Date: Wed, 17 Feb 2010 13:52:28 -0800 (PST) From: Tim Stillman <email@example.com> Subject: g/m young friends "The Hands That Held The Book" The Hands That Held The Book By Timothy Stillman (in loving memory of my friend, Thomas Burnett Swann) They still had them, the unicorns with the yellow horns. They were not white, those horns, for to believe in pure white is a lie. This story is not a lie. And their horns were yellow. It was whispering mid spring and the grass was full, and they were satyrs of young, naked with hairy legs of fur. These satyrs would not grow old, neither with unicorns of the yellow horns. But the boy who loved him, had gone away. They tried to play, the boys satyrs riding unicorns, and the Summers bright yellow. Up ahead and the sun bright yellow now. The hills were springy, the winds were warm, just right for naked boys in meadows green and yellow flowers everywhere, a patch of words over to the right where passions grew at a Meadow Lake to see your body proud and true and see who held it just for you. Turn your head just a little to the right see lips forming to kiss yours, Warren serene of love and penises hard and straight. Fill a hand warm on your warm flesh and the Sun smile down and true and unicorns ran and the boys shouted. They were free. They were free. It was good to breeze the same air and to kneel on the ground before one another and hold tightly in the ceiling of the world is his eyes are brown or blue and the furry legs. And hooves too as bodies, held in the mission taken over by pointy ears and flaxen hair and mouths that held to dainty shoulders brown budded these children were. The bodies were for sexuality, the hearts for poetry thus entwined and service quality and sensuality came together and size of spring butterflies mood and hearts and flowing into the sky all the purple majesty of penises ready to come. The first time ever in winter, and spurted in warm gush may be, are on the common me. And we shall forever be boys will we. If anyone in mind, which is a good thing, for boys who are rival unicorn who paw and prance and snicker too watching children saying. I love you. Wearing garlands in their hair. Proud and sleek and strong and fair running to the skies to the clouds above hope and hard and healthy. This is love. Where lover gives a lover and jealousy there no need be. For every hard on his unicorn horn and sadness sets me free. I looked at them. I watched them gambol with each other. And I watched them fuck through the legs further across the boys' shoulders and see pledge and dwelled and plowed with much courage and diligent was he. We ran those days of distant hills, we sparked our hooves on stones, unicorns flew and butterflies too as big as the day was born. Pink link stiff cock-boy to- boy and then became the starter's game and remembered his name. Once more. Yesterday, there was a witch in a tree carried a snake for company. She knew other dreams, of someone else's schemes, and she knew the name of that boy. He was assistant she once thought, nothing more, and a tad overdone. And that, but he believed, and he dwelled here is another paradise of all the dreams he could ever wish for. Some go their own way, most do not struggle to stay. He never saw how fortunate a boy who was. But Timothy held now, carefully instead of breathing, afraid they would see. Couldn't he tell them he learned his lesson now way, the boy he had loved was less than they, heard in a picture just as they come, really were and always shall be? There is a hand in all this promising land, and he said, please Sir come sit with me. Which he told stories little boys love to hear. As a voice desert island, the child and found a boy sized topography strange indeed. Boy stroke his hair. Boy kiss his tummy. Boy, nuzzled his penis, affectionately. The knowledge of warm, and the knowledge of spring in the story book that meant in any of a boy fair one in the sky, a strong and free Whippoorwill, bodies of soft bodies and freedom in love with climbed over a boy showed in June by so hard. So he felt the season inside, a charter them instead, then alone grew alone could lie. He said, the boys name and beckoned me, this satyrs' cadence stunningly clear. You, who remember everything, caught not at him, really did not you see that he came from here. He climbed honest wind not to find them again long eared donkey years. He touched first line was more to do, and he pulled some more year-by-year and you send him away and away and went away.. And he stumbled and fell the Swann brought them to hear us again. And newness of dreams, you never more appear. I wanted to be on my way into them and then just say. We know you are, who you had loved so you said you were then. He wanted to place it he wrote about fairyland spun gold out of did you not hear my poetry? I tried so hard to get you to hear, not on the pass my love with the snow, not secretly and books with quill pens or computers electric that fence with words that broke your heart and above all else broke mind too. I came from them to you, from yellowed pages to pages in the other books, paperbacks new about one time true and if you could use and look at and see it through and find every boy is a boy for you. All this first and then they rejected no one else ever again. Our hands touched only books held by the other, never hand in hand; please believe, for you as for me, it's lonely being just one. Before he knew it, the boys sexually on him Everything about the boy he remembered the books to Friday nights for love the home silent room where. The voice came from him. It always had don't mourn me don't mourn me any longer. Please The boys are him for silently secretly adore him. I forgot everything back there. I was a fool you see in the caption of the book. I wrote. He loved made his name may my claim to nothing needing glasses again. But the voice said no and penises were hard, the boys one and again and unicorns watched the door entered as I came home. Never to leave again.