"Seducing You"
by
Timothy Stillman
Relax, then. But not too relaxed. This is a seduction. I am your dearest dream. I am whatever, whoever, you want me to be. Harvest home. We are together in a dorm room. The rest of the university is home on Thanksgiving break. It is night. We are alone. Not moving, with quiet snow falling down round the whole of the world. You whisper into my shoulder all your little sighs. The room is warm, toasty, with the building heat--ours and its. There are salvations in the midnight bloom that surrounds us. I kiss the nape of your neck, thinking of the warmth of you and our feelings are tender, our thoughts are supple. You are the world that is no longer carny, no longer Barnum and Bailey. For, as the song goes, I believe in you. We touch. I touch you. The temple of my fingers lingering on your sweet face. You have a noble face. You have deep eyes that see long past tomorrow or next month even.
We have been eyeing each other since the beginning of our freshman year when we glanced and then never stop glancing at each other, from that first time when we were signing up for classes, until now. We took off each other's clothes and made love long before we did it actually. How I fell into your arms tonight. How you stayed with me. Caught me. You were the endless winter and the snowy moonlight. Caught there in your face that is my dearest dream. My harvest home. And now we lie side by side on my bed. Don't be frightened. I only mean you good things. I mean you roses in spring. I mean you snowflakes in July. I want you to caress me now, as I caress you. This is not about me. This is totally and solely about you. I tickle your shoulders and I find them so easy to fit my hands over. So warm and so inviting. You are the mountains of love and you are perfect. I can't imagine anyone ever but you.
We are naked, cuddled together. I kiss your lips and they are soft as feathers. Warm as midnight when the covers huddle over us and speak of our boyhood romances, fantasies or real. You are in shadow and soft moonlight, and you come to me. You push your body against mine. We are a moment written into poetry. Our bodies are our scheme of lines. Your face next to mine. My tongue reaching out for yours. You laugh a bit, shyly. And I too laugh and pull you nearer me, if such a thing is possible. Your mind is in orbit and slowly we sail round the moon, as my hands touch round to the small of your back. Feeling the ridges of your spine as you arch to me like a covered bridge in russet leafed maple tingle New England arching with the fine steed that it has under it in apple windfall autumn.
Your tongue duels with mine. Minuets with mine. I am your server. Your slave. Our legs feel so good tangled in each other. As though they are formations of a golden pool in a fairy tale land. With Hansel and Gretel thatched wood hut nearby. The witch dispensed with. The night garlanded with stars. Your hands work their wonders. You are seamless gift. You are my love whose body is only the dream world that no one save us will ever know. The enchantment is from you alone. And I am grateful to be in your presence. There are tears in your eyes. You have been so wounded before. I kiss your tears away. You will never be wounded again. The kisses on your eyes, on your cheeks, on the tip of your nose, on your lips yet again, are magic potions. They are silhouette powders that give you the right to turn to the side anyone who has ever hurt you before and anyone who might hurt you again, magic elixir that will turn them to the side and vanish them like an unimportant, doesn't count, shadow, and thus gone. They do not walk the same earth you do. And never shall.
Our touches are tentative. Our love is new. This is not the first time we have lain together. But close to. I feel your warm chest next to mine. I feel your heart beating with mine. We are a song of our touches. We speak little during our love making. We remember and we replace old loves with our new one. Your hands I now kiss. Your hands that have held pencils and your fingers that have pressed computer keys. Your hands that have brought food to your mouth. Your hands which have held to rails of stairs you have walked down. Your hands that have placed themselves over your mouth whenever you soul seems to be trying to get out. And I touch you. I possess you. I want you in my heart. You are the yearning. A new foal in summer time, gamboling over the green grass. Entering the world of warm sun love and proud young legs that dance through the skies of your dreams. You are a colt who bolts over fences. Who is never to be tagged or caged or saddled or bridled. You are free and wild. I put my head down to your chest. I caress your pecs. I kiss your nipples which are now hard like juniper berries.
And you kiss the top of my head. And we hold as though the world is about to fall off of us. And thus ultimate freedom. We strain against each other. We are in friendly fire and friendlier fight. A flight of doves cross the moonlit snow, heading to warmer climes. But never to be warmer than our groins pushed against each other. No, wrong word. Melted against each other. You feel like I imagine warm gold to feel. Rich and moldable and full of luxury. We stood at bed's side only a moment ago, after waiting a long lifetime for each other. And I took your clothes and you took mine. We were reeds bending over one another, laving each other with our mouths and our tongues and our most greedy fingers. We held and felt and gained and explored and turned to each other. And finally truly new. No bars for us. As in cages. As in bars of sadness where the sad men go to find momentary hope with being touched by someone who might care, this time who might care, but it never lasts, is never meant. Not ever.
We are together. We held to each other as though we were a third person birthed from us two, as we lay each other on the bed, and we heard the strong good silence of the dorm all round us, we alone in our nirvana. And you kiss my chin now, and you laugh again, a wild cottony laugh, woodsong in it, and you blow bubbles in the most human parabola that has become we two. We too. Think of it. We, no longer first person singular. The ashes on our tongues, the desperation of our waiting until this night. As we luxuriate in each other. As we put our hands, palms out, against each other, for we are mirrors. I am the mirror of you. I see only your tender smile and your sweet eyes and I put my hand to your chin and I whisper, "I adore you." You are all sex now. You are all soul and spirit and body. I will let you percolate through me the rest of my days. I will never stop wondering at the song that is you, the song that you never knew you were before. My hands need you. And knead you. And never want to leave you. Won't you touch me in all my secret places? Won't you remember me as though we were shadows that got lonely enough to create us two?
You cry out as I bend myself to you. As I lay you back on the bed and lie on top of you. Your body arches again. Your head pulled back as I pinch very gently your nipples and then take them in my lips and warm them and send shocks of electricity through you. The delight of you. The fingers of my shadow that grasp down your chest to your abdomen. That feel it close to me. The warm pulsating of it. The warm rush of it. So hot to my hands. And you strain to me as I lie beside you again. My penis hard, harder than it has ever been before, because solely of you. The heart of you that catches deeply in my throat. And your hands press me to you and your body is runneled with perspiration, as is mine. I lean on my elbow and I stroke your flesh which is velvet feeling. Which is the moon when you get to know it. Lighting my way. How did I ever find the next minute without knowing you? How did I go through the wasteland Elliot wrote about and stay alive even mere seconds before there was you in my life? I put my mouth to your left side. To your outer thigh. I purposely don't touch your aching erection for a long time. I want it to last. I want to remember--everything. I worship you. Our erections are temples to our god and my god is you.
I flick a finger at your pubic hair, and you stir. I giggle. "Do you like that?" I feel you nod. Then I pull away. Your legs open invitingly, voluntarily. I touch your right leg. I measure it down with my fingers. I feel the boyhood still in you. I imagine you riding your first bike. I imagine you at your first camping trip in the scouts. I revel in the images of you younger and then the images of you older. You play your fingers down my face, touching the tip of my eyebrows, feeling them with your fingers that go to the top of my eyelids, and then press them down slowly over my closing eyes, drifting me into your dream. Making me see you so clearly. From now on, I close my eyes to see you. Please make of me what you will. Make of me anything you like. I am your clay. You are the potter. Make me into magic. For you are magic and I only the gold ingots that are spewed out by it, stray fires in a deep winter night. Your hands pull me up to you and we feel our hardness against each other. You are becoming bolder by the minute. But with enough deference, enough quietness, enough unsureness, to make it sweeter still. To make the heart yearn deeper and trust a little bit more with each passing moment.
Your hands are so comforting. Your legs are so strong. Your penis under mine is exquisite. There are no words to make it so, what it is like. My words especially cannot describe it. But you write the poetry in me. Your hands on my spine now. Playing it like a harp. Rejoicing in yourself and in my rejoicing in you. I am between your legs now. My legs and groin are yours. My balls and cock belong to no one but you. If you will have them. And I place my head now that I writhe and write clumsily on you my own school boy dreams with custard skies and ground of green grass for running lazily through, I place my head now on your pubic hair as I slide down you and kiss you all the long slow tantalizing journey down there that I take. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for making me something and someone I never knew before. Your man root is strong and boldness personified against the bottom of my chin. Your dick bobs and writhes against me. It begs surcease. It begs rejoinder. It begs my hands to hold it. Feel the throb. Feel the tension of it. The length of it. The quiet root is quiet no longer. It is the sky pulled low and feeling, I can, the clouds. It is the stars of night glittering in my hair. Stars that you put there. It is playful. And reminds me of that first time, as we sat naked on this bed, facing each other, and holding close, touching the tips of us to each other. Wavering and itchy and jumpy and giddy with it all.
The thing of it is...I love you. The thing of it is...I'm nothing without you. You are in my mind all the time. You never leave me. In class, there is you. Studying at my desk, there is you. Walking cross the quad, there is you. Reading the Sunday Times in the library lounge, there is you. The blueness of the carpeting of the library. The mustiness of the old classrooms in the ancient almost falling down buildings. The boys and girls who walk hand and hand and in love and love cross campus, they are you. The longing in the pit of me is you. You have invaded me. You have stormed my fortress and found in your eye averted eagerness that I have awaited you, and that I, in seducing you, have instead been seduced by you. We struggle this night, as though we are giving birth to each other. This will be the first entire night we've spent alone together, without having to fear knock on the door, without having to get up out of bed every so often to be sure we've locked our door and the connecting door as well to the bathroom that leads to the room across.
We are jubilant and your body is a series of fetching giggles silent that no mouth can make as I take your dick and hold it to my lips. The perfect penis, against who mine is a shameless sham. You are a powerful engine, a train that leaps in the night mountains and leagues away. You are the drear world breaker. The unaccustomed harbinger of good things. Of sun at midnight. And warmth in snow. And Christmas in your eyes. For me alone to see. My hands at your balls that are tight with love. My hands between your legs, where it is warm, where there is the fever of hand hold inside you, as I take you in my mouth. And your body is a string of surprises that will never be all laid out bare before me. There is only supple home in you. There is the knowledge that you feel my tongue writhing against you. That you feel me gulp you. As my own meager hardness is against your leg, as you reach down to me. And we are truly one, now. To stay like this. To revel in you. To feel the feathers inside your abdomen on which my hand tingles like spring rain on a tin roof, cozy sounding, like coffee brewing, and warm inside and ten years old and safe in bed with mother and dad looking over us, keeping watch over us in our trundle beds, keeping us loved and protected.
This is not fantasy. This is reality. Reality out the window is fantasy and purblind. It is a world of shutters that close, out there. It is a world of doors that lock us out, out there. It is a season that is not filled with love or beauty or the true things of life. But the world inside our windows. This is real. This is why life was created. As I go up and down on you, only you I am talking about, I feel every contour. I feel every ridge. I feel every vein. I feel every depending curve. I will remember every inch of you. I will remember every moment of your breath, for each breath of yours is different than the last, has a different color to it, a different weight and heft and shape. I will take you from yourself and I will greedily hold to you and for all the running of all the days to come, you will be beside me. For you are that urgently, that compellingly important. I tell you these things with the words of my mouth, with the flicks of my tongue. I will never want you mechanically, for an hour, and then run off to someone else to be with them mechanically, for an hour, and then run off to someone else...
I cover you with my arms. I push up against your hips and string your body out to me. I caress your globes and I find them perfect pillows of flesh and muscle and bone. I love when we are sleeping, to fall asleep, with you on your stomach, and my head resting on your butt. And my heart skipping like inclining up the sleepy steep hill of you, as I think of you as country, as continent, as ocean over the blue sky, the blue sky below that can never even begin to think of competing with the ocean of you. The moods of you, from happy to sad to fretful and back to happy again. You thrust into my mouth. Your strong pubic hair pushes in and out as my lips and chin. You are in an agony of sexual lust. And I want you. I want you so desperately. I spear you as you spear me in return. My penis is touched by your fingers, at the very top of it. It gambols. It stutters. Your hand struggles to bring me off. I put your hand on your stomach, delicately. This is for you. I can wait till later. I concentrate totally on you. The taste. The soft bread warm from the oven aroma of you. I feel your balls so fine, with my hand. I press at them. I cup them like loving glows in a summer night sky when the fireflies blink yellow nods and then pass by in the redolent July air. I hold the base of you with one hand. I want you as deeply inside my mouth as possible. I want to stay here forever. I never want time to move. Because you are time. You are the Venus flytrap that has caught me, as unworthy as I am.
The ocean of you is boiling. I see you now. I see you in the throes of ecstasy and prayer as only the body can pray. Your hands strain now at the bed sheet we're on, that we have somehow tangled around our lower legs. Your fingers clinch to the sheet. Your head is tossed back and you are lost in rapture. You are building, your bones and your blood and your muscles and your skin and your nerve endings, to the greatest climax of your life. You feel it, don't you? You feel the all of it. This is for no one other than you. I think of no one else as I make love to you. I think only of you. Your fingers and toes bend with excitement, as do mine. Your body pounds up and down. Your face grimaces with joy. Your whole body is fired with electrical currents, hopping out of you and into me. There is nothing between us, our bare bodies, our bare souls, the barriers are down, the night aloneness is struck and taken off stage. The oneness, the "mixed-upedness," has become crystal clear, has burgeoned. Is burning its white hot radiance inside us and on us. My mouth had become holding a wax candle made of human form, the wax drips and burns my mouth in a most pleasant way. A most confirming way.
And the forest of you urges down. Your hands grasp onto the top of my shoulders as you lean upward as far as you can to see me giving you head. As I draw up my eyes to yours and you nod and whisper please, please. You excite me no end. To see you seeing me doing this. I marvel at all of this. I angle your dick in my mouth, getting ready, and I feel the glow of it, the coming eruption of it. You feel it too, don't you? Oh please say you do. I've tried so hard. I want you to come in my mouth. I want to feel the rush and gush of your geyser. As my mouth is on you, enveloping it in sucking close quarters, I also want the love drink of yours to be in me. First time. And you are all shivers and quivers and the arrow is ripe and pulled back taut and thus released.
You come now. Yes, please, do it. Think of me as you want me to be. Release absolutely every ounce of sperm. Till it flows in raging torrents. Your legs are hot and your abdomen and your crotch. I feel your hips leap under my hands, become as taut as your dick, filling upward. And I take you in my mouth. Right this second. I am powerless because of you. I feel you filling my mouth. I feel you in the glow of love and ecstasy and magical encounter. I delight in the taste of your release. In me. Now. It surpasses anything I've ever imagined. We are children in the wood become men as our love sparks its flames. Flow your dam broken river in me. Don't think of anything else. Rub your hands as I am doing now, up our chests and back down. Feel the turned on. Feel the giving like has never been given before. Take and take and use me as you will. Do what your dearest secrets tell you to do. I am here. I will oblige. This is our true calling. As I swallow and swallow. The essence of you.
In time, I take a Kleenex and rub it on you, cleaning you up a bit. It tingles and your put your arm companionably round my shoulders and we are Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. As you reach down and kiss me. And then I climb up to you, as though climbing up Mt. Everest, to the tip of the tallest stars in the sky. My dick is throbbing now. I am massaging it. I feel now your weakened hand on it. You hold it and your fingers are soft and kind and delicate and probing. "I want to do you now," you say. I smile, and tell you later, we need to wait a while, we have all the time in the world, you know?
I put my head down on your chest. I feel your wild summer heart racing. I feel the all of you in it. You are exhausted now, tiredly happy, and I close my eyes, the feel of your fingers at the tip of my hardness. Soon my darling, soon. And we sleep for a time and I dream of you, assured that you will be there when I wake up. And then, if you would, you can send me to the stars as well. And always remember this, whatever happens, wherever we go, these simple words, tossed around by so many persons who will never know what they've missed, who don't believe those declarations for a minute, don't feel it for a second, but you and I, we believe it, and feel it, and I hope you will always remember me with these small words of inestimable value, that only count when used with the heart.
P.S. I love you.
the end