Thank you, Gentle Reader, for opening this story, a series about a man who confronts his past to find a new future. Dave, Jim, and the rest of the cast of characters are fictional, and do not represent any person living or dead. The story is fantasy and exists in that realm,
Elements in this story include sex between men. It's more on the romance side than the raunch, but I hope that Jim and Dave will keep things interesting. This story definitely falls into the category of Gay/ Beginnings.
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Making New Memories - One
I had put up a good front for the past week, but my strong will faltered as the tires slowly crunched over the crushed-stone driveway. Memories, good and bad; a childhood lost to time; old fights with no closure. This wasn't going to be as easy as I thought it might have been.
It was late afternoon on a hot August day. Inland it was stifling, humid, boggy, but close to the lake there was a gentle breeze. On the way through town, I had stopped at the Alden General Store. The proprietor was someone new -- a face and a family name I didn't recognize. I guess things do change, even in a sleepy town like this. I wasn't staying long, just two nights, three at the most. I picked up bacon and eggs, butter, and milk, some coffee, some cold cuts and bread. I picked up a six-pack of a local microbrew. Now I clutched the brown paper sack in my arms as I tossed my over-night bag over my shoulder. My eyes caught the two, small black boxes in the corner of the trunk before I slammed it shut, and walked toward the house. I'd deal with those later.
This had been our vacation home when I was a boy. It was a piece of paradise, really; situated in Northern Michigan, on the shores of Torch Lake (3rd Most Beautiful Lake in the World, as the sign posted in town read). It was a grand old place, log construction, an open floor plan with a couple of bedrooms and a loft upstairs. Airy and big, with my favorite feature: an enormous stone and river-rock fireplace against the northern wall, the rock chimney extending all the way up the two-storey wall. The porch had leaves and cobwebs spreading across it. No one had been up to the lake this summer.
I set the bags down on the porch, and walked back around to the side of the house. Reaching into the crawlspace, I turned the valve for the water, and switched on the circuit-breaker. The house had been prepared for Winter last October. I heard the pump switch on and water begin to gush -- all the faucets had been left on to drain them. I scrambled into the house to shut off the showers and sinks.
I grabbed a beer, put groceries away, left my bag on the table, and walked down to the lake. I sat on the dock, easing my feet out of my sandals and into the cool water. The sun was beginning to set behind the trees on the other side of the lake. This had always been my favorite time of day. The last of the power boats were heading home for dinner, their sunburned and laughing passengers looking forward to s'mores and steaks. Tonight I'd just relax. The drive from Detroit had been a long one. I'd see about the house tomorrow. Lost in thoughts, I didn't even realize the sun had set. It was nearly dark. Time to head back up to the house.
Morning came early, and I was not a pretty site. Dusty pillows, even though the beds had been covered in dust sheets, left me feeling sniffly. A warm shower cleared my head, and I emerged ready to tackle the day. Six-thirty -- why was I awake so early?! I caught my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door to my bedroom. A full-length mirror, the paint next to it had the markings of my annual summer growth chart. From knee-high through high school inches and dates scrolled up the door.
Now at 47, I was another half a head above the last marking at 16. My shoulders were broader now. My belly sported a softness that it hadn't in high school: my love of microbrew showing. Fur covered my chest and belly and my thick arms and legs. A close-cropped beard and a short haircut made me what most called "bearish." My full balls were nestled in my thick thighs, and my flaccid dick hung proudly. My eyes peered into the mirror, looking back at me. Gone was the uncertain teenager, the last time I had looked into this mirror. Now a man stood, ready to meet what came next. What more than 30 years could do!
Coffee, bacon, and eggs helped the morning come into focus, and I set my plan on paper: inventory supplies; test outlets and plumbing; assess repairs; get the boat working; cut down the grass; clean and dust ... What was I thinking? This was more than two or three days. If I wanted to get this place ready to sell before the last of the summer residents and tourists left for the season, I needed to get it in gear. And if any of the repairs were big (like the sagging porch and the wobbly dock) I was going to need help. My list grew, and so did my anxiety. I had already done this to the house downstate, fixing things up here, painting over some of mom's bad color choices to make things more neutral and attractive. The realtor assured me it was ready for the market. I hoped she was right. My own modest home in San Francisco was more than enough real estate for me, I was ready to sell these to the highest, hell, the first bidder!
By noon, I had my list. The bedrooms needed paint. The light fixtures were `cute' back in the 70s, now they were dated. The bathrooms could use an overhaul, but I didn't want to spend that cash now. The cupboard under the kitchen sink needed some attention, a drip had caused some damage; the chimney could use a sweeping; the front steps needed to be replaced; the dock needed sturdying up -- it probably wouldn't last another winter.
I opened a beer, and dragged some coldcuts through a puddle of mustard on a plate -- not bothering to make a sandwich. My cell phone buzzed. It was the realtor I had contacted on my drive up yesterday. "Hello, Mr. Bishop. This is Connie Weathers from Weathers Realty. How was your drive up?"
"Hello Connie, thanks for calling back," I didn't answer her question. Why was it that people up here felt the need to make so much small talk. I wanted to get down to business. "I've been making some repairs today, and have a few more left, but I'd like it if you could come by and see the place, give me an idea of what it would take to get it ready for the market."
She agreed, and we set a meeting for the following day. "I'm up with the sun, apparently, how early can you make it?" I asked.
"How `bout 9?"
"See you then, Connie," and I clicked the phone shut.
Half way between Alden and the house was Clam River, a small marina and supply store. I needed to buy quite a bit of stuff, including some lumber, and the car probably wasn't big enough. If I took the boat, I'd have plenty of room to bring it all, back, I reasoned. So, I set down to the lake, pulled the canvas cover off the old boat, and lowered it into the water from its stand.
Here goes nothin', I thought to myself. I primed the engine, and it took only two tries. The old beauty sputtered to life. This was dad's pride and joy. A 22-foot 1959 Riva Ariston, her wooden hull was polished to a good shine. He may not have cared much for his kid, but my dad loved his boat. I was surprised by the bitterness, the quickness of my thought, and the bad taste it left in my mouth. I shook my head, clearing the thought away. Selling this boat will be nice -- I found a similar boat online for sale for over $100,000. I saw dollar signs in my head. I sped off south, toward the marina.
DeWitt's Marina. The faded sign stood at the end of the cement pier. A few wooden docks floated off the sides, making a few slips for boaters. Not too many people sailed or motored up to DeWitt's like they used to. I eased "Torch Lake Lady" into a slip. Yeah, it wasn't that original of a name for such a beautiful boat, but there it was.
The Marina served many purposes: a general store, a rigging shop, your general one-stop beach stuff like Frisbees and suntan lotion and flip-flops, bait and tackle. There was a hardware, a small lumber and boat yard, overpriced groceries, and gas pumps. It didn't take long to get almost all the items on my list. The old man behind the counter (I thought maybe he was old DeWitt himself, but couldn't be sure) gave me some plastic sheets to wrap the wood and protect the boat. "What's all that wood for, sonny?" the old man asked.
Yep, it was old DeWitt. I smiled a fake smile. "I need to do some repairs on my place down the lake," I answered, quickly.
"You new around here? Haven't seen your face," it was a reasonable-enough question.
"I am Elaine and Kirk Bishop's son, I am up at the house to do some work," I hoped that would be the end of the exchange.
"Haven't seen them up here all year. Dave, that's your name, right? How's old Kirk doin'?"
"I am going to need some help repairing the dock. Dad, er, Kirk always took care of that. Do you know a handyman or contractor I can call?" I avoided his question.
Eyeing me, but realizing my business was my business, he let out a quick breath,
"Jimmy's down on the marina finishing up a project, he does contracting work, too. He's your best bet."
"Thanks, DeWitt," and I left the store. Taking a cart with the lumber back down the pier, I walked back to the boat.
Approaching my slip, I saw a man squatting down in front of the boat. Exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, he crushed his cigarette on the cement pier, and looked up at me. "This is Kirk's craft?" he asked.
"Yep," suddenly I felt like a teenager driving his dad's car! " Well, I guess it's mine now," I added, as if that made it better.
He nodded.
"I am looking for Jimmy, do you know where I can find him? Old DeWitt said he would be down here,"
He winced. "Old DeWitt, eh? I am Jim, please call me Jim. How can I help?"
"Ah, cool, Jim. I was told you did some contracting work. I have to make some repairs to the porch and dock, and I am hoping you have some availability to help," I explained.
"Are you trying to hire me?" He asked. Apparently I was using too many words. His grey eyes smiled a bit.
"I am," I chuckled. `Too much time in the City,' I thought to myself. "I have a pretty short timeline -- I'd like the repairs completed in the next couple of days, if possible."
"Not a problem. I can come by at 10 tomorrow." His manner was gentle. "I'll give you a quote when I see the dock, but I figure it'll be $500 or less for the job." He wasn't much of a negotiator.
I was happy with his honesty. It's nice to meet someone who isn't trying to oversell. "See you tomorrow," I replied. Thinking quickly, I stuck out my right hand. He took it, sealing our deal with a quick, firm shake.
"Let me help you with that lumber." He assessed the situation, and thought twice about it. "Actually, why don't I put those big pieces in the back of my truck and bring `em over tomorrow. It'd be a shame to scratch up that beauty," his nod indicated the wooden-hulled boat.
"Thanks, Jim. I appreciate that." We set off for his truck, back past the marina, in the dusty parking lot. Having loaded the lumber, I confirmed tomorrow's starting time. "Oh, let me tell you where I live," I added, recalling that I hadn't told him.
"Oh, I know how to get to your place. You're Elaine and Kirk's son, or close to it -- you look just like Kirk," he said, matter-of-factly.
I winced. God, the last thing I wanted was to be compared with my old man. "My name's Dave Bishop."
It was close to 4 when I got back to the lake house. I set to work cleaning the place up -- a thorough sweeping, and running the rag mop with Murphy's Oil Soap over the wood floors. I took down all the curtains, and shook them out. A more fastidious house-keeper would have washed, or replaced them, shaking the dust out was enough for now. Running a cloth and some Windex around the windows took off some grime and let in the evening light. By 7 I washed up, made a couple of sandwiches and took a beer down to the edge of the lake. Tonight I'd watch another sunset. Tomorrow I'd clean up the yard some.
Sleeping in my old bed seemed odd. I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the big bed in my parents' bedroom, so I stayed on the twin bed in my old bedroom. There was a second twin bed against the other wall, and I looked over at its emptiness. I used to bring friends here for sleepovers when we'd come up for the summer. Keith was the last visitor I had here. Keith's parents also summered up on Torch Lake, and he lived up the lake, close to the boy's camp and Eastport at the Northern end of the lake.
Keith's family came by for supper that evening and Keith stayed over -- we were to spend the next day sailing. Everything changed that night. After summer's of talking about girls and occasionally getting off together, we had looked at each other differently that night. We had each finished high-school, and this was our last summer at the lake. College and new opportunities were ahead. We kissed for the first time in my room that night. Later that summer we would learn about fucking, and cocksucking, and what the feel of a man's body was like.
We almost made it the entire summer, until my father walked in. What an amazing night that had been. We'd spent that day out on the lake, our bodies glowing with the sun. I'd taken out our small scow, spent the day going up and down the lake, the sail filling in the breeze. Keith was beautiful. His hair was blonde with a summer of sun, his skin healthy, his lips full, his blue eyes like the colors of the lake. That evening my parents were out, in Interlochen a few hours away for a jazz concert. We had the evening to ourselves.
Maybe it's because he was the first, but I still remember the feel of his lips on mine. Insistent, exploring, strong. We kissed for a long time -- back and forth, our lips and bodies dancing, Keith taking the lead, me following; me picking it up, Keith coming behind. It was an ancient dance and full of passion. Tearing at each others' clothes, we wanted as few barriers as possible between us. I wanted to see his smooth chest, feel it under my hands, run my lips and tongue over its definition. He tore my shorts from my hips, pulling them down over my thighs, and I kicked them from my ankles. He stood before me. His dick was beautiful -- plump balls supported a heavy cock, quickly hardening, rising up and resting against his belly.
I fell to my knees in front of him, breathing in his scent, licking the taste of the lake and his musk from his balls. His cock drooled against my lips as I wrapped my mouth around the head of his cock. His head passed across my lips, my teeth giving it wide berth, as he pushed deeper into me. His skin felt hot to my touch as I ran the flat palms of my hands across his belly and up his sides. I sunk my fingers into his ass cheeks, pulling him further into my mouth, his head finally reaching its place at the back of my throat. A summer of practice made me ready for this moment, I opened the back of my throat and he pushed in, his scratch fur up against my nose as he sunk all the way back.
"Ungh, yeah, Dave, swallow it." I didn't need to be asked twice. I swallowed, my tonsils and throat closing in around his head. I could feel his leaking cock as it trickled into the back of my mouth, his shaft was slick with his pre-fuck and my saliva. He moaned, his hips bucking against me as his knees weakened. I supported him, his pelvis against my face, my hands on his ass. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, deepening his thrusts into me. I turned my gaze up to meet him looking down his body. In as much as I could, I nodded: I was ready for him.
"Fuck, Dave, you ready for me?" He whispered, his words heaving with his breathing. I gave him my affirmation by increasing my suction, pulling his cum from his fat balls. "Oh God, you're gonna make me blow," he shouted, his face turned up to the sky. A final thrust, and I felt him lunge into me, his balls contracting. I pulled off his dick some, I wanted to taste him, to feel his cum pour into me. With each volley he shouted, moaned, his moans becoming quieter his the orgasm began to wash from him. I felt his knees weaken, and knew I was supporting him.
"Don't swallow. I wanna taste," he winked at me when he was through. I licked and sucked the last of his cum from his head and shaft, then stood up to meet him, my cock drooling against his and we kissed, exchanging his milky cum between us.
"Looks like I am not the only one who enjoyed that," he laughed, as my rock hard cock jerked and drooled a bit more of my precum. We moved upstairs, to my bed, to try something Keith had heard about. He stretched out on my bed on his back, his head just over the edge. "Stand in front of me, and fuck my mouth," he delivered it like an order, one I was happy to fulfill. He opened his mouth, and I lined up my cock with his lips, and slowly plunged forward. It was electric. My cockhead, slimy with pre-fuck against his lips. I toyed with his mouth, running my cock along his lips, watching the strings of precum as they webbed his mouth. His tongue reached out to meet me and curled itself under my cock to invite me in further.
"Ungh, yes." I hissed as my cock penetrated his mouth. At this angle it was so easy to slide into him, delivering my cock neatly to the back of his mouth. Upside down, it was a whole new sensation, his tongue stroking the top of my shaft instead of the sensitive bottom: it made me just as horny. He reached up his hands, and I reached out to grab hold. Steadying myself, I pulled myself into him. His hands would squeeze and release, my cue to go deeper, or to relax. It took little time for my entire cock to be engulfed in his throat. It was the most amazing feeling -- the velvety back of his throat caressed my fat cockhead. I spit and drooled pre-fuck into his gullet.
Quickly, I established a rhythm, pulling myself into his throat, sliding back across his tongue. When I would reach his tonsils he would hum and gurgle against me, sending shivers of vibrations through my shaft and straight to my roiling balls. I could hold back no longer, and I came suddenly, gushing myself into him, giving him all of my seed. He lapped it up, and swallowed it. Sinking to my knees, I finished by kissing him deeply, tasting myself on his lips.
It wasn't the end for either of us, and we climbed into my bed. Unaware of the time, we continued to play with each other, kissing, exchanging promises of summers to come and experiences to be shared. Keith was kneeling in front of me, his cock buried inside me, my body convulsing with my own orgasm as Keith emptied himself into me when my father opened the door to my bedroom. Silently, he handed Keith his clothes. That weekend our summer ended early, and we packed up and returned home in silence. "You can take with you what's in your room, pack it in your car, and be gone tomorrow," my dad said when we got home. "Your mother begged me to pay for your first semester of college, which I will do. After that, you'll need to get your own loans or leave school. This house is no longer your home." He closed the door, and we didn't speak again.
Coming back to the present, the sun, wind, beer, a long day, and three exhausting weeks since I had left my home in San Francisco to come back to Michigan to wrap things up were catching up with me. I hoped Jim would make quick work of the repairs. I didn't want to stay up here in Antrim County any longer than I had to. As I think about today's events, I think for a moment about Jim. He's not unattractive. Standing nearly as tall as I am, I imagine he's about 6'1". His blond hair is a little long, and has a curl to it. He hadn't shaven in a few days, and had stubble. My guess is that it would take him about 2 weeks to grow a full beard. His grey eyes -- not the blue or green or brown that many blond guys would have -- are so honest. His arms were big, I noticed -- big from honest labor, not gyms. He's a smoker, usually a no-go for me, but something about him brings out a bad-boy fantasy in me.
I shook my head. Morning will come early again.
End Chapter One
Thank you for reading this story. I hope that you'll like where this is going, and write me with any feedback you might have. You can find me at sfzero94114@protonmail.com. Tune in next time to see how Dave continues coping with his memories of Michigan, and what adventures might be in store.
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