Of the Trac Runner and Me

Our love knits us together.

We had been changelings up until now. The winter moon shines in our cabin window. We lie on our bed. We are hard, naked, holding together. Hand to hand. Flesh to flesh. The cabin fire glows. Salvation is here. We yearn for each other. Our songs singly have become our songs as one. We are names mixed in brightly colored paints. Multi-hued and quiet and still and turning. Point to counter-point. My hand strays to his abdomen. Soft abdomen. And filled with the life leading above and below. He touches my penis that stretches to his hand. We are filled with heart sounds. Lean, he and I. Not awkward. Gyroscopes, one to the other.

A grand tabulation. A secret sewn at the edges of our eyes. I touch his throbbing penis. Warm. Pulsing. Wonderful. Glowing in my hand that is his own hand too.

His un- cut. Mine cut. His straining arms round me as he turns his head to me; his hair is golden fine and long. filled with the taste of winter come. The night is forever. We are further north than Alaska or Greenland or Iceland. The snow comes in waves. The wind crashes about us. There is the sea of blood inside us that greets our hands and our penises. Taken to an interior solitude. The halls of ourselves we walked so unsteadily when we were alone. That monstrous human word only lovers unloved know how to unlock. To go inside. To find one another there, shadows clouding us. Cloaking us. A hand to a chin. To a cheekbone.

Don't be afraid. I am here. Muscles tighten. We are beginning to make love again. My breath hot on his face. His chest touching mine, delicate, slowly, our flesh adhering to each other; fine down and streets of him to wander lost with him which is not lost—but treasure chest and toys inside. Love will out. I long for his penis in my mouth. For it to fill me, as he moves upward in our shadowed room, as if he is made of moon milk and dreams. This and he, sitting on my legs now as he leans over like a cantilevered bridge and he comes for me as I reach my fingers to tighten his tits like a remote control for a Joel machine, but no machine. Alive, really and truly. This dream and he lingers as I touch him. As I love him with my hands.

And he presses his hands beside my eiderdown pillow in our huge marshamallowy bed and his penis head touches my lips. He feels my mouth open and I receive him. At first, just the tip of his foreskin, which I marvel at, for the slit in it perfect alignment with the slit in his head. What otherworldly beauty has sewn him so perfectly, so rightly added up and supremely mathematical and geometrically ordered is even that small detail? I push his foreskin back. He shivers. I feel his pre-cum at my chin. His body is hot and feverish. As is mine. I take the full of him a bit at a time. I turn my hands to his hips. I press down on them as he enters me.

I mouth fuck him as he pinches my tits and shoots electricity through me. I bite his penis. He draws back. And he smiles at me, wickedly. Drawing then forward again.

His aroma is like that of winter wheat. Like the sunset a long time ago on a forlorn summer Saturday afternoon late when it seemed the entire world had ended. But now, another beginning, and I stroke the base of his shaft. I hold his tight sac balls. It is all so furnace heat feeling.

I want to have the deepest essence of him in my mouth. I want to learn to breathe at the exact same second he does. I want to exhale, inhale the same exact second. He is bones and muscle and lightness. He is the Joel I needed all my life. And I feel him excited and he calls my name, as in our sexual dance, I hold the globes of his ass. As he says he wants me, to dart with me, down all his days, and running through all his nights.

He is running with me now, making me more than I ever was before. He is suggestion and the taste of vanilla, as he reaching his hand down to my hard on, to touch it at the top of its base, to quiver it, to shelter it in his hand that knows more about me than I know about myself. More than even my hand knows about me.

I am a road. He is the runner with the long gold hair in the cold night air. I am the cinder track his summer tennis shoes run on, and I hear the sure and steady breath in his runner body and I feel the clacking of his teeth, as I bite down on his tumescence. I feel his hands supporting himself and his legs hard/ I am the mile run through. I am the man making him cream and cream again as he loves his way into my mouth. As he shelters his hard on within the tight bright moist hole of me. And he is everything. The world can go on without us now. This time: WE ARE THE ONES THROUGH WITH YOU. THIS TIME, WATCH US NOT GIVE A DAMN ABOUT THE LOT OF YOU.

We huddle after it is over. He strokes my hard on and my bum. We live in the golden winter sunbird cages of each other. I lie on my side. My finger tracing his ribs. I bend down my tongue and touch him all over. He makes me cum by putting his hands to me and saying my name with love and oaths and fealty to me and I cum quickly in his warm hot moist hand. We need the starlight in his eyes. There then is the starlight, as if right on cue. We need music soft and low, and thus it starts. We are in our cabin in woods dark and dense. We want to fuck each other and we begin the process.

He is somber now, for he wants to get it right, as so do I.

But in the morning, we will run into the snow from the shadows of our love, we dressed in cambric shirts and heavy jeans and boots, and we will run screaming laughter and full of life and red and gold balloons and the sun in ourselves. even if the sun in the sky doesn't deem to shake its lion head at us in that morning tomorrow. We are him, as I stroke his thick gold hair. As I kiss it and his face as he takes my long brown hair and touches it with his pale limited lips, so frightened of all still and so trusting of all still, because of the fear. Androgynous, us, both then and forever. Ivory skins for both of us. Dressed in our bodies that could fool others, that did fool others, when we wore matching clothing and attended classes that way—brother and sister? Girlfriend and girlfriend? Boyfriend and boyfriend? All the above or mix and match or neither?

But what was in our groins gave us away and we had given each other away so many times before we met and became us for eternity. We had been here in search of love but instead found a particular quality of cruelty and loneliness dealt to us individually, by the ones playing the romance cards. So hurt were we, that we had squeezed against our back bones and the deepest insides of our minds, swearing to ourselves never to come out again, never to let another monster engage us with indifference. Then somehow, us. Then somehow, a painful, a last gasp for love just in the nick of time---and his name was Joel. And I love him. We had been together earlier in a lifetime ago I think. We had been trying to find each other. Instead, we had found antithesis and little else. But as S.E. Hinton titled a novel, "That Was Then, This Is Now."

I am in Joel's hand as Joel moves my legs up to his shoulders and wraps his arms around me. He begins to spread my legs, to open me like a Christmas gift.

I think, as we make ready, this is an enchanted forest tale told at bedtime to two sickly Pale. Waxen faced. Sweating in the cold. children. That to find Babe the Blue Ox and a certain beanstalk with Jack climbing out, just outside our window in the snow powdered blue deep and true, would not be a shock. As Joel, indeed pale and wan, smiles at me, as he looks down at me, and then at the part of me I can't see, as he lowers his penis slightly, slightly into me. I gasp and quicken as he touches the ring with his head, and then I hold my hands to his chest and I am no longer running. Not the way we used to. Not even, Joel, the runner, for now we are home. Each other's home.

And tunnels of loneliness lead to eternal winter and being fucked by my Joel and the sheer Christmas bells and garland and shiny ornaments inside me flourish as the tree of me exhales at the very same time Joel exhales. Then we inhale together, and out again, as he fucks me and only me. We jettison the bad memories. We jettison the little cruelties. The huge betrayals. As I am speared by my true love as he whispers I am his darling. As he goes deeply inside me.

And in a thousand Decembers, in our place of the world, snow scenes and beautiful nakedness, where to yearn from a bad and alone dream, is to find the one yearned for, right there beside you, stroking your hair and saying to you, "It's all right, love. I'm here." Kissing your forehead. And holding you as long as you want.

And he is here. As am I. The day the running stopped.

And Joel is my darling.