, this mechanical boy and the others, and they were far
from clockwork mechanisms. They were Joels.  They were all sides of the boy.
They were Joel thoughtful.  And Joel sad.  And Joel a bit younger. And Joel
a bit older. Joel in winter. And in summer. He had done it, this idiot man.
He had created a whole phalanx of Joels all seen in prism glass. All
reflections of how the man saw Joel and how he did not see sometimes the
Joel who really was. Who was even more beautiful than the nostalgic dream of
what once was. And would be again if the man could see it.

If the boy could say it now. As he sucked the man's semi-hard penis, because
loneliness was settling in and the day was getting darker and the nights
were longer still. But the man had not given the boys the ability to say
this, to tell him so, to tell him with each try he had succeeded beyond his
maddest dreams. He had programmed them not to say this. He had done that at
the very first attempt at re-creating his friend. He had programmed the
right emotions, the right moments, the perfect glissandos into each of them,
Joel of Tuesday last, and Joel of morning first of frosty November land.
Joel of plaid shirt and long legs and arms and jeans and boots running to
him down the country roads of youth. Or Joel of eyes and smiles and arms to
hug with the Christmas morning to rival every Christmas morning anyone in
the world had ever imagined impossible.

But he had to have the real boy. He had to make himself constantly sad. The
original boy had made the man, also so young then, limitlessly sad, had
tried to tell him the secret key to the heart of the boy, but the man would
not listen. He listened never again save to loneliness and increments of
pain. As the real Joel looked down that country road his love had driven
every sacred Sunday to Joel and final and magnificent life of home and love.
That was to remain unkindled. And that final Sunday when the man had gone
off forever more. He did not love me. He did not love me. Oh God, Joel, if
you only knew. Oh God, Barry, if you only knew. And thus it ended. And thus
it began.

And in time the man turned the boy to their clothes.  When they were
dressed, they walked back to the scientist's house. The worn grooves of the
fingerprints of the day were intermingled and only subtly the same.  And
subtly the same had been his damnation and salvation never to come. The boy
was put in the closet with the rest and turned off to stand there for
eternity.

As the man went to his workbench and his electronics and diagrams and
devices, and thought, yes, this time, I will get it right...this time....