"He Walks In Beauty"
by
Timothy Stillman
And, finally, home. Where he could take off his boy clothes. His chinos, neatly pressed and creased. His flowery silk shirt, sheer, showing his red berry nipples clearly. Pressed against his sternum, outlining his ribs. As his tight creased chinos showed his basket that was impressive. His sockless tennis shoes on his long feet. All the way home in the late spring sunshine. Warm inviting soothing breeze blowing on him all the way, like a candle in the sun trying to celebrate him at 13 and cusp of adult hood frowning too close to the end days.
But now home. Where these days he felt more and more safety. In the yellow glow living room of the frame wooden log house that seemed to be formed whole from the nature out there in the forest of green and glow and the surprise of life in every grass frond and behind every tree. And Jordi himself the prow of boy now girl leading the way through the spray of green leaves and the tangle of his heart. Tied as his hair came undone in his living room of the empty house--mother gone on business trip out of town for three days. Younger brother not coming home till the Little League game is over.
Still colors. Restive boy Jordi becoming what he was inside and outside, and silken, as silken as his heart could register. Gold pony tail done away with and the rubber band that had held it captive tossed aside on the brown deep carpeting, right next to the stairs that were steps round and up to castle keep. In a land that was forever his own. At least for a few hours.
Tall and ready was Jordi. Tall and thin and filled with a face of long cheekbones and eyes that were vying with the blue sea walls of the living room for the ships at night that ached to sail on them, needed the compass that would set the heart to touching his own as it beat, with precision, with daring, for Jordi was daring. Was smooth bodied. Long limbed. Languorous. Easy to talk to and easier to listen to. A pair of red berry lips. A tongue that was sweet and pointed, red itself, as it licked the lips. For he was a symphony of his own music.
Music that he could not explain to anyone or himself. Knowing only that he now stood in front of himself in the center of the living room with the soft heavy couch to his side and the big screen TV to the other side, and he, next to the fieldstone gray fireplace with its silver boundaries, over which was a large oblong mirror in a gold frame, bowed himself out of boy. Here in the family room where he got to be, this afternoon, so sinfully, so scandalously, a naked girl.
He left the tribe and was swinging his thick shoulder length fragrant golden hair round his shoulders. Hair in shelves, like his life. Hair is stair step shelves. Graded onto one flow of gold. Then stepping down to the next shelf. And thus to his shoulders. A giant's heart in his chest. Powerful and needing silken more than a boy's shirt round him.
His hands on his chest. His convex stomach. Feeling the sweat stains just a little on him. His body pirouetting round and he naked always in his mind. The sun coming through the thick glassed windows out in the middle of the forest, the susurration of the air wine sap tasting outside and gently hissing blowing air conditioning inside. The flowers on his shirt pockets were of roses and dandelions and they were colors that he fell into when his heart broke for someone he loved because they could not love him or if they did love him but were never to be as good as he, never to be as worthy, or deserving.
Glass fire was Jordi there in the room of blue and brown and with paintings on the plain walls of ships and storms and Christ crossing the other streams that only he could cross, only Christ and Jordi. There in the leaded glass and the amber glass and the strawberry colors that might have been only in Jordi's mind, as was the rush to silk, and the rush to his eyes that seemed always to be on the verge of tears. That seemed always to be breaking in their brown heritage as though he had been around a thousand years or more. And had seen the world try to be brave, try to be strong, but failing, and strong steel spires were his destination and roomy green places that were filled with the cornucopia of life as Jordi/boy took off his clothes in strip tease and became Jordi/girl as layers removed, as shirt pearl buttons unbuttoned by his nimble fingers, and then shirt being pulled off by him, as though by lovers up ahead known as Legion.
As though there would only be the boy pulling his shirt out of his jeans and finding there a young girl's chest. Finding there an eight year old girl's chest and like ivory soap the ribs made of, like a lovely little miniature of some foreign boy in another country where the lead reins stopped. And the mad days cultured by a world that knew not of him. But would, most assuredly, some day.
Jordi, half naked. Jordi putting his thin fingers to his wide smile, to his toy perfect enamel whiter than bone teeth. And feeling the wealth of himself. Stroking his hands of a tincture of gold down his too white chest and back, in front and on the sides. He examining himself in the mirror. Feeling the lace of his fingertips and the joys of the necessity of Jordi in this world. A boy of long chest and hands that knew how to v the abdomen just so. That knew how to look like a swan dying, falling to his knees. So very much in love with the girl Jordi that he unleashed when he was allowed and when he was alone. Would it always be thus?
Like honey southern, his voice, as he collapsed in perfect balletic grace to the thick carpeting and felt his fingers at his nipples which he vowed one day to have gold rings in. And to make him feel like a slave boy in the market place, there in dusty Arabia, there with minarets in the distance and hands of bronze that needed a boy who was a girl to replace a loved lad who was distance and time and lost heart away. And to find Jordi. To cherish and caress and pull ever so slightly around by his gold nipple rings. And Jordi lying with his legs open and his arms spread eagle. The cool air nice on his almost naked body.
His Luscious jewel encrusted penis hard in his jeans. The penis he loved and did not love. The penis that was his and was not his. A distance and time for that thing that was so needed, that said in its own imaginative way--divest yourself and wait for the growing of facial hair, and acne and the bulky smells the other boys at school had.
No, Jordi smashed a thin fist to the floor. Not for me. I do not have acne, nor hair on my face and I never shall. Jordi taking off his tennis shoes, firming his feet determinedly into the carpet. Jordi who did not have gym class today pulling off his jeans, deliciously, with precision and efficacy that no other boy/girl in the world had. Surely no other boy. And as he rolled his jeans off him, as though tearing himself from the world outside, his hands touching the delicacy, the sheerness, the sexiness in extreme of the panties he wore underneath them. His sister's panties. His sister off to college last Fall and he finally able to wear her under garments. Her femininity that he could not get close to when she was about. The girls at school were always cuddling with him, but he of course could not ask them.
He had tried to ask her in so many different ways. Off hand. Off the cuff. But she was thick or mean headed and refused to see what he was about, though it seemed, save her and his mother and his lunkhead brother, the rest of the world did, but did not at the same time. And he pulled his jeans off his legs and put the chinos aside, but with care not to uncrease them. As he lay there, his mind a camera from above zooming down and seeing the boy/ girl with the large erection in the panties. The erection that was so proudly there even though its owner, or was ownership the other way round?, has such misgivings about it. How he wished at times to be smooth down there. To have a clit.
To have a place where boys might go someday and find themselves in a cave of fairy tale lights and magic and magnificence. But for now in the lights lavender and the golden glow inside the log cabin house and the sound of rustling things outside the windows, all of it caught on its own ocean voyage, he was lost in a sense of self, a sleepy deciduous tree sense of just being, just existing, the rights of Jordi who was an oak tree with oak tree limbs reaching out and plucking the blossoms out of the day for no one else other than himself.
Jordi, who loved the girls and whom the girls loved. Whom the girls loved when he let them feel the little eiderdown on his arms and on his ankles, and his penis would rise its one eyed golden wonder when he felt their hands on him, which he sometimes outlined in his jeans for them, making them stare, as they continued stroking him, when no one else was around, in the hall way or in the class room before anyone else got there. And how he wished to be both for them, as though he could be a trap door and he would move the boy aside to the girl there in him and the boys kidded him that he really was a girl for he looked like one. But it was far more than that.
He looked like a sprite in a land of locked in myths and it would have been fine save for those myths, for more than a few boys looked expectantly at him at school, in class, in gym, when they thought he did not notice. And in gym, more than a few boys liked to gather close to the showers next to his. And they were quiet. Did not taunt him. Observed as he carefully sexily knowingly soaped his body in the water and let the water drip off and down his long uncircumcised cock. One point of him happy. One point of him ashamed. To be in two worlds that needed to be one that needed to flower within and call itself him and no one else.
And now like a dream that was caught at the edge of the first summer morning with the sun still a little red pustule in the sky and the grass of green already getting hot and the ants lined up for their daily foray parades for food and back to their ant hills, holding their treasures, the first day of summer, when a boy wakes up and realizes the lead sinker in his stomach need not apply, for school is over for two and one quarter months and there is nothing to do but fall back in bed in luxuriating. The luxuriating that was Jordi. The boy now the girl now the forest faun now the forest satyr who walked stealthily, walked in readiness, as a cub fox following its mother and learning the ways of the woods, the world, how not to provoke, how not to be seen as food or game, how to keep out of the way of the enemies, the cruel animals ready to pounce. How to make meekness seem like tensor strength and thus to preserve a wildland thornless defenseless flower named Jordi.
And Jordi walked up the circular steps with the silver posts.
To his sister's room he went, to his sister's bureau where he picked up the atomizer and sprayed himself with perfume, his cheeks, his ears, his neck and chest, and reaching down to pull the silken white panties from his crotch, to spray his almost hairless penis and groin and then to stop a moment to feel its tenderness, its readiness and to put his fingers to the ridge beneath his legs and to tweak the bottom of his cheeks down there. Then momentarily to the bones of his sides there that lead to his treasures. He then put on a white push up bra also from his sisters' drawers of dizzily intoxicating girl things. What he had lusted over and tried on in moments of frenzied freedom when he thought he would be caught for sure, during the days of her, and wanted to be, and was glad not to be. His mother was distant. Bleak. A drudge. His brother was locked into himself and easy to handle. But his sister was always around, always nosy, always trying to find what her brother was up to, always sneaking, catching him almost one time.
But she was gone now and the house seemed more airy and the smell of it was more of pine and the house seemed bigger and his room seemed larger and friendlier without her efficiency evidence taking just outside his closed and nominally locked door through which she could see like she had x ray vision and through which she could blend and enter like the Manhunter from Mars. Always the weight of her on his tender bones. On his bones that seemed to be made of a Keats poem. That were lyrical and that heralded as though some blond animal cub or changeling had come down from a planet, that lived in the scent and the liquid center of a kind of adoration that made Jordi hard as much as putting on the bra did. As he let his cock stick out the top of the panties. As he stroked its doughy head. As he held himself back with his hands clutching on the top of the bureau with all those framed photos of his sister who looked like Jordi would look if he had been a girl and it was all so terribly unfair.
He held himself backward. Straining backward, as though he were at a fun fair and he was the merry go round and all the children were holding onto this sexual boy, this boy of special potency that would make all of them fall down at his knees, his knees of bone and white through the skin that was all so new, that was so fresh and clean, that it halfway squeaked when he walked. And he walked in his own effortless clime though god alone knew how much work, how much painful effort had gone into his fashioning himself to function as well as he did in the male and female world, most at the same time. How to hide in plain view.
His balls he touched with his fingers of his left hand, underneath the left leg of his panties--her panties. He lived in fear that his mother would throw his sisters' old things away, things the girl had outgrown years ago, but she had not. It was a small victory each afternoon when he could do this thing, that he found the bureau drawers still filled with diamond lace and silk and magical underclothing that made his very body lace, that made his skin even softer and smoother and more sleek than it had been before. And how he took himself to her bed of ruffled pink coverlet and frills and lay herself down in the chrysalis that he begged to inculcate him this minute, as he begged at all minutes wherever he was and whenever, to let him emerge out into the sunlight that prism streamed through this house made of so many thick leaded windows that had these little rain bow overlays to them that made the sunlight a dancy different color kind of thing than known by anyone else on this planet.
As he lay on his back. As he pulled the panties down past his basket. As he turned over and pulled the panties half way down from his small sugar lump buttocks. And felt more sexy, more exposed with them partly off his buttocks than being wholly naked. As he massaged them and felt that old familiar tingle in the penis that could only work, only service himself and someday, please, some day, someone who loved him, another girl who would know how he felt in his heart. Who would do more than let him play dolls with them at their homes if the girls were young enough or wanted to pretend they were young enough. Who would snuggle against him on the floor of their respective rooms and whisper their secrets like perfumed warm snow in his ears. Who would lay with him as though he was the sister they never had.
Or the boy who would never hurt them or leave them or become Fall and old and winter winds around them, sharp, quiescent only for the next painful leap that would come down, they were sure, with cleats on their bellies.
He fondled his tits through the bottom of each bra cup. He remembered seeing his sister in her bras and panties, fetchingly, fondly, secretively, and only so briefly. She told him, when she caught him once or twice, that he wanted to diddle her and that was sick, and he would slump away, his secret candy not to be shared with her, though he had very much wanted to, and very much he had wanted to say, no, Diedre, I don't want to diddle you, I want to be you. Why can't anyone understand that?
And thus Jordi with his penis sticking in the air. Jordi raising each long little girl curvy leg in front of him and up to the air with toe pointed at the heavens as though it could be accomplished that way. As he stroked them with such tenderness and sighed so sweetly at the tickles that went through him. Feathers inside.
The treasure at the center of him that was like spun gold that would unravel like thick lustrous hair down and far down the secret tower room where he lay counting the coins that were his day to day and adding up and needing something more than boys' rough thick hands on him, or girls' soft ones. The girls giggling, finding him a play thing, a little toy brother whom they could command at a moment's whim. Jordi, who, so they thought, did not know a thing about sachets and menses and the need to always sit down when peeing. Who did not, supposedly, know the need of love huddles at the beginning of every morning. Or the secret clues and the whispers and the eye shadings that meant so much to each other and hand maneuvers and ways to point the head, all of this they thought he could not possibly understand. All of this was for the manner of all the boys around them on whom they were enlaced. With whom they were captured. In that heady early high school way where silliness becomes them night and day.
But he did understand. He understood that they were selling themselves cheaply, they were tossing around for this boy until another one came to beg and then to salvage that boy's unkempt heartless ego until he got enough strength to leave her one fine day for someone else, and she in tatters and broken, as Jordi would hold her, for it was always into his arms she would come and he would kiss the tears and he would brush her gleaming hair of red or gold or brown or black away and he would inhale the girlness of her and she would inhale the girlness of him but would never see him for what he was, because no one knew, they thought he was homosexual. They thought he was going to go off with some muscular sailor man some day. Head out to the rough seas and cling like a girl to someone of craggy face and small buttocks and heavy shoulders that were just right for a young gay boy to weep into, and feel those strong oak arms around his puppy flesh and never be alone on the high seas again.
And at times, Jordi wanted that as well. But only at times. So Jordi now taking off his panties. So Jordi still in his sister's bra. Feeling at this moment glad he had a cock because it was fun walking with the stick out appendage and the little balls hard as ball bearings in their slightly wrinkled and he had to admit intriguing sac, as he went to his sister's ruffled vanity table, and sat on the stool that was cool vinyl under his buttocks, as he pressed his hard on between his legs and forced it to stay there for a time, hurting, throbbing, feeling so good sexually. As he looked among his sister's make up and eye shadow and powders and proceeded to adorn his face accordingly. Green eye shadow. Rouge on his cheeks. Complimenting his face which always seemed to be wearing those make up soft summer colors all the time anyway, thus adorning what was already there.
He put on his sister's cheap gaudy faux pearl necklace, as he took off the bra, and rubbed it against his tits until they ached with passion. And her pendant glass ear rings on his tits. Hurt a little. The good kind. He observed his face in the mirror of the vanity. He put his hands under his chin. He looked down at his reflection that ended slightly under his outie belly button. He smiled larger and showed his perfect teeth. He had the kind of face you could look at for eternity and never sway once. He tongued his lips, top and bottom. He pushed the pearls to his flesh and felt so extraordinarily well loved. So extraordinarily good. He wondered if anyone else had ever felt as he did now. He somewhat doubted it.
His penis throbbed between his legs in his sister's pink shell room with the posters on the walls of all her teen age heart throbs smiling, so they thought, mysteriously, though Jordi knew more mystery than any of them put together. Heart throbs who had since fallen into obscurity in such a quick, quick time. But Jordi would be young forever, and desirable even longer so, he determined, as he powdered the puff all over his body, feeling the wave of smells, the powder and the perfume encompassing him, turning him into something truly otherworldly. Truly a new breed of being that was neither one thing nor another, but only boy/girl. Only boy/girl whose body looked so feminine all on its own. So surely that was how he was meant to be. His buttocks were like a girls' buttocks. His back, his spine curved like a girl's. His face was like a girl's. He had never one time in his life been even close to being a clunky boy. He always walked delicately, on the balls of his feet. He always moved his hands as though carving loving invisible pictures in the air, when he spoke to someone. He always laughed in such a free, abandoned way, like a girl. He knew things from their perspective.
He was always one place, then seemingly instantly, another, and so sensuously, always an agile mind, always at the center of things, always with an angled way of going about thoughts and images and tests and texts that the other boys did not understand and truth to tell some of the girls didn't either. He did not so much as sit in a chair, as flow into it. He did not so much exit a room, as dance like a flame on slow, out the door. And he wished he could be one thing or another. He had read the novel "I Want What I Want" and it had made him so sad for the boy in it who tried with such pain and such grief to be a girl. Never, please, he begged silently at times, let my fate be like hers.
But now he wanted to masturbate. Like a girl. Yes. But like a boy as well. So he got some perfumed Kleenex tissues from the vanity table, stood up and so hot such an eager sex machine, walked to his sister's bed and lay himself down. He inhaled her perfume from the pillow into which he sighed and gasp promised and tickled with words of adoration and desire that were rushing hard through him. Though the scent was left there by him, not her, since it had been so long since she had lived here, but he pretended it had been left by her anyway. He inhaled and he giggled and he made his cuddly body go into paroxysms as he pushed and rubbed and loved himself up and down on the bed of soft cloudlike marshmallow mattress that seemed to curl round him and protect him.
He thought of another boy/girl and taking her/his clothes off down to the panties. He was a girl in a bed of stars with boy and girl lovers on both sides of him. He was covered with the most shimmery glitter and his body was one lush overwhelming overpowering girl prick. His mouth was an O. There were all the summer storms in the world in him exploding.
With his pink powdered like a new baby girl in the summer time born. With his left hand on his hard candy penis and his legs spread out. With one finger of his right hand between his sweet smelling thighs, which he had always dusted especially, as he put his index finger into his anus and diddled himself there as he jacked off his all boy penis but a penis still and true that seemed the kind a girl would have if she could. And for right now, he was more blessed than either girl or boy. For he was both.
And that, as he shot off into the sweet smelling Kleenex. He sighed and his penis and body poured out the boyhood of Jordi, as both went rigid and soft, rigid and soft. Spent. Waves inside and out. And the continual throbbing. It was wonderful and glorious. He allowed himself the luxury of a few moments of rest, then always keeping in mind his kid brother coming home soon, he replaced the things he had disturbed in his sister's room, went, deliciously feeling naked, downstairs, where he got his boy clothes from the living room, and then went to the shower in his room.
. There was a spot of honey warmth in the pit of his stomach as he turned on the shower. He tested the warmth of the water. He felt a fullness, and would golden shower while he washed--that was always nice, the shower nozzle water pounding onto him at the same time his boy water was pouring out of him. It was just so delightfully naughty for some reason. Like peeing in the public swimming pool.
He sat on the rim of the tub for a moment. Feeling chrysalis covering him and tomorrow or the next day he would emerge a golden complexly painted stunning breath taking butterfly in the length and depth of the summer sky and everyone would look up at him there, the wings of stained glass, the colors of which never before seen on this planet. And they would wonder who that little painted moment of perfection was.
But he would never, ever tell them.
"Was it lovely, darling?"
"Oh, ever so much so."
THE END