This story is fiction. The characters are adults in adult situations. Warnings: The only person you can ever hope to truly know is yourself. Trust no one; use condoms. If you are not of legal age or in a jurisdiction in which this document is illegal, go way. This is my story. Please respect the copyright. Sojourn1950@yahoo.com
John opened his eyes. He was momentarily confused. He didn't have the pounding headache which, of late, came with awakening. He felt 'lighter' too.
Wary of inviting the headache, slowly, he raised his head from his crossed forearms.
His hands released their death-grip on the steering wheel.
His throat was sore, his body ached and tears had left a brackish taste on his tongue. His hands weren't trembling; hurt, sore, bruised with a couple of scraped knuckles, but not trembling. Somehow he had managed to warp the steering wheel and crack a plastic shielding on the instrument panel. He was exhausted, physically weak and emotionally drained.
He knew where he was, but not how long he had been there. Obviously, some time had passed. The sun was now overhead. He took a moment to gather himself. A deep breath, exhausted itself in a sigh. Then, shifting the still running Tahoe into drive, he merged once again into traffic.
On on the winding drive, leading to the boathouse, John realized he could not remember having a single conscious thought since pulling back onto the interstate. It bothered him a moment, then the boathouse came into view. He was home.
It had been Linda's idea to buy the place. John had been sure he would sell it after the divorce.
Gordy changed that. He had seldom come to the ranch. They had spent their time together, here. Gordy had all but erased John's lifetime connection to the ranch. There, he was "the boss". Here he loved and was loved in a way he never could have imagined. The connection to the boathouse had developed subtlety. John had not turned his back on the ranch where he had grown up. It was simply that here he had come to know; his greatest joy, his greatest passion, his greatest love and now his greatest pain. The boathouse was his home.
Once inside he retrieved; a glass, a bottle and a bucket of ice. He took his prize and headed out to the deck. The deck stretched along the backside of the boathouse. Sliding glass doors connected it to the great room and at the far end, John's bedroom. There was a walkway that led past the side entrance of the boathouse. One could enter the kitchen area of the great room or continue to the deck. That walkway was the vantage point that had given him his first view of Gordy's naked flesh.
The size of the deck was Linda's idea. Like most of her idea's, it was over the top. In her defense, John grudgingly admitted, she had been a highly successful, Hollywood wedding planner. There was heavy metal framing, wrapped around the outside of the hand railing. With the push of two buttons, a screen would, along with the canopy, make the entire deck a screened in porch.
He pushed the first button and the canopy extended, shading the deck.
They had comfortably entertained forty people, plus caterer's, food, booze and waite staff. That was Linda's, first and last, attempt to glean the local elite for "the best people". She never made any friends here.
John noted the deck had been cleaned since last night. Conchatta, his housekeeper cum surrogate mother, had driven out from the ranch. The empty bottle of Jack Daniel's, a filled ashtray and maybe some trash, had all been cleared away. He knew he would find dinner in the fridge or the oven. The thought of food, even Conchatta's, was not appealing. Conchatta was efficient, unobtrusive, and predictable. He would try to remember to ask her not to bother with the boathouse. Even as the thought solidified, John admitted that Conchatta would do pretty much what she wanted. He snickered, Conchatta was one of the many friends, Linda didn't make here.
He sat in a lounge chair within reach of his company. He lit a cigarette and as the smoke rode away on the afternoon breeze, he began self-medicating. Whiskey would numb the pain. Pain he was only half-sure would return. Somehow he knew he would not see any of the images he had been forced to view while stopped alongside the interstate. That incident had resolved something. Something he would have to consider; later.
The first sip burned his throat. He should get some water. Instead he took a gulp, swished it around his mouth, letting the alchohol wash away the brackish taste. He braced himself and swallowed. The burning was tolerable. The water could wait.
His mind wandered. He let it. This process was familiar. He had experienced this many times while completing the monotonous chores associated with life on a ranch. He had some control. He could choose the topic. Beyond that, he might be able to select a particular image. Like choosing from a selection of coffee table books, then paging through and stopping at particular image.
He could choose a time from his past, familiar object, or activity. Having made a selection, associated images would flash before his mind's eye. He could then stop on a particular image and enjoy the memory.
He would not be able to alter the memory. That action, imagination, was a separate process. No, there would be no imagining today. Reality had too firm a grip. The best he could hope for would be to visit his past where life was,, less painful.
He lit another cigarette. Taking a sip, he found himself looking at the Jack Daniel's label. He could remember the first time he got drunk with his high school buddies. He could remember putting a bottle on a rickety shelf, in his college dorm room. That image grew clearer. His selection now made, John filled his glass and relaxed into the lounge chair.
College freshman, John Rutledge Grant, set the sealed bottle of Jack Daniels on the shelf and waited. His hand poised to rescue the bottle. The shelf steadied under the weight and John relaxed. He was unsure of the shelf, as he was about the cramped room and the ancient building itself. The facade spoke of strength, yet the interior begged to be refurbished or demolished. John had yet to decide which was the wiser choice.
The bottle was the first item he had pulled from his duffel bag. His was pleased to see his new roommate smile appreciatively. Eyeing the bottle, his roommate's first words were, "If you're good at sharing, we're gonna get along, just fine." That action and subsequent exchange was the beginning of a new life for John. Not like birth brings new life, more like baptism brings new perceptions to a long-time sinner.
Yeah, he could easily calculate the number of years, months, weeks and days since his life was altered forever.
No it wasn't when he first met Gordy. The stage for Gordy had been set years before, in that cramped, antiquated dorm room. Strange how a seemingly innocuous event can lead to such profound changes. Who would have thought that a `luck of the draw' roommate assignment, would change his life and alter his fate. It was like a comedy skit where one would pull on a loose thread and a garment would completely unravel. His life had been finely woven; before Wylie.
Without disrupting the memory: He refilled the glass and pulled; the bottle, the cigarettes and lighter closer.
Wiley Keyes was on a swimming scholarship. Slightly shorter than John, at six feet, with a (you guessed it) a swimmer's build. He had broad shoulders, a slim waist and well defined muscles. His dishwater blonde hair and killer smile, framed sky blue eyes. When they shook hands John saw Wylie's smile fade and his eyes grow dark. Then almost in the same instant the dazzling smile and bright blue eyes were back. The shift occurred so quickly, John almost doubted it had happened; almost. Their grips were equally firm and friendly.
They got better acquainted as they unloaded John's Cherokee. His new roommate had arrived and unpacked, sometime before John. The area of the room Wylie had chosen was a mirror image of John's. The doorway was the apparent dividing line. After getting squared away, they had burgers and beer for lunch. While John had brought "bottle and bond" Wylie had stocked several cases of Lone Star. John made a mental note to upgrade Wylie's taste in beer.
That afternoon, they explored the campus. Wylie knew his way around, making John wonder just how much sooner had he arrived. Before the day was over they both had ordered fake IDs from a computer major. They agreed that was probably more important than finding classrooms, the business library annex, etc. John had been on campus several times before, but he enjoyed the tour and Wylie seemed excited the whole time.
Then dinner and back to the dorm. John found it easy to totally relax with Wylie, something he seldom did around anyone. He had a lot of `acquaintances', a few friends, the last girl he had dated, but no one he would miss; except his father.
With his charm, good looks and enthusiasm, John was sure Wylie had lot's of close friends and brokenhearted girls in his blue collar part of Dallas. In for the night, they both stripped to boxers and took care of ablutions.
John learned that Wylie's blue eyes were truly the window to his soul. They lit up his smile, when he talked about swimming. When he, almost reverently, spoke of his grandmother's sacrifices; those eyes would glow with love and sadness. Wylie's grandmother was the only family he had known. She had died earlier that summer. Wylie's eyes moistened.
Speaking of growing up in a rough, Dallas neighborhood; his eyes darkened. John guessed those eyes would appear almost black if Wylie got angry; he would soon learn. He hoped his own brown eyes didn't reveal as much.
They were both business majors, neither interested in fraternities, neither had a girl "back home." They were both casual about nudity. Neither was overly modest, neither did more than make the initial, comparative glance. John had run track and played baseball, so the male form was nothing new, nor particularly interesting. His body was well toned and tanned from work on the ranch. His chest was covered in wiry reddish brown hair.
Wylie had a thick carpet of soft looking, light brown, hair above his pecs. This almost seemed a shroud to the light dusting, just under those pecs. All this hair appeared to be supported by a thick treasure trail. John thought it looked like a young tree, whose fruit were two,, delectable?.. John blushed at the thought. Still; he asked why Wylie didn't shave, like other swimmers.
Wylie laughed, "Yeah, everybody asks that. I'll do it in a couple of days. Certainly before the first meet. I'll go through six or eight disposable razors and a couple of cans of menthol shave cream. This", he tugged a fist full of hair between his pecs, " is just summer growth." John winced at the pain he would have felt, had Wylie pulled his chest hair, like that. He considered the image of Wylie's hand on his chest.
His short-lived reverie was when he saw Wylie pulling up both sides of his boxers to form a vee."I have to shave everything that shows. I'm gonna need help. Think you could give me a hand?"
John's eyes were drawn to Wylie's cock and one, low hanging, testicle that had escaped through the fly. "Wylie, some of the parts you're showing, ah, you're gonna have to shave yourself", John stated flatly, as he pointed to Wylie's exposed genitalia.
Wylie looked down to where John was pointing. His dangling cock pulsed and swelled noticeably before he could drop his drawers and re-capture his errant manhood. "Yeah, some of it I guess I better do myself", He smiled guiltily and winked at John.
By the end of the second week, John was getting very comfortable with his life at college. A routine of; classes, swimming for Wylie, study, then boxers, beer and bed. It was Sunday night when Wylie pulled a small bag from a dresser drawer. They were in for the night, which meant boxers. John watched as Wylie stripped his off and put on his swim trunks. He then spread a couple of towels on the floor. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out barber clippers. He plugged them in and began shaving his legs. John had been sipping a beer and reading. Fascinated now, he watched as Wylie expertly went about removing the hair from his legs. John was surprised at the amount of hair piling onto the towels. Wylie had only done his legs. John wasn't sure if he planned to continue with his bottom to top approach. This meant removing the trunks. In either case, John intended to watch. Somewhat disappointed, he saw Wylie choose to pull the waist band down and trim just below the line. He continue with his torso, until he was just above his naval.
Not soon enough, Wylie sheepishly asked John for help.
John leaped from his chair so quickly he had to catch it, to keep it from toppling over. He caught himself also. Moving hesitantly toward Wylie, he asked, "I don't know, are you gonna shave all the parts you showed before?
Wylie looked up and over the hum of the clippers, winked and smiled saying,"That was the part I needed your help with. It gets too big for one man to handle."
John stopped in mid-stride. His own face a blank as he searched Wylie's, to see if he was even half-serious. Still unsure, he mumbled, "Smart ass".
Taking the clippers he cleaned the remainder of the treasure trail. He moved up Wylie's torso, using his left hand to "smooth" the already taut skin.
Wylie started to speak, his voice dry and with a slight crack. In an almost whisper, "John, the vibration from the clippers usually makes me, uh, uh, get a hardon. Just so you know." John wished he were the one being clipped. Then he would have an excuse. He said nothing.
Wylie's skin felt hot under his caress, uh, touch. John,in a daze, moved his harvester toward the fruit. His left hand rested on Wylie's right pectoral as the clippers plowed the valley between. John marveled as he felt Wylie's nipple harden under his fingertips. John was careful to remain in a somewhat stooped position. He didn't want Wylie to see his unexcused hardon. It was fighting for freedom against the boxers restraining fabric. John made a mental note to find a girlfriend: Soon!
When it was time to let go the nipple, John found a position and stance that allowed him to handle Wylie's left pectoral as he had the right. He smiled to himself, noticing that as the right nipple hardened under his fingertips the left was as he had left it. John knew that next time he introduced Widow Thumb and her four daughters to Mr. Shaft. They would also be harvesting chest fruit.
John's reverie was rudely interrupted by Wylie suddenly turning away from him. It took only a second and he was back. John realized Wylie had readjusted his obviously cramped manhood.
When he moved the clippers above Wylie's pecs, he stepped in closer. Ostensibly this action was to get a closer look and thus do a better job harvesting. In reality John didn't want to show Wylie the effect this was having on his own manhood.
John's breath was moving some of the newly clipped hairs around Wylie's neckline. He could see and feel chill bumps on Wylie's sensitive skin. When the last of Wylie's chest hair was falling to the towels, John wanted to call out, "Timber". He half expected to see the young tree that had grown upon Wylie's chest, crash to the floor. Instead the towels displayed enough hair to have formed a wig or two. He had rather liked seeing that tree on Wylie's chest. He imagined the treasure trail trunk leading to the pubic roots.
Wylie's chest now showed only stubble. He rubbed his left hand freely across Wylie's skin. Wylie's eyes were, as was his jaw, tightly clinched. John's hand, ever so lightly caressed the new mown chest. No doubt, Checking for stubble.
Wylie extended his arms to the front. John worked quickly to clear the hair. Once satisfied, he told Wylie, "reach for the sky, big guy." Wylie. widened his stance and raised his arms. John was close enough to smell Wylie's armpit. It was a heady combination of lightly applied deodorant and Wylie. John inhaled deeply. He actually considered saving some of this hair.
Reluctantly, he let this join it's fellows on the towels. Once the hair was gone John spent more time than necessary to assure the pit was now hairless. Stroking the skin a little more firmly than he had Wylie's chest.
In order to get to get to the right armpit, John stepped behind Wylie. As he did he sniffed his fingers that had just been rubbing Wylie's armpit. He regretted having let the hair fall. The right pit was the last to be shorn. John forced himself to again let this musky smelling hair fall to the floor. He grabbed a dry washcloth and brushed loose hair away from Wylie's skin.
All this had taken place minimal verbal exchange. It was something so extraordinary, so intimate, it could not be framed in a "normal" context, by either young man.
John tried to remember the last girl he had fucked. She too, had blonde hair and blue eyes. Damn! That didn't help this situation.
John was pleased when Wylie asked him to join him in the shower to use the razors. He readily agreed, but said he needed a pit stop along the way.
John wasted no time, once he was in a locked stall. He slipped the waistband of his boxers below his balls. Even free, his erection still throbbed painfully. John marveled, seeing it larger than ever. It took only a few vigorous strokes while rubbing his nipples. He came harder and more, than ever before. The climax left him weak. He sat on the commode to regain his composure.
John found Wylie under a cold shower. Wylie explained that the cold water would help prevent razor rash. John noted, the cold water had little effect on Wylie's still straining manhood.
Wylie stepped out of the flow and began applying shave cream to his legs. In better control of himself, John took charge. He stroked the area the razor had cleared. Checking for a close shave.
As the razor neared Wylie's groin, John watched as the monster, caged within spandex, pulsed angrily.
John looked up and saw his new friend was again clinching his eyes and jaw.
Once the left leg was finished John, holding the razor handle between his teeth, used both hands to feel for stubble. When his left hand accidently came in contact with Wylie's spandex covered balls, he heard a muted groan. At that, Wylie turned away quickly and stepped under the cold shower.
With his back to John, Wylie vigorously rubbed his torso and then his legs. After a moment John could tell Wylie had pulled the front of his trunks open, as if washing away beach sand. Or cum!
Having taken longer than necessary to remove the traces of shave cream, he stepped back to where John was still kneeling. Without looking at him, he once again assumed the stance that told John, he could continue.
John resumed the task at hand. He was most determined to give Wylie a proper shave, caressing, er, feeling Wylie's body, er skin; for stubble. It took over an hour and three beers (each which John happily fetched).
That night, in the dark, both young man clearly heard the other, take matters in hand.
Is it any wonder that John began to have dreams. Wet dreams. Something he hadn't experienced in years.
In these dreams, John would be fucking or getting a blow job from a blonde, whose face would be turned away. At the moment of climax, their eyes would meet and he would see the blonde was Wylie. He would see love and lust, in those eyes. At the instant eye contact was made, John would erupt so hard, he'd awaken at the first shot. Too late to react he could only ride the waves of ecstasy.
The dreams were more than a little disturbing. He had never even thought of having "gay" sex. John had sex with girls and thought of girls when he jerked off. If he didn't think of girls, he would concentrate on the pleasure his cock provided.
As far as getting hard and jerking off when he shaved Wylie; it was the physical contact after not having had sex in a long time. It was not a "gay" thing. John was definitely not Gay! Oh, what fools these mortals be.
He was a logical man. Logic helped him in coping and understanding people; including himself. He deduced that; he was in a strange environment, everyone was new and unknown, Wylie had been the first person he gotten to know. In fact; Wylie was the only person John had gotten to know well. That combined with not enough masturbation would likely mix up any guy's dreams. He'd never had gay dreams nor desires. Until now!
John decided to take action. He jerked off twice a day, in any available bathroom stall. He fought to keep Wylie from invading his imagination. That worked; some of the time.
The dreams continued.
The next step was to minimize his time with Wylie. Less time with Wylie should lead to; less Wylie in his dreams. From day one they had been almost inseparable. They had nearly identical schedules, so it was challenging to stay away from Wylie. He would have to break the routine they had established. A routine John had come to enjoy. It would take some effort; but he had to. Didn't he?
John began to disappear early in the morning, before Wylie woke up. Last minute arrival to classes kept him from having to sit next to Wylie. Rushing out of class meant he didn't have to talk to Wylie. To anyone else this behavior might appear extreme. John thought it made sense. If he engaged Wylie in conversation, he would not be able to resist. What?
Lunch was a no-brainer. He simply avoided the cafe/bistro where they had always eaten.
Evenings were spent away from the dorm until John was sure that Wylie was in bed. Failing that; he would enter the room, disrobe and drop into bed. These times were the most difficult. Wylie would want to talk and John would feign exhaustion and face the wall. Pretending to sleep; he didn't. When he did, the dreams would come.
He expanded his list of acquaintances; potential friends. Sometimes having lunch or dinner with this one or that. Sometimes he would check out a study group, thinking to join.
One guy even followed John back to his room to borrow a book. That garnered a strange look from Wylie, who greeted the guy with less than his normal enthusiasm.
He started talking to girls, as long as they weren't blonde with blue eyes.
All this; according to John's logic, should have eliminated the dreams; the dreams continued. Sometimes they were, hot, sweaty, slowly building to an explosive orgasm, these were the wake-up dreams. Other dreams were almost romantic; green meadows, billowy clouds, sky; matching Wylie's eyes. He and Wylie simply holding hands, kisses that spoke of love. These dreams left him wanting even more; to surrender, to spend time with Wylie.
There were times, when John would watch Wylie. When he was sure he wouldn't be caught. In John's opinion, these observations were clinical. He decided there was nothing remarkable about Wylie.
John's dick had no problem with the dreams nor watching Wylie. If John had been clinical enough he would have noted that spying on Wylie usually preceded his diurnal jack off sessions.
The `avoiding Wylie mission' carried on for almost a week. John awoke one morning to find Wylie wrapped in a blanket, asleep, blocking the door.
He got dressed, all the time glancing at Wylie. He knew what would happen, when Wylie awoke. He thought if he waited until they both had to hurry to class, he could avoid or at least delay a confrontation. He sat watching Wylie, occasionally glancing at his watch.