TECHNIEK
One pollywog, hair a thatch in tumult, vibrant charm in millicupids topping Mach One, scuddled out of bed smiling my way, hitched on slight blue briefs, nipped over to the fireplace, got hugged, and drank a glass of orange juice in two long swallows. Yndig! Shook his thatch at coffee, nodded jo to hot chocolate, marmalade, butter, bread. Fetched a sweater of Hans’ and put it on him, thanked by a kiss rich in crumbs. Munched together, looking each other over, by the fire. Found, unnerved and queasy, I could caress his thin brown legs, cuddle upruck of underpants, nuzzle nape. He nuzzled back, rippled candied fingers across my mouth, kept looking at me with calm eyes and utterly sweet smile. Olaf, God be thanked, woke, yawned sonorously, giving us a fine sight of long torso, abundant nests of hair in armpits and chest furrow, pitch of blond forelock over eyes, stupendous stretch of swimmer’s arms, roll of shoulder. Morgen, he mumped. Is that breakfast? Olympisch naakt, warm from bed, smelling kindly of axial musk, horse, and sperm, padded over with an erection sturdy as a hammer handle. Billy he scrunched in a crushing hug, kissed mouth, nipples, navel, briefs pod, and, briefs plucked down, peter, all of it. Outside, foggy morning, to pee. Olaf praising my coffee, mouth full of marmalade and bread, Billy on his lap, asked how big the island was, how I ever got all these books out, could we see it all, now? Your phone call sent shivers through me. Explained Billy. He had to be brought, nobody to leave him with. He was a new scamp among the ulveunger, won’t talk, mucky past.
UNGE HERRE BILLY
Vaeldig sjovt! was Olaf’s yelp over the phone. Blunt, explicit, practical. En sand nydelse. No mention of frisky Billy, but there they were at the point, both sporting Frihedkamp shoulder patches on Danish blue camping jackets all zippered pockets and knotted white cords. Maskot on Billy’s cap. Landed just before dusk, a walk around the island, supper by the fire, Billy hyperkinetic with it all: the only cabin on a small island miles from anywhere. And unge herre Billy, Olaf said undoing Billy’s sneakers while butting his crotch with his forehead, nudging tummy with nose, is as much with friends as at the wolfden. But after he has been loved into idiocy, he’s going to get to sleep awhile in this wild slaapzak by the fire, jo, and then in the bed. Undressing him to an elvish nakedness, Olaf said of Billy in English: an enlightened woman caseworker had given the wolfden kids before, especially boys beaten blue and needing massive doses of affection. Nosebleed all over his clothes when Olaf first saw him at the familievejleder office, bruised butt and shoulders, undernourished, practically catatonic. Held him in his arms for two hours before he could get any response, tharn as a trapped rabbit. Took him home, bathed him, dolled him up in the jersey Olaf had been wearing all day for a nightgown, the way you put shorts with your smell on them in with a new puppy its first night alone, got him to eat cream and bananas over Scotsk oatmeal, hugged him all night. When the caseworker looked in next morning, Billy was having none of leaving Olaf. They’ve been bonded since, inseparable. Can’t belong to the wolfden, but in some sense as Olaf’s adopted cub he’s there with Olaf, a kind of mascot, with all the ulveunger under orders to treat him as if he were Olaf himself. Wears the blue briefs of full membership (white for beginners, orange for intermediates).
PANISKOS
Snuggled into Olaf’s open thighs and crossed ankles, watching now the fire with dreamy eyes, now Olaf, now me, calmly inquisitive, Master Billy played his stapple, idly some, seriously some, Olaf generously spelling his hand with milker’s fingering. As we talked, kisses for Billy’s ears, nice big ears somewhere under the mop, shoulders, naked armpits, making him squeal. Kneading fingers around nipples, down his ribs, on his round rubbery pung. This makes him purr, said Olaf lifting him and heaving him over to my lap. Just till I get my clothes off, Billikins. If, I said, I give him back. Olaf, Sander with a gymnast’s overwrought body, made smart work of stacking his every stitch in a neat pack at his feet, and stood easy, aware of his beauty by firelight, eying critically, amused, my thrip and chug measure for jacking Billy.
ARCADY WITH BEES AND THYME
Billy a thumbsucker and crotch grappler. Total wiggler and flirt. Cool ears, warm neck. Once Olaf was naked and sitting with his hands to the fire, Billy skedaddled out of my arms to crawl in under and between his thighs. All yours, Olaf said, until bedtime. Then we share, jo? Then all yours again.
HYSSOP VIOLET
A broad tease in the frank question of his friendly smile and asking eyes, Olaf, palming the hunch of his jeans fly, said brightly that midafternoon always finds him goatish. He ticks off on his fingers, laughing, this dazzler Sander, who paints, who will do everything with anybody, carries a stepladder in case he meets an amorous giraffe (this snags Billy’s attention), whom you hug and kiss, and who hugs and kisses you, and then you go bashful and turn over in bed, though both of you are making a baby on his sister, the three of you in the same bed fucking her simple, time about, every afternoon and night, sometimes mornings as well, to give the lucky little bastard a half chance to miss being an idiot with a tail (this causes Billy to flip his ears with his fingers), and there’s your nephew Hans and his mate Jan who snudge down together every time they can winkle each other’s nappies off (a complacent dip of Billy’s shoulders), and even our friend Comrade Joris with the docked black curls and handsome eyes who drools over the likes of Billy here (Not me! Billy yips), and there’s Strodekker, that good-looking devil, with his houseful of halfsized peterpullers. Is it because I’m hung like a pony? Don’t answer. I’m overstepping. There are places in the heart which might have been gardens, or favorite quarters, around which we have built high walls, whose doors have been shut too long. A resolute indraft of breath, a long exhalation, and Olaf squared his shoulders, bounced on his toes, and clattered drumming slaps on his midriff: Billy’s blushproof.
DAIMON
Stykke sukkeret here, frisky Billy, says Olaf, the bog goblin with his ears up pert and his britches off, will add his waggery to the doings, to keep us locker room chummy. Billy’s goosy and hates mush. Makes me spuke, says Billy unhousing Olaf’s rising whopper, stripping the foreskin back, flittering his tongue around the glans. Olaf, by way of Danish drollery, hoisted Billy and kissed him full on the mouth. To barf! says Billy heaving.
HET RETOUR
Done, bedankt. Bolted, unboggled, so wanton a charm Olaf wily as Eros had slid, gripped, licked, and kissed gullet deep into my besotted cock, his slick jolt of creamy pulp tasting of warm barley water baking soda sweetgrass sap, and the ladle tilt sloshed after it, and the crowded jumps and sopping spurts sequent. And he mine soon afterwards, as surging a gusher, and we hugged tighter for a while, and fell apart spent. Dejlig, Olaf said. And wow. Hejsa! there are tears in your eyes, kammerat. Billy climbed between us, and we pulled the blanket up snug and had a sweet nap. I was with Piet again, for a while, hugging beside our kayak, our brown bodies hot, our hearts confused, a great happiness in us and around us.
DIDYMOI
A clutch of goose eggs tight in a thick ganglion of vermicelli, the feel of Olaf’s testicles plump in a thicket of bronzewire hair. Mushroom fleshy, the glans. Olive codfish kelp, the odor. Pliable bone, the shaft.
HERO
Poor funny Billy, Olaf teases, dressed for bed in Olaf’s smelly undershirt because he’s lost without it, and whose nubbin nose is very like a rabbit’s and is the sexiest in all Denmark, and whose pik here is a baby carrot that will grow up to be a cucumber if he keeps it stiff. Like, says Billy, Frisk and Graeshoppe. Til enhver tid. Frisk and Graeshoppe, Olaf explains, are pals daffy about keeping an erection going as permanently as they can engineer. They’re Billy’s heroes. They turn up bowlegged at the den and spring their cocks loose just inside the door rigid and bouncing, having improved them in the pissoir at the bus stop and kept them throughout the school day with, as Frisk says, mind pictures, furtive handwork in class, and honest handwork in the locker room.
A WALK
Billy into Olaf’s arms with an effusive eft wiggle, a kiss on his chin, and up onto his shou
lders, crowing. A walk around the island. Olaf reached and hugged me to him, shoulder to shoulder. You were looking for something, he said. A lost part of myself. A long easy silence, except for Billy’s prattling, before Olaf stopped and searched my face.
PURK
What I like about out here, says Billy, is peeing out the door. And eating good things by the fire. I don’t like being by myself in the slaapzak, but I understand. I like people who like Olaf. Your peter is as big as Olaf’s and you have more hair all over than he does. That’s vidunderlig. It’s fun being out here. Olaf and I are the same person in two bodies. I’m me, of course, and he’s Olaf, but I’m Olaf too, and he’s me, Billy. We read a big book every night. Olaf puts me in his undershirt he’s worn all day, and then we get in one sweater, except that my arms are not in the sleeves, his are, and in the same sweatpants, with all our legs in, and we read some about Mister Toad and his car, or about Nina Pytt And, and then we read a long book with towns in it built in trees in a jungle, and some Icelanders who go to the middle of the world. And sometimes we read about things, like giraffes and whales, and kinds of trees. And then we drink chocolate milk out of the same glass. We’re not eating out of the same plate here with you, because Olaf says you might think us funny. I’ll bet you wouldn’t.
ISLAND QUIET
Olaf talking about his body, the workouts that keep it hard and trim, his sense of its beauty, how he’s going to shape Billy’s. Might even marry, so Billy can have a mother. There must be some girl, somewhere, who would understand. How could Billy’s parents have treated him so, battering him, beastly drunk and fighting? Squalid, shitty stupid, and squalid. Billy meanwhile looking at art books, inspecting the barometer, maps. It’s like a school, he says. School, Olaf sighs.
L’IMMONDICITÉ SPÉCULATIVE
Les caleçons immondes are not, Joris says, from Jan’s erotic imagination but from Kouros, photographs of a Düsseldorf and Bonn DSAP outing, healthy summerbrown teenagers in snug white, or once white, little pants so drenched across the front with deliberate sperm and adventitious urine as to be splotched a dapple of ochre and yellow-grey, spare crotches golden sienna, cock bulge a dark silvery leafmold brown. Joris intrigued: it’s like his briefs. The adorable rascals Jan and Hans had indeed studied (such was their word) that number of Kouros at Joris’. Sat on my hands the whole time, he said, and his eyes scrunched in their smile. A good talk with him over coffee about Fourier’s l’immondicité spéculative, the little hordes, Harmonian clarities. When we rose to leave he patted his bust of Lenin on the head.
TOLVÅRIG
Danish film at the Nederlandse Verenigingen van Sexuele Hervorming on the Blauburgwal to which Grietje and I took Hans and Jan, who easily convinced us that we wanted to see it. The voice-over, clear as rung glass, is that of the twelve-year-old boy smiling amiably at the beginning. Long blond hair covering forehead and back of neck. Merry eyes shift sideways with delight, dimples tuck deep. Cabin porch in a deep sunny wood of Norway pines. Hans and Jan, arms over each other’s shoulders between me and Grietje, had been as solemn as in church during the talk by a frizzle-haired earnest Mexican-handcraft-braceleted woman. They sat up and forward as the camera receded, the 12jaar pulled his shirt off, unzipped and dropped his jeans, and stepped out of his small briefs. This is their first erotically explicit film. Hans gives me a quick look of surprise. Camera moves in to fill screen with fingers twiddling penis stiff before slipping back the foreskin. Whee, Hans said, and got shushed from two rows back. Jan rolled his shoulders. Full length again, the boy stood gilded by greengold forest light. Looks up from penis into camera with a good-humored obligingness. This is me, Emil, he says, and this is my friend Sven. Camera finds a second boy, full clump of pubic hair, well-hung, a ripe fullness of glans and scrotum rounded tight, hair a tumult of brown curls, lips still pudgy with baby fat, chest muscles in rich definition. He’s fourteen, says Emil, and we love each other a lot. The two fritz at each other, sparring, before they lock into an embrace. Back home afterwards, Hans observed that they didn’t ever kiss, except of course their peters. Everybody, Jan said, does everything in the style of their culture. Grietje said she was ruined and depraved, having no notion two boys could have such wild fun. Their eyes! Their hands! And little Emil’s well-mannered voice talking about how jolly his weewee feels when he masturbates. They’d jacked each other time about, the one sitting between the other’s legs, thigh over thigh, free hand chucking balls, golden smiles abandoned only for gapes of pleasure, before covering one another zestig en negen in a pulsing wriggle with rolling backs. Discussion after the film. Flat Heels in a Bun talked about affection, trust, and deep neural feeling. Hans looked like a mouse who has heard the cat. Jan gave him an assuring hug. Bald Sandals and Socks said we must love everybody every way we can, especially children, must cherish all affection as a precious commodity in a violent and corrosive world. Grietje asked me with her eyes if we could go. We could. Jan grabbed Hans and kissed him as soon as we stood, getting stares and sentimental approval. Outside, a fit of giggles. Golly, Hans said, neat kids. Jan asked us to see the slope of his fly. Sander and Wolfgang painting when we got home. Hans described the film in detail. Yes, said Sander, but those Vlamingen need to see me and de onverzadelijk Wolfje here jellying our brains. Skeets two drops and a driblet, does Wolfje, but with full zing peashooter force, but being part billy goat he keeps right on once he’s squirted his two drops and a driblet, over and over, bruising his peter blue, whereas I, having come a stout creamy pearly half liter five or six times, have to lie down dead doggy and be primed. So what did the spadgers look like in the film?
A SQUARE IN PARIS
This pleasure, Grietje dear, which you’ve already seen with your girl’s X-ray eyes, that everything Adriaan does is deliberate, in his own style, like nobody else. Other people bump through the world. Adriaan looks for things, finds them, knows them. I have been with him in Paris. He goes to a place and sits there putting it inside himself, atom by atom, smell by smell. Of course, in some wonderful way he brought the place with him, out of books, out of history and poems. He makes the place be. That’s where Proust’s grandmother had her heart attack, he says, here Gertrude Stein walked with her Alice. Here in the Netherlands he has taken me with him to a house. Just a Dutch house, some trees around it, cars parked in the street in front of it. We sat at a bus shelter across from it. Take in the feel of it, Sander. Put it into your imagination. This is the house where the Nazis kept Huizinga under arrest. There. Remember it.
PEUTER WITH BRIGHT HAIR
The small (Eros, Holland, children, kittens) have a mischievous flexibility, curiosity, venturesomeness, that’s lost in the large. Extension makes for dullness. Hence the genius of Fourier’s self-contained estates.
ILLYRIAN HORNBEAM, WITH OWL
Swedenborg’s integral presence of thing and angel. A flower garden, a familiar tree, is angelic in that meaning has drenched them. That is, they are congenial to daimons. Saartje smiling in a happy squinch and squeak of delight becomes a quaggamaster before our eyes. Quagga, nickering recognition, judders his nostrils, and rounds his big black knowing eyes.
CAMPARI AND BLUE FIGS
Let’s drive Sander crazy, Grietje says. You take that end and I’ll take this. You scritch his head and I’ll tickle his toes. Don’t you dare, Sander bellows, tickle the bottom of my feet! Knead his scalp and underjaw, rumple his nose, creep fingers along his shoulders and hook into his armpits and scrounge.
TETRADRACHMA WITH ARETHUSA AND DOLPHINS
Their room with its high square windows, low bookcases that make a running shelf around two walls, friendly space, framed collages (enlarged photographs of Greek coins, floral prints, birds, moths, cave paintings), the Danish flag, becomes our sweet place for talking and making the Nipper.
COMPOSITE LOGARITHMIC GOLD
Sander babbling, Grietje kissing her way up his legs, I knead his chest, roll thumbs on teats, skim fingertips over ribs, shybold Billy in overimage my stay
boasting astraddle my lap what a mess of sædvcæske Olaf comes, oodles in jumping blobs. Grietje whiffles up inside thighs, kittling scrotum with finger ruffle, bobbling his glans unsheathed under own power. With a nimble torsion his cock rights on its axis as it rears. Oho, says Grietje, Sander sandering. I love you two forever, Sander. Push my hand flat on abdomen from sliddering over navel to grasp haft, Grietje swallowing cap and neck deep enough to gag. Piet’s, leafmeal in the slick of the grip, Bruno’s in Greek light salt with the Aegean and satyrlasting Athenian afternoons shutterslat August sun in comb-teeth stripes fine on our nakedness, time about, Sander’s younger, Olaf’s out of restive curiosity and green lust. Shoulders flinching, she slides hands under his butt and persists. Sander coos. Her head lifts and sinks. I hitch an easy grip and pull with a squeeze. Grootscheeps! hollers Sander. Brain melting down spine into balls, he reports in a flat voice. Love you both. Don’t dare stop. Allo nu, the loveliest and best-loved of all sisters is about to be choked and drowned. Balls snuggled into my scrummaging handful, he yipes and chitters, Grietje recklessly shoving onto all but a finger’s length. Cock kicks, gushes throbbing, kicks again. Grietje gives up snurfling, eyes watered. Feel thirteen again, she says, swallowing hard, and like I’ve been playing with myself for two hours nonstop and with no intention of ever quitting. Nor now. Mounted her. Osculi hians altero tanto lascivior. With long slow sliding strokes we deepened the richness until we were both sighing with the animal sweetness of it, as if my riding plunges were blent with those of the old nemoral godling Pothos, the uncivilized Eros, charge of the archaic Hermes, of Priapos, the Satyrs, of ballockproud bullocks and longhung asses, smelling of beebalm and allium, adept at perilepsis, the deer-eyed stripling with heron shoulders, rusty knees, sound thighs, and a sprung foreskin bruised lilac. She came bucking and thrashing. Sander, when I looked, had fetched Wolfgang, whom he was undressing, with some difficulty, as he kept him in his arms as he was doing it, so that when he plopped him between us on the bed, Wolfgang still wore a sock and briefs. I took care of the sock, Grietje the briefs. Sander put a blanket over us and made spoons with Grietje, including Wolfje in his hug. You big gorillas have been fucking on Grietje, Wolfgang said. And did she love it, said Grietje. Does it feel good? Not as good, all things considered, as having Wolfje all warm and naked to hold.
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