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Date: Mon, 7 May 2001 17:20:58 -0700
From: Myra Eysman <meysman@pchnet.com>
Subject: "He Walks In Beauty" (TG, mast)
"He Walks In Beauty"
by
Barry Eysman
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