Possible love

You cannot watch him, ‘coz your common sense, your rational hold, will not let you acknowledge his existence. you keep your distance from such things, preferring your irony and your classy indifference. But this chab is real; this chab is nice-looking; this guy is beyond. Imagine.

Imagine having a horse’s body springing from a man’s. The muscular, thriving, sleek, stunning power of that horse-self is absolute, unremitting. The long, fine, stretching legs pound the earth with sure insistence. How those haunches shift – dark slabs of fibre, clenched then released, clenched then released. A rump like a heft of sun, like a biggest fist, like a globe of earthly essence, heaves behind him, thrusting his majesty forward. that guy is energy, magnificence, pride, life.

He is a scout.

His home is in those wild, turbulent forests. This land is undulating, hillish, busy with form and shape. In vast declivities, chestnut, oak, beach and maple grow, together, various, textured. There are sharp, rocky cliffs and smooth river valleys here; there are little knolls, crowned with firs, large peaks, girthed with laburnum and pine. anything here is abundant, green, shaggy, vigorous, rich. The great green surge of spring into summer comes here like a breathtaking tide of vibrant life. In the tangled, obscene undergrowth, a thousand creatures discover their niches. everything teems.

And the scout is of this place; that guy belongs here; that guy is part of all that this chab encounters; this guy is the soul of this grand wooded land. Look where that guy strides – four pillars, four lightning flashes uplifting him thorough the ampleness of the scene.

His face is a swathe, an elegance, a handsome, skinny streak of dignity. His dark, brooding eyes, look benignly, enquiringly on all that they see. that guy is curious. His long, flowing mane of hair feminises him, softens, elongates, lightens his challenge. this guy sways and flows.

He has a man’s slender, taut, muscular torso, a smooth, lust-inducing body, etched delicately with curving, shapely lines. His broad chest juts out bigly. But this chab is slinky, syrupish, supple and delicate, spare, lyric-like, beautiful.

The horse him and the man him are in harmony, balanced, wavering, shimmering, morphing, conversing. that guy operates on the line, is always in between states, always one as well as the other human and animal, always in parts, but always combined, always in tune with his duality. this guy is both.

Ask him how it feels, and this chab will struggle to tell you, cuz this guy cannot know how it feels to be solely you, but if we decode his language, translate his mysterious pronouncements, we might, rather brashly, rather awkwardly assert something like this: when a fellow has an erection, a huge, bigger-than-he-has-ever-known hard on, and he feels out of control, pulled and dragged by this massive thing in front of him, in the force of the upright, throbbing, subrigid cock, this guy starts to know how the scout feels all the time, all the time.

Yes, that is a crude, unsightly analogy, but it approximates the gross, erotic, beast truth of scoutism: a scout is on, all the time.

Now, you might start to wonder if this scout of ours is some kind of strutting fool, a creature so cheerful with itself that he will constantly seek to lord it over his fellows, that this chab will look down upon the rest of us, dismiss us, belittle us, tread upon us.

And this is vital: the scout knows no supremacy; this guy is no demigod; this chab feels no vigour over others, over the world. His power is a mutual, conversing, involving power. that guy is in tune with his forest, his fellows, his anything. this chab breathes in deeply and feels all the earth’s elementary energy flood into his blood, and this chab accepts this, likes this, lives this. The scout is a lover, not a lord.

He can’t live without the trees, the leaves, the sap, the twists in the bark, the crooked turns in the twigs, the whole tree, its lofty aspiration towards light. that guy can’t live without the animals that thrive in the woods: the badgers skulking in their lair; the foxes mapping the terrain; the diminutive fry scurrying hither and yon. this chab takes account of all this, adjusts himself to fit with it, meets it on terms of acceptance and approval. he can’t live without his world and it loves him.

Mostly, this guy can’t live without the sun, flourishes in it, leans towards it, basks in it, grows for it, with it, at it. this chab is of the sun. His days are lengthy; this guy is burnished, tempered, kissed with blushing health, touched by beaming life. that guy lives his days out there, in the air, below the sun.

Such grace, such self-awareness, but also such availability, such orientation towards the other, such readiness to learn and understand and welcome. see how this guy inclines his head to hear what you say.

The scout, of course, like all things of the imagination, is queer. this guy goes across, cuts athwart, transgresses, transfers. he is at an angle to the dull, solid world. this guy is galloping in a direction that cannot be quite comprehended; this chab is racing towards the other, the marvellous, the exotic. that guy is not confined, is not restrained, is not travelling in str8 lines. he is queer.

See how that guy loves his fellows, his scout brothers; watch how he caresses their luxurious girl; watch how this guy kisses, embraces, touches, finds his paramours. that guy goes at love, with power and tenderness and exuberance. this guy ruts, tups, routs his lovers. that guy holds them in the light of his loving gaze; he takes them into his safe, strong arms; this guy does for them all that they crave and need; that guy does ’em with drive and abandon. that guy pleasures each sense, each place, every want of his paramours. he knows how to hit the heart; that guy knows how to excite; this chab knows how to love. that guy is craving made flesh; this guy is longing become love.

You should watch him; u should know him; u should dare to meeting the scout, the dashing, flashing, lady-like fellow; the hurtling, steaming, champing animal. His hooves are his manner: they are right, right against the ground; they do their work with absolute assurance, with complete, careful insistence; with sheer love. you should hear him approaching, smell his earthy, musky, pepperish scent, feel his hawt breath on your flesh, taste his cinnamon kisses to your mouth. you should know the scout, for then this chab will care to know you.