AND ALL WENT DARK
BY JACK RUSSELL
WARP8TOBEACH@YAHOO.COM
It was punishing day made worse by my commute to my boyfriend's apartment on the margins of civilization 50 miles north of Vancouver. We joked about living gay smart in Gas Town with its sophisticated palate of gay venues compared to Tom's transient social scene of Whistler. Tom was homosexually challenged, I joked.
I teased Tom constantly calling him gay dumb by his stubborn insistence to billet in Whistler where the number of skiers, if gay, could become the Ft Lauderdale of Canada. He would answer with his patented impish smile that made me melt and tingle all over. I suppose his jock side overruled his gay side. Skiing was his passion followed by intense gay sex.
We met when I was lucky enough to trip over his ski poles while practicing the art at Janesville four years ago. He was the greatest heist in my life and I never felt so content as when I was wrapped in his thick arms or in a sexually persuasive lip lock.
My stomach thundered. Without even looking at my cars clock, I knew it was slightly past 6pm and I still had to transit an additional 22 lonely miles to travel before I could plunge into the steady arms of my dark haired beau and a pot roast that would be simmering for me.
The day's sun was ready to retire for the night but before doing so, treated me to an easel of reds and pinks that drew long shadows across my short cut lazily paralleling Route 99. There were scattered patches of ice that resisted the will of local road crews but I could see them sparkle against the asphalt and my confidence in my Infiniti's anti-lock breaks and other human saving features gave me little worry.
I've made this trip countless times and was intimately familiar with every curve, bump, and hill that if entered too fast, would treat you to a jiffy of hang time or negative g's that misplaced your stomach under the bucket seat along with long gone errant change. Such fun!
I played with my MP3 player advancing past REM and settling on some Pet Shop Boys. My cars onboard display kept inventory of miles traveled and subsequent arrival time, bracing out side temperature of negative 27C, and engine performance. I was toasty and comfortable with my seat heated to a civilized 25C and my coffee was still hot with wisps of steam clung to the lip of the cup. I like it bold; like my men.
I daydreamed of Tom. It's been a week since my last confession of hot sex with him and couldn't wait to maneuver into his embrace. I hadn't been with another man since we've met and never been tempted to stray although I've had ample opportunity to do so with cruise ship after ship dumping cavorting hot guys at my doorstep. Tom was my rock. He gave a sense of purpose to my life and his working class background, political outlook, and even his physical attributes contently juxtaposed with mine.
I liked contemporary music. Tom was addicted to the 1970's culture and the Beach Boys. If he were ever hit by a meteorite, I'm sure he'd want their songs spinning at his funeral and a jacked up Ford GT on retainer to carry the remains to his favorite ski slope.
Our dress styles were at odds also although a boyfriend didn't double my wardrobe unlike some lucky buds of mine that found clones of themselves. Tom was ruggedly built and sprouted to 6' with his knees slightly bent. I could reach that height on high heals.
Looking up into his hazel eyes was intoxicating and the nipples of his chest were at the exact height of my lips. It's as he was manufactured just for me.
Buddies of mine said I was too young for partnership and should fuck around till I was at least thirty. I could never figure out if they were secretly jealous of our relationship or genuinely concerned that my cock would ripen to the consistency of a week old banana if not allowed to wonder.
Tom was older than me. Thirty-nine was ancient in a gay terms but it brought an uptick in the level of maturity and sophistication that nurtured our bond. It was a bracing change from the silliness that dominated my twenty something contemporaries.
And yes, in bed he was a lion. One Monday night after work, I met my friends, Bill, Daniel, and Christopher at Chucks Pub on Abbott Street, an uncomplicated watering hole serving cold beer and scalding cocktails. Heavily manicured drag queens and tricky pool tables provided comic relief.
Settling in over some icy Bud Lights, Christopher, the most intrusive of the bunch and a brash attorney, began his habitual cross examination prying open the private crevices of my relationship with Tom.
"I got laid on Saturday night", he flaunted dryly. "Picked him up at "The Bolt" and dethroned him till 2AM. Great fuck!"
With that said, Christopher's gauntlet of upstaging others was displayed like a peacock in season parading his plumage.
"How was your weekend, Brian?" he said pushing back his silver rimmed glasses against his face.
Bill and Daniel, two of the coolest guys I've known since we've palled in college, beamed a synchronous smile at me. They just knew that if Christopher got fucked, he paid cash.
Bill gave me a permissive nod. Daniel chimed in with a sprinkle of smooth French. I always had some hot sex stories for them after the weekend that I naturally jacked up just to piss off Christopher.
I told them that Tom and l like to act out fantasies to keep our sex life exciting. It was all Tom's idea. We had a smorgasbord board of plays and the last one we concocted was "Lost Urbanite Taken by Lumberjack".
I play a geographically challenged city dweller shopping for a vacation rental in Whistler. Of course, I make a few off beam turns and wind up in an isolated logging forest only to get my car conveniently stuck in a ditch. The day is at an end and a blanket of fog is on the march from the north. A tall lone figure appears out of the mist. It's a lumberjack with a clinking tool belt slung low on his waist like a Wild West sheriff in a posse. He's roughed up with muddied boots, thick pants, and a tatty flannel coat. He hasn't shaved in days and is in need of some serious manly comfort. What happens next is not your choice. You're on his turf.
"I guess I've made a few wrong turns." I acknowledge meekly while surveying the dim-witted mess I've gotten into.
"...and my damn cell phone doesn't have a signal."
For the lumberjack, I might have just sounded a gay bugle call in Boys town.
He studies my car like he's never seen an automobile. "I'm afraid that's not exactly designed for off road. Or then again, looks like that's exactly what you've got", he concluded glumly.
A sharp wind ruffled my shirt. The sky was in overtime with a buildup of clouds that could dump a foot of snow an hour in these parts.
"My trucks at the logging site", he pointed with a leather gloved hand. "And I won't be able to get you on a hard surface till daylight."
Promises...promises.
I found the offer inviting but why wait till then? My cock seconded the motion.
He rolled some chewing tobacco around in his mouth with deliberate meddlesome panache.
"That's the bad news", he explained.
"Oh?" I said.
He beamed a coy smile. "The good news is you're staying with me tonight. I'll make sure you're comfortable...before I fuck you till you howl like a coyote."
I was noticeably aroused and excited that we both were bewitched by the fantasy...
His coat was torn around the armpits and a charge of pit hair peeked under his biceps. He was sturdily assembled and his tight butt filled out his workpants. I couldn't wait to unwrap my present.
We walked briskly back to his cabin and no sooner were we safely tucked inside, a purge of snow flakes were untangled from its heavenly berth. They pelted the cabin like a billion BB's and I felt a hint of cold air settle over my waist as the lumberjack sidled up behind me and unabashedly loosened my pants. He ordered me to kick off my shoes.
He dropped his tool belt and it landed uselessly on the wooden floor and I felt a solid nudge from behind as his ponderous cock nudged at my anal bush and split me open. He was wasting no time nor engaging in freshman pleasantries before getting having his way with me.
I shouted at the blatant violation and he responded by pushing his damp chest into my back. He bit at my ears and mauled me over like a bear subjugating his prey.
I was drenched in his spunky aroma as he wrapped his arms around my pits and positioned me in a headlock. Being the larger man, he pushed down on me and I became weak in the knees and crumbled on the bed with him in tow. Ideally leveraged over me, he drew in and out of me; each time plunging deeper and faster than before. His balls slapped at my ass like a disciplinarians paddle. I could hear the bedsprings protest and feel the exhaust of his excited breath on my face. He reached under me and latched a large hand on my rod and stroked it to frenzy. Now he was daring me towards climax. I was an incapacitated spectator at my own wilderness rape. It was exhilarating.
His sturdy plumbing punched into me at will ripping my hole raw. He mumbled something demeaning into my ear and became surprisingly dormant for just a moment before dumping his pent up load deep in the fissures of my ass. The unbridled rush of his hot spunk sated me and I accompanied his orgasm with subordinate lurches of my own juice.
Our breathing synchronized like sorority sisters menstrual periods. We decocted to wilted masses of comingled muscle and sweat while nature took its claim over us and delivered a peaceful sleep with myself wedged in the cleavage of his chest.
I felt a slight tug on the steering wheel as the Infinity's traction control became overwhelmed by patches of ice on the road. A squirt off adrenalin snapped me out of my daydreaming. I scanned the instrument panel as if expecting to see an LED display warning such as "you're doing 120 KPH on ice dude and we're fucked unless this vehicle is equipped with retro-rockets."
I tapped the brakes in a vile effort to dump speed but the road turned to the left and then dipped. Now momentarily airborne, I saw a race of trees just feet from my side mirror. My headlights illuminated their imposing, leafless, and stout architecture.
I skidded with the front of the car pointing at the safety of the center line. Anticipating a lucky recovery, I allowed myself a confident smirk and punched the accelerator to free myself from my skid. The steering wheel felt solid in my grip. I was recovering and the ass end of the car whipped back inline with my direction of travel. Nice job.
There was a troublesome lurch when my left front tire was ruptured by a pothole. The car wobbled jell-o like. Not nice.
I was out of control again and completed one counterclockwise tailspin. I was fated to inherit either trees, cascades of rock formations, or menacing ditches. My seatbelt seemed to tighten with foreknowledge of impact. A prompt glance at the speedometer gave me the bad news. 98 KPH. And all went dark.
The human body is an amazing thing. We're capable of improbable feats of strength when our existence is in doubt and intense sensory perception when our erotic zones are being probed. When the body is exposed to traumatic events, we have built in circuit breakers commonly called the black out so we don't have to tolerate nasty events like an accelerated collision with stubborn objects.
The Infinity bungled into a mature pine tree and activated the front and side airbags. The force was so great all the windows in the car shattered into pebbles of dust. Airborne, it somersaulted a few times entombing itself in snow and the body of the vehicle collapsed around its comatose owner. It no longer resembled a 21st century silver metallic motor vehicle but a Jurassic hunk of a billion year old meteorite. One final turn and it became ingested upside down by a gully; smoke pouring from the mess.
Somewhere along the time line of where the front bumper left its calling card gash on the pine tree and a handy airbag deployment, the cars computer considered one final chore sending a burst message to a GPS satellite loitering over the northwestern sky. In cyber ease, it informed an On-star representative ensconced in a windowless office in Iowa that an Infiniti G36 owned by a Brian Shave experienced an abnormal event along with exact coordinates.
The first EMT crew arrived at the site almost two hours after the crash and it took another 25 minutes to find the wreak buried in a blanket of snow. Its occupant was near death and they first had to stabilize life functions and then deploy the Jaws of Life to unzip him from the crush of metal.
They arrived at the hospital in under an hour and two trauma surgeons from Vancouver were waiting along with a pale and haggard Tom who could have been mistaken for the patient.
Working in hushed coordination, they worked feverously on the buffet of multiple fractures, contusions, and swelling. Brian Shave 25, was not irreparably damaged but was bleeding to death from the inside and Dr. Matheson couldn't plug the holes fast enough. He glanced up at the digital clock antiseptically dusting off the seconds; a soulless sentinel dryly recording time. It was 03:33 AM.
I heard muffled voices as if spoken thru cardboard shipping tubes and particles of light stimulated my optic nerve. There was no pain thanks to the magic of pharmaceutical medicine coursing through my system. I think I've could have sweated Demerol. One voice stood out. It was Tom. He was whispering encouraging and loving words in my ear and although my head was wrapped in a shroud of bandage, I could see the tears in his welled up eyes and peppered throughout his wavering voice. He held my hand as I was wheeled to intensive care. I wanted to speak but an inconvenient oxygen tube made that impractical. I wanted to move my hand and give Tom a thumbs up sign but they were strapped down; temporary portals of liquid pleasure. I couldn't open my eyes although I could make out milky swipes of juxtaposed light and dark. OK, what's left I thought. In gallows humor to amuse Tom, I attempted a lyrical grunt. No joy. That was inoperable also. Most systems were down like a crashed Windows based computer. Sleep was online, however. I embraced it by default.
Awaking to the familiar aroma of Doritos and its accompanying sandy crunch meant only one thing. Tom was at my bed side like a tireless sentry and enjoying his favorite snack since nocturnal study sessions in college.
My medical condition improved dramatically and I starting eating the hospital out of their inventory. I've must of gained 5 pounds over the week. My body aches abated, my stitches were mending nicely, and I was the first in my physical therapy class. Still persisting were these blanched patches under my eyes that made me look like a crack addict.
It was discharge day and the plan was to stay at Toms for the remainder of the week and then return to Vancouver. Both of us couldn't wait to make our exit from the confining portals of the hospital. I haven't had some hot sex in weeks and the thought of jerking off in a shared bathroom was unpalatable.
Tom seemed distracted on the drive back to his apartment and our conversation was silted rather than typically breezy. It was as if a conversational tourniquet were tied around our vocal cords. I attributed it to stress but after you've been sleeping with someone for four years, you become adapt at finishing his sentences and anticipating his moods. I found out later that I almost became extinct in the operating room and I'm sure that Tom had to come to grips with the sober possibility of becoming unexpectedly single.
There was a guilt I experienced in that I caused him great pain while testing the tolerances of my mortality. Dying is relatively easy on the principle. It's the living left in your wake that have to work out messy human protocols such as denial, grief, and finally acceptance. Life moves fast and can change abruptly. I think Tom and I were in our respective solitary confinement cells of thought mulling over identical thoughts seen from different perspectives.
I got an anticipatory hard on as soon as we pulled into Tom's driveway. His athletic physique is more defined and swollen from weeks of heavy work at the mill and perhaps some chemical helpers. He must have buckets of cum to dump up my tight hole after a week of sexual truancy.
I was still a bit sore but was looking forward to this kind of pain. We fell on his freshly laundered bed sheets and coaxed his sleepy cat out of the room. This boy wasn't looking for pussy. Damn straight!
I was entrapped in Tom's chest and he pumped his pecs against my braced nipples and satisfied my mouth with his rummy tongue. I was fully disrobed, vulnerably erect, and quivered at the thought of being taken at the moment of his choosing. Tom was the best lover I've ever had and although I'm no slut, he knew how to stuff my turkey and make my cream rise.
I took refuge in the husky cleavage of his chest. He enveloped me in his potent arms and pitched me airborne like a sack of potatoes across his broad shoulders. My cock breezed past his mouth and he fancied an eager sniff like a patron in a pizzeria.
Staring directly down at his twin bolder like gluteus muscles, he carried me triumphantly across the room showcasing off his masculine construction. We had similar waist sizes but Tom's chest when puffed out, was twice the girth of mine. He basted in his physical superiority and I swooned in it too. His cock blossomed to its full spread from a compact shock of ebony pubic hair and his horse sized nuts hung low and hot as if stockpiling a lethal payload.
I was capsized onto the bed and assumed a receptive position; lying prone on my back with my slender legs up and over my torso. I pressed my ass skyward and puckered my hole. No mixed messages there!
Tom drove his face into my ass and urged my hole into compliance. The feel of his facial stubble on my cheeks sent me into the next province. Oh mon dieu!
He ran his rough hands over my thighs. They were hot to the touch and he scooped me off the bed like a football player recovering a fumbled ball for a winning touchdown. There was urgency in his breath as he stormily bombed kisses over my mouth and neck. He baited me with verbal assaults in a nasty French brogue. I was hungry for his cock and retrieved it in my hand so forcefully; it elicited a primal like grow from my lover. Tom mounted me and I was happily trapped under his bulk of muscle and sudor. He drove his body into mine. It was a fortuitous collision of two men desperate to follow their pursuit of incredible love.
I pumped my legs and kneaded his lats with my toes. My hands were omnipotent. I caressed his pulpy ass, traced the outline of his chin, and plied the clipped manscape of his chest. We could have been water boarded in Lake Ontario and never felt hotter. There was a unique and precious magic of two familiarly intimate lovers joined and experiencing the curiosity of virgin sex for the hundredth time.
Tom held me knot tight and squeezed his anaconda cock up my hole. I triggered my sphincter muscles and gripped it viselike. It was a game we played; a sexual chess match of sorts. He could only contemplate the dilemma of capture being unable to enter or escape and I too was trapped; my prostrate kept impatiently waiting for its needed rubdown.
Tom ripped at my nipples with his sharp Cuspids. They were damp and erect with his scalding spit. He rolled them around the interior of his mouth like a baseball player plugging a cud of chewing tobacco.
"I'm going to fuck your little hole so sore. You're all mine", he ordered while trapping me under his melon biceps and oak hard legs. It hurt, but hurt so great! I heaved a convoluted breath and capitulated to his mania.
He violated me repeatedly with such force and swiftness each thrust was escorted by an accompaniment of cathedral echoes. His Gemini balls dropping halfway down his legs rocketed back in undisciplined abandon.
Tom loosened a spent guttural groan. I've heard it many times but this was more excited and convulsive. A hush settled over him and I was entombed under his solid bulk. It was a nimble and fleeting collective penance; a preamble to what was to follow.
I tasted him with my tongue and slipped my fingers sought refuge up his spicy crack. The ignition sequence was initiated and irrevocable. Tom inhaled a desperate quaff of air and his chest ballooned to incredible proportions. I held on tight. This was going to be intense and I was determined to be more than collateral damage.
Tom shot a bathtub size load up ass. It was only the first of his ejaculate and my butt was sizzling in his love juices. I couldn't contain my load any longer and I allowed my subsidiary shot its well deserved freedom. Tom was ready for his sequel. He loaded up again and slid into me but in a more deliberate controlled movement. I clawed at the sheets and then grabbed his head Mafioso style and delivered a kiss akin to a street fighters punch.
He was winded and partially suffocating. I've heard of people that like being strangled attesting to its heightened organism. I loosened my grip and he sucked in a pound of air and shot out a gallon of cum. Not a bad return on my investment.
There is no greater experience than making love with someone you truly love whether gay or straight. It's a mystifying emotional connection made more intense when you're comfortable enough to be free of your aversion to vulnerability. It's something most of my friends with few exceptions wouldn't understand.
Most relationships are juxtaposed between the art of intimacy and susceptibility followed by an inevitable retreat to your respective neutral corner. It's the dichotomy that men confront and most are never able to advance their relationship to the next level. One night they're chewing each others ass and the next day they pass shoulder to shoulder at the supermarket with barely a casual acknowledgment.
Intimacy and allowing oneself to be indefensible takes precedence over control and impregnability. Curiously, there lies my problem. I had managed to surpass the intimacy barrier Chuck Yeager style but in doing so, encountered the next shear of problems. I needed to learn to let go.
Loving someone isn't so much about yourself but about the love of your life that just seems to know when to touch you in the right spot and at the right time. He knows when to allow you space to ponder or when you're hungry for some cuddling time.
I could never imagine my life without Tom and I was selfish in my refusal to depart with fond memories of our life together. It's time to bid farewell as he continues in his venture and me on mine. I want to know that he will discover love again and his partner is a good and honest man that enhances both of their lives. I hope they compliment each others strengths and make more benign the others weakness.
I look up at the ceiling and contemplate what lies ahead for me. I'm mildly curious but not afraid. I can see my lifeless body in my car the night I died, my shirt torn and caked in blood. I'm now lying on the gurney in the hospital. It's 03:33AM and a defeated Dr. Matheson wipes his brow.
I see Tom at my funeral dressed in clothes I gave him at Christmas. Normally natty, he is fortified by my friends and family that will be there for him to share his grief. I was laid to rest in Vancouver on a ridge overlooking the city lights. Tom picked the plot. It's the best! I've always thought of myself as a hip urbanite.
Something sweet happened on the day Tom worked overtime and decided to hit the diner for their legendary shrimp. He got up from his booth and some lucky sod lost in his thoughts walked into Tom and almost fumbled before regaining his footing. His name is William and he's devilishly handsome, a car mechanic by trade, and loves the Beach Boys.
I'm tickled. Goodbye my love.
And all went dark.