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A Fisher of Men
I'd seen him around town a half dozen times. He'd moved here about a month ago and he had bought the old Sherman place about a half dozen miles down the river. I'd heard he was a consultant and had retired from a big corporation down in California. A lot of people were doing that these days, retiring and moving here, where the pace of life was slower, and still kept their hand in their work by working on line.
He showed up at the weekly business club lunch last week, and said he'd like to join. He sat down next to me and I introduced myself. We got to talking about fishing on the river, and, as we chatted at the end of the meeting, I ended up asking him to meet me at the Driftboat Hole this morning. Roger got pretty excited about that, as he said he loved to fish and wanted to know how to do it right.
I was looking for a new fishing buddy. Fred and I had fished together for years, but he retired last year and left for Arizona last week, wanting to be a snow bird. I hated to see him go, as we had caught a lot of fish together, and had shared a few flasks of brandy on those cold winter days when the fish were biting, and the east wind blew hard down the canyon, icing up our lines a bit.
It would be fun breaking in a new fishing partner and getting to know him. I really didn't like fishing alone, and it really wasn't safe wading along the rocks without someone to pull you out in case you tripped on the slippery rocks, or if you got a hook caught in your ear when you made a bad cast.
Roger was a sturdy man, and you could see he had worked out for a long time, smooth muscles rippling under his shirt. His big biceps filled his shirt sleeves, and there was a nice tuft of curly chest hair poking out of his collar. And, I always liked my men to be strong and hairy, the scruffier the better. Not that I'd turn down a quick roll in the hay with any guy, but feeling a thick mat of fur rubbing against me as my lover thrust his hard cock in my eager mouth always made for a better end of the day. And, finding a hard and eager nipple to suck on, deep in a nest of fur, was always a nice treat.
I cast across the river, hoping for a bite on the first cast. I was trying a new set up, with a little extra weight, as the river was up pretty high this morning, after yesterday's storm. The water was still green, not muddy like when we get a really big rain. The air was fresh and clean, the thick smell of wet leaves and moss reminding me that it was late fall and that snowfall was just a few weeks away.
I looked up to see Roger ambling down the trail from the turnout on the road. Not too many people fished this hole, as they liked the deeper holes farther down the canyon. I like to fish where's there's lots of peace and quiet, and tangling lines with someone else just gets me into a foul mood. Besides, there's only room for a few pickups in the turnout, and that kept a lot of people away, too.
He wasn't one of those store bought fisherman, with everything all new and fancy. His pole had obviously seen quite a few seasons and his reel had a few dents and scratches. His vest was frayed around the collar, and his boots were scraped up and dirty. My kind of fisherman.
There was a nice swath of stubble across his chin and jaw, more gray than his moustache, and he didn't look as neat and tidy as he had at the business club lunch. I like my men a little scruffy, my fingers enjoying the stiff whiskers on a man. Better yet, I like to dangle my balls across a furry chin, before I dip 'em in the eager wet mouth of my lover, just before he takes me deep down his throat, my balls brushing hot and sweaty against his beard.
And, trying to be the perfect gentleman, I'll return the favor, taking my time with his cock and full balls, my fingers quietly exploring his hard, furry chest, and, dipping lower, holding his ball sac softly in my hands, feeling his balls rise hot and sweaty, just before his cum spews out of his hot and slippery cockhead.
This morning, I didn't know if Roger was my kind of man. I didn't even know if he was gay. But, I wouldn't turn him down if he was. It had been a while since my lover moved away, thinking that life in the big city offered a bit more variety. I'm sure life there would be exciting, but I preferred a quieter life, and time spent outdoors with a man I could enjoy. Or a nice quiet evening in the country thrusting my eager cock deep into the hard, muscular buttocks of a strong, furry man who'd cry out my name as his cock exploded, shooting thick cum across his sweaty fur. I'd never turn the opportunity down.
Roger broke out his tackle, pulling up his waders and rigging up his pole. He had brought some freshly cured salmon eggs and I showed him the knot I use to keep the eggs on the hook. He was a serious follower of Isaac Newton and Ernest Hemingway's Nick Adams, and asked me a lot of good questions. I could tell he was a serious fisherman, and not out there just to show off the newest equipment.
We spread out along the gravel bar a bit and fished for about an hour. His casts were smooth and deliberate, and I could see him studying the water, and adjusting his casts so that his bait would drift just right into the eddies of the hole, the places where the big ones would be resting, waiting for just the right kind of bait, the right kind of presentation.
He got a bite, and then another one. And, finally, one fish hit hard, and the fight was on. I reeled in, to give him some room to fight the fish, and to enjoy the sight of him, wading slowly back and forth, reeling in some line when the fish took a rest, but keeping his line taut. He'd been clearly fishing for quite a few years, and knew how to play a fish and not break the line.
His shoulder and chest muscles flexed and bulged, tight and hard even under the straps of his waders and the thick sweatshirt. In the cool air of the morning, strong puffs of steam poured out from under his moustache and whiskery cheeks, his arms pulling on the pole and steadily forcing the fish closer to the bank. His butt cheeks flexed under his waders, my mind's eye stripping him bare assed naked, imagining his cock flopping wildly above his big, full balls as the fish came closer. My own pole stiffened at the thought, my balls aching for release, surrounded by the hot steam pouring from his wet lips.
I kept wanting to bait my own pole, and watch his bring me closer to his big wet net, taking me on his big hook, and bringing me in. I'd be a willing captive of this hot fisherman.
Roger got the fish close to the bank, and I dipped the net into the icy, swift water. Just as I moved the net under the silver behemoth, the line snapped and the fish leaped sideways, over the net and across the river, disappearing in a flash of silver.
"He was a beauty," Roger panted, the exertion of the past twenty minutes leaving him a bit out of breath.
I complimented him on a good fight, and for hooking the first fish of the day. And, I was impressed that he didn't curse, or throw his pole down, or pout like a lot of other guys I knew. It was always tough to lose a fish, especially when they were almost in the net. But, a real fisherman enjoys the chase and the fishing, more than the catching.
We took a break, enjoying the coffee I'd brought in my thermos, finding a log to sit on, and watching the late autumn sun climb to the top of the sky, barely giving any warmth to the chill of the gravel bar. We talked a bit about fishing, and more about our lives, and what we wanted in life. Roger learned something about me, and I learned a lot about him, his loneliness, and the reason he left the big city to find a quiet home out of town and along the river, so he could mourn and to dull the pain of the losses that sometimes a man just has to endure to get through.
We became friends that morning on the river bank, sharing the excitement, and the loss of something pursued, something treasured.
We fished the rest of the day, stopping once so he could net a fish for me, and twice more for him, as he caught the two biggest fish of the day. They were all beautiful, strong fighters and promising to be good eating. We'd bake one for dinner that night, seasoned with butter, and a bit of pepper and rosemary. The other two went in my smoker, after soaking all night in my special marinade of sea salt and brown sugar. My cooking kept Roger coming back for more.
And, that night, as I held him in my arms, his cock hard and smooth, sliding deep into my hungry mouth, his cum spurting deep and hard against my throat and across my beard, dripping onto my sweat soaked chest, I'd realized I'd made the best catch of the day.
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