Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
I've never been religious, nor even particularly spiritual. In many ways that does not matter here. A Jewish temple is actually a hall dedicated to 'right living' or Halakha, the collected wisdom and laws of the Jewish worldview. It makes no clear distinction between religious and non-religious life. This is a place, quite simply, of the ultimate Law, the essence of rightness. I feel a sudden pang at the thought that I'd spent the previous dinner at a place call BarBacon! But I'm not here for the surface trappings, but from the deepest possible meaning of the Law, of rightness. I'm here to reconcile who I was with who I think I might become -- I turn and gaze at Logan's worried but heartbreakingly-perfect face -- and both of those with the miracle sitting beside me, the face speckled with colours from the stained glass we sit before: The man I truly love.
Lake Desolation 17: The Circle of Life
By Bear Pup
Wednesday (10)
I turn to Logan slowly and he's watching me intently.
"No, Stettler."
"What? You don't even know if I was going to ask anything, much less what I'd be asking! "
He sighs and smiles sadly, lower lip atremble. "Okay."
"Logan, will you..." I swallow about twenty times. When I asked the same question so many decades ago, it seemed... easier. Almost obvious. "Will you marry me?"
Logan's face is a mask of joy, sadness, hope and regret. "No, Stettler."
"...?"
"No. It's not what's right for you, or for us."
"But you didn't even THINK about it! And what's with Stettler? I don't understand!" I nearly wail and can hear people turn in the otherwise-quiet sacred space.
"Jake, I've thought of nothing else since you said you loved me all those days ago. And certainly nothing but that question since we left the lawyer. I like her. I really do."
"But why?!?" Do you know how hard it is to whisper a piteous howl?
"Think, Jake, with that amazing brain of yours instead of that precious heart. Think for a minute. What the guy said. We'll both face highly-personal questions, especially about what we were to each other before Maria passed. Even how you and Maria... were together, what you were to each other, becomes a topic of discussion."
"I don't care, Logan." My voice is harsh and fierce, and completely, brutally honest. The rest of the planet can fuck themselves.
"And I don't either, Jake, but it's not Stettler saying that. That's who we're talking about right now, Stettler and Larry. You're not marrying Logan. You're marrying Larry Mallory. And from what the world knows, it's Stettler doing the marrying. 'Highly-personal questions'? 'Intense scrutiny'? Jake, how long do think these papers that make me Larry can hold up under that?"
My breathing stops entirely and the beautiful space around me begins to swim alarmingly. Logan's voice, though, is soft and caring and yet still relentless.
"You will have thrown everything away, Jake, for nothing. We could never be together after that, even if we weren't thrown in jail. Logan will marry Jake in an instant. In a heartbeat. But Larry can't marry Stettler McKay. Larry can't let you/him risk destroying everything, just for a gesture."
I growl, genuinely pissed off now, "It is not a gesture. Don't you dare cheapen this!"
Logan's voice never changes in tone or pace, even as my own modulates between the extremes of emotion. "I'm not cheapening it. It is a gesture. Do you really think either of us needs a government receipt that says we love each other? I'll wear your ring if you want, but why risk everything just for that piece of paper? And a piece of paper that doesn't even mention us, but two people we made up? Think, Jake, or better yet let Stettler do the thinking for you!"
"But Logan," I'm pleading now, "what if I die? I need to know you're safe! I need it, Logan."
"Oh, Jake. I don't need all that money to be happy. Leave me the cabin and enough to live in it."
"I... I can't, Logan. It's not enough. I, I just can't. And I can't be here anymore. I can't think, Logan! C-C-C-C-Can we go? Back to the hotel?"
"Of course. I'll go find us a cab. Come on out when you're ready."
Logan vanishes like smoke and I look up at the stained glass in front of me. The twinkles seem to say the same thing to me they did in my youth, and are no more understandable now than then, 'Told ya so.'
I get ponderously to my feet and make my way out, handing the startled attendant another large-denomination bill even as she tries to explain how much I overpaid earlier. I smile at her sadly. Logan has managed to hail a cab, God only knows how, and I climb in. I pull out my iPhone Red and ask, "So, show me how to make a call on this thing..."
I find and dial Bill's Burger Bar and order to go, we'll take it to the room. We arrive a few minutes later, Logan again paying with his phone, and head into the lobby. The hostess of Bill's sees us and makes a frantic phone call and a kitchen kid runs out, panting, and hands me two sacks and says they've already put it on my tab. I have a tab? Who knew?
We're in the elevator and the room in no time but the smell is leaking out of one of the sacks. I decided to 'balance' the meal when I ordered. I got a Cobb salad (slightly healthier than, say, a cheeseburger) to balance the Junk Fries, a horrific addiction of crispy fresh French fries covered with pulled pork and chili and cheese and cheese and cheese and deliciousness and sour cream. I swear to god they use OMG instead of MSG in everything. We devour everything, me using the time to try and sort out what Logan had said alongside my own fractured emotions.
We've reservations at the Waverly Inn for 6:15 and tickets for Lion King at 8:00, so we've got time to unwind a bit. Logan doesn't even give me time to decide. He pulls me into the bedroom and pushes me onto my stomach. The backrub is what I need in so many different ways. His touch alone drains away my fears and worries, and he meticulously works out the knots that have colonised my neck and shoulders like barnacles on an old whale. When he rolls me over and kisses my nipples, he has the undivided attention of every nerve in my body. We cuddle away the afternoon, never really having sex but most-certainly making love.
We clean up and dress. We'd put all of the clothes we weren't going to wear today in the hotel laundry sacks yesterday, including the massive Macy's haul. Everything had been hanging in the closet, neatly pressed and ready, when we got back from lunch. I freshen up and get into my 'generic night out' uniform -- white turtleneck, dark-grey slacks and jacket, black belt and shoes. A watch (I hate watches but find them useful when doing the theatre) completes the ensemble.
Logan is breath-taking in white jeans, black engineer boots and a huge black leather belt, a long-sleeve white tee with black and dark-blue 'tattoo' patterns running up and down the sleeves and around the collar, and a midnight-blue vest. My breath catches and he smiles shyly, "So, is it okay?"
I just blink for a minute then shake my head. All I can do is whisper, "You're beautiful." He leans forward and kisses me lightly on the cheek and I shiver violently.
I'm still shaking (and frequently staring in wonder) as we pull up to The Waverly Inn on Bank Street just off St Vincent Triangle and the AIDS Memorial. During the day, you would never know the place is there in the long rows of stately brownstones. A tiny green 'box' a half-storey in height and a small sign leading down some stairs are the only indicators. Now, however, a half-dozen white tables grace the sidewalk and the lights shine brightly.
The expectedly-snooty maitre'd seats us immediately to the grumpy looks of others, but this is known to cater to celebrities. I'm not really sure that winter is normal celebrity-hunting season, nor the daily bag limits, but we do spot a famously-gay couple (a TV personality and a semi-former actor) in a cozy booth by the fireplace. A couple of others have the entourage thing going, so they either are or want to pretend to be celebs of one stripe or another. With Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair as owner, both the famous and the beautiful flock to the place.
The intense murals on the walls set me back a bit, making the small space seem so much more crowded than it really is. What makes me smile though is the reaction to Logan. He turns heads as we pass and I can see several narrowed eyes and discrete whisperings that are probably trying to decide who he (or I) most resembles; we got a table so one of us must be somebody, and I'm not exactly Vanity Fair material!
The meal is, to me, a bit overwrought. It seems to try too hard. Then again, the header at the top of the menu reads, <<"Waverly Inn -- worst food in the city" -- Donald Trump>>, so I'm willing to give them a break. If he hates them, there's got to be something worthwhile going on!
It starts brilliantly, though. Since we had a pretty heavy lunch, Logan and I share an insanely-good wedge salad with a powerfully-perfect dressing and crispy lardons. Simplicity itself. Logan gets a delicate, tender-toothful, deftly-seasoned gnocchi made with house-crafted ricotta that would have been perfection itself if served simply. It's not that bloomsdale spinach and truffle-butter make it worse -- in fact, they're delicious -- but why bother? I'm in the mood for chicken [Hey, now! None of that smirking!] and get a dish that's wonderful but with far too many adjectives. Amish Chicken with terrine potato, bitter greens, balsamic-glazed cipollini and a mustard jus. See what I mean by trying too hard? Delicious, though.
Dessert, though, ah... there they make up for everything. There are two fall fruits that are superb, but are magically transformed by the power of winter: Cranberries and wild apples. Allowing them to freeze in place and stay there until ready for use is essential, and very little cooking is required to make them explode with tart, puckery sweetness. On top of the lightly-cooked fruit lies a peak of that house ricotta whipped with dark, pungent honey and ground almonds, with a sprig of wintergreen as garnish. If they kept the rest of the meal as simple and focused, they could add a half-point or more to their Zagat score.
We are supremely satisfied at the end and laugh as we walk in the cold wind to the corner of Greenwich to hail a cab. A nightmarish mess on Sixth (apparently a bike messenger tried unsuccessfully to commit suicide-by-taxi) leaves us only a short opportunity to collect our Will Call tickets and make our seats.
Rafiki comes out to warn everyone about their cell phones (this is Disney. people; I think they may actually do the whole Sharia cut-a-hand-off thing if you record a show). A few moment later, her (Rafiki is played by a woman on stage) powerful, almost-unearthly cry of "Nants ingonyama bagithi baba" rings out, scaring everyone, even those who have seen it in the Minskoff before. From that moment on, we are lost in a world of silk and savannah-grass, texture and light, voice and melody.
The movie was a triumph; the musical production was a revolution and it's lost none of its power over the two decades it's played Broadway. Interval is a chaos of milling people and we keep our seats, though Logan gets up to stretch and I again see people turn with that, 'Should I know him?' look. Oddly, it happens most often when he's looking at me; it's as if he glows and I bask in the reflected light. Hours later, we can still hear the echo of the grasslands as we float out of the theatre and enter one of the six billion cabs lining 45th Street.
I give the address of the hotel behind ours, the W. I have a treat in store for Logan. The Living Room Bar is a stunning space. Since it's a Wednesday night, it's only thronged, not completely mobbed. I make my way to the bar and order a virgin El Guapo for Logan and a disgustingly-perfect sweet-sour-citrus 212 Paloma for me and we find seats by the windows on square poufs -- go ahead, obvious pun: poufs on poufs. The windows reflect the stunning waves of lights from the inside art installation, interrupted by the brilliance of Freedom Tower and other landmarks. We sip and stare, at much at each other as the view, only occasionally-jostled by the hip, young crowd.
I notice the jackals and wolves scent Logan and start to converge. My hackles rise as one moves in, a stunningly-flawless gold-bedecked black woman with shoes worth more than my cabin and a predatory gleam. She leans forward and whispers, but Logan's eyes never leave my own face and his smile never wavers. He gives her a minute.
Logan puts a hand on her arm and, still without looking at her, says, "This is my husband, the famous author. I'm sure you recognise him, dear." For the first time, he turns to look and gives her an appraising and rather disdainful up-down worthy of a drag queen in full Vogue mode, pausing at the insanely-long nails and the ropes of chain, then turns back to me, "So, there simply is no chance that anyone, anywhere, is going to pull my attention from the man of my dreams."
The woman's jaw drops and suddenly she bursts out in genuine, raucous laughter. "Honey chile, you got 'no' down to an art form. You go, baby!" She blows him a kiss to each of us and loses herself in the crowd, still chuckling. Logan waits until she's out of sight and bursts into giggles.
"I have ALWAYS wanted to say something like that! Jake, this is the perfect nightcap. Well..." his voice lowers and he moves close to my ear, "it WILL be perfect in about an hour. Do you mind if we head to the room?"
Mind? I think we teleport! For reasons I cannot begin to explain, I am alive, vibrant with crackling energy after the day. I am on him the instant the door swings shut, powering him into the bedroom and stripping him with a growl. There will be tailor bills for this as I sense more than one button carrom off walls. As I pull his jeans violently off his legs, I growl again, echoing the show we saw just hours before
I watch his eyes light up and breath shorten and I growl louder, a predator on the great savannah. I stalk my prey as he watches, prey desperate to be part of my very private circle of life. I start as any good carnivore, with the tender underbelly of my helpless quarry. I doubt gazelles giggle frequently whilst being devoured, but one never knows. I move up and begin to gnaw and suck at his nipples, feeling him writhe under me, electrified.
Every whimper, every moan, every squeak and squawk throw dry grass upon my wildfire of lust. My hands are everywhere, my lip, everywhere. I can feel my dick-slime coating his legs and his coating my belly. I draw my short, smooth nails down his sides and flanks and Logan throws back his head and groans in delicious torment. This act, this drawing down, lets me look up the entire length of my lover's body.
He moves sensuously, lost in the sensations that I'm drawing from him. His nipples rise and fall in short arcs, driven by his breath. His belly is sucked in, as if to maximise the amount of area I can plunder at will. His scent... oh my God. My nose is right above the fork of his crotch and I can smell the male animal I have taken as my victim. I look down at the thick, weighty, throbbing snake that pulses there and do the thing that I never once knew I needed more than life itself.
Logan hollers in surprise when he feels me engulf the head of his cock in my mouth and I can sense him staring in shock at the sight. The taste is... Logan, which means life and love and longing and lust; fulfilment and fear and fantasy and the primal force of youth. I dive my tongue deep beneath his foreskin and hit tiny pockets of explosive flavour, each an intense blow of distilled MAN that makes me whimper around his cock.
I glance up and his body is arched as if in the last throes of electrocution, head flinging from side to side. I begin to dive deeper and deeper, then pull back to savour the gush or fluid that each attack draws forth. I feel him -- involuntarily? -- pull his legs up and apart to give me greater freedom and I let my hands explore the virgin territory. A squeaky-groan escapes, a high and needy thing, as one of my hands slides into the crack and my fingers find wet warmth there. The other is fully occupied with the pair of hairy eggs that squirm toward and away from my touch.
I voice that is far too high and far too desperate to be my beautiful prey for the evening rings across the savannah, "NoNo! No! Oh God! OhGodOhGodOhGod! No. You, y-y-y-you have, have, have t-t-t-tooooooo, UHN! No-no-no-no-no-no GAH!!" I am shocked back to conscious thought as the first explosive volley hits the roof of my mouth, but that spark is extinguished in the drenching lust of the taste. The salt and the sweet and the bitter and the so, so, SO utterly male flavour! I suck it down like the elixir of life that it truly has become for me. His essence and my sacrament in a single, blessed nectar. For the very first time in my life, I feel complete. A circle without end, but a circle with Logan as it's essential centre in all things. My very own circle of life.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 31 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 23 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 24 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Lake Desolation: 17 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Shark Reef: 10 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/ Culberhouse Rules: 6 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/ Raven's Claw: 6 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/ Ashes & Dust: 1 chapter .../rural/ashes-and-dust/