This is a true story based on what became a long-term relationship.
Copyright 2008, richard@surfeit-verdure.com
------ We'd been tangential friends for years - usually only hanging out when mutual acquaintances were involved. Pity, since I'd been fantasizing about his hairy balls slapping against my ass since I'd met him.
It wasn't a promising match. Mike was big, husky, and hairy. I was tall, wiry, and might have weighed 180 pounds carrying a sack of concrete. More problematically, I wasn't out, and Mike staunchly touted his preference for 80 pound women headed for future back problems.
I'd always wondered if he might have been curious under the right circumstances - the louder you pound your chest the less secure you are - but several carefully contrived encounters away from the herd hadn't yielded anything. None the less, I kept up the effort. At least I got to see his ass crack bulging out of the top of his jeans from time to time.
Our friend group headed out to the Cascade mountains fairly regularly. Sometimes car-camping, sometimes backpacking for two or three days. The car-camping episodes often drew 10 or 15 people. Beer. Campfires. Steaks inexpertly cooked either to barely-warm or pure carbon. Staggering off to the tents at 2 in the morning. Entertaining, but nowhere I was likely to get lucky with Mike.
The next trip was to be the later - three of us were scheduled to hike up to a mountain lake, camp, then trudge back down the next day. It was a short trail (for me) at about 10 miles. It was a bit more of a stretch for Mike, but he wasn't likely to admit it.
Our third wheel - er, companion - was a peripheral member of the group who had been whining for ages that no one he knew went backpacking.
The trip was planned for a Friday in the hopes that the swarms of tourists that blanket the Pacific Northwest in the summer would still be at home packing their black socks and Birkenstocks. Leave from Mike's house at 6, at the mountain by 10, at camp by mid afternoon.
I showed up at Mike's intentionally late, and - unsurprisingly - still had to wake him up. Our third accomplice arrived in the form of a phone call saying that he had stayed out at the bars the previous night, and was too tired to go. Mike bitched. I grumbled appropriately while silently thanking god.
Mike asked me if I thought it was still worth going. I said that it would be a pity to waste the backcountry permit...
A few hours later - Mike had, again unsurprisingly, not packed yet - we were speeding up the North Cascades Highway toward the trailhead.
The hike itself was uneventful. I quickly got tired of walking at Mike's pace and took off ahead to find the camp site. (You have to reserve a specific backcountry site in the park. Somehow a reservation number does seem to dampen the illusion that you're "roughing it.")
It was hot despite the early season and the high elevation. I was dripping with sweat within 20 minutes, and was rather annoyed at our delayed start. Luckily the camping site was only about 5 miles in, and was well shaded. I left my pack and explored the area for a bit. There was still no sign of Mike, so I eventually wandered back down the trail to see if he'd been eaten by something.
I caught up with him a mile or so from camp, slowly but surely making his way. (Mike has been likened to a freight train - it may take forever but it will get there no matter what.)
The temperature had gotten to Mike too, and he'd pulled off his shirt. An unusual treat for me, since he had always been surprisingly modest on past trips. Scuttling into a tent to change, stomping way off into the woods to pee, staying on the banks while everyone else splashed around a stream. Even now he was clearly uncomfortable when I came around the bend and saw him. Luckily for me, there was no way he could drop his pack and put a shirt back on without being obvious.
I walked along with him chatting about The Local Sports Team or some similar blather. All the time watching his rather chunky torso gleam with sweat.
I could understand his past shyness. The biceps bulged pleasantly when he shifted his pack straps, but then his love-handles did too. He wasn't particularly fat, but he was definitely big, and carried it in the classic bear pattern - big tits, big love-handles, big belly.
A field of brown curly hair sprouted across his upper chest, then cascaded between his tits into a narrow trail vanishing into the sweat-soaked band of his shorts. Darker hair peaked out of the sides of his dripping pits.
He may not have been up for consideration as an underwear model, but right then I wouldn't have traded him for a whole catalog full for them.
I'm sure I had a bulge in my shorts the entire way up, but I didn't care.
Even at Mike's pace we made it to the camp site eventually and dumped off our gear. It was still early in the day so we hiked up toward the lake at the end of the trail. I had a small day pack and water bottles.
Mike proclaimed that he didn't need anything.
He had taken advantage of the stop to squirm back into a shirt, so there wasn't much point in dawdling along at his pace. I made it up to the lake in about an hour and a half, then got to wait for another hour for Mike to trudge up. It was a beautiful spot just above tree line. However, it was clear that 10-plus miles in one day was not Mike's idea of a good time, and he started agitating to head back to camp.
I had finished my water bottles on the way up, and of course Mike hadn't brought any in the first place. I was dehydrated by the time we got back to the packs, and I can only assume that Mike was miserable.
There was at least a liter or so of water left in the hydration pack built into my main backpack, and I made a beeline for it. After slurping away for a minute or so I was surprised to hear Mike walk up behind me. "Can I have some?" The pack was sitting on the ground next to a tree, so I turned the blue water tube toward him, expecting him to take it, and my place, next to the pack. Instead he crouched down next to me and started sucking on the mouthpiece. The smell of fresh sweat washed over me.
I was heartened by Mike's willingness to get so close to another male, since he normally stayed as far away from other people as possible. However, I chalked it up to desperation and/or heat-stroke. I was never going to have Mike and I knew it.
The rest of the evening was perfectly normal. Boil water from the nearby stream to refill the packs and water bottles, make dinner, stare at the... well fires weren't allowed in the park, so stare at the trees.
Dusk began to turn to night, and Mike announced that he was going to go to bed. We wandered a few meters apart and began setting up our tents. Mike had a cheap sporting goods store tent the size (and weight) of a Volkswagen. I had a brand new state-of-the-art soloist tent the weight (and size) of a pop can.
I laid out the mesh tent body, then slid the piece of metal origami that served as the tent's structural support into place. A quiet cracking noise followed, as the tent canopy drifted to the ground under the splintered pieces of tent pole. (No, I didn't break it on purpose. It cost too damn much.)
An equally quiet snort was heard from Mike's camp spot.
My annoyance temporarily obscuring my opportunism, I asked Mike rather gruffly if I could sleep in his four bedroom three bath ranch-style tent. "Yeah, but I snore." Great.
Of course I quickly came around and realized my good fortune. This was as close as I was ever likely to get to "sleeping with" Mike. However, I wasn't about to do anything further about it. Ending up murdered in the woods by an enraged homophobe didn't sound appealing.
Mike had brought along a $20 canvas-and-fluff sleeping bag. Ironically ideal for the weather. I had an ultra-light down bag that was a sauna. Par for the course. Unzipped, it was tolerable.
It was now fully dark, so I could strip down to my pair of boxer-briefs without showing the tent I had successfully pitched in them. It was my turn to scuttle under cover.
Mike made it clear that he was going to sleep in everything short of his hiking boots. If he wanted to roast, more power to him.
Fifteen minutes later it was clear that "I snore" was on par with calling Mount Rainier "a hill." Great bellowing snorts and rattles began to emanate from the dark shadow on Mike's side of the tent. I gave up on trying to sleep, and began hoping for death. His or mine - either way was fine.
I apparently did manage to drift off at some point, since I woke up some time later to blessed silence. Perhaps my hopes for death had come true. I had gotten used to the dark, and could see that the mountain that was Mike had rolled off his sleeping bag. His bulk was now nearly touching me. Bonus.
I stayed awake but lying still on my back, listening to Mike inches away from me. A little while later horniness got the better of sense and I rolled over onto my side. My straining dick now pointing at Mike under the cloak of my sleeping bag. I could see that Mike was also on his back, but his head was turned and he was looking directly at me.
A lightning bold of lust and fear shot through me. This is more than I had ever hoped for. Was it finally going to happen? Or was this just chance, and I wasn't going to get anything more than pre-cum stained shorts?
No answer was apparent. Both of us lay there in the dark, pretending we were asleep. The tension was killing me, but I was way too chicken to do anything about it.
I didn't have to. Minutes or hours later - I still have no sense of the true time - I felt a hand brush the taught fabric covering my dripping dick. I twitched involuntarily and the hand retreated.
Lust was now way ahead of the rest of the brain. I didn't care what happened. He could kill me in the woods if he wanted, but I was going to have fun first. I reached slowly out from under the sleeping bag with my right hand toward Mike's crotch.
He had gone to bed wearing denim shorts. I was surprised to find my hand brushing the edge of an unzipped zipper. Hey, if the door's open...
I touched the fabric of what I would guess were cotton boxers. I could feel heat radiating off his body and off the clearly erect penis millimeters below my hand.
Suddenly he jerked just as I had. Instead of a short twitch, he rolled toward me so that our faces - and crotches - were less than eight inches apart.
I nearly passed out from the rush of blood to my head. I'm truly surprised I didn't cum in my shorts right then. (Hey, I was young.)
It was clear that this was going to happen, but exactly how wasn't obvious. My hand had retreated when Mike rolled over. Several seconds passed. Just as I was steeling myself to make another grab for his cock, his shadow moved and his hand touched my shorts again. Still tentative, but this time with more pressure.
Close enough for me. I quickly reached over and brushed across the front of his boxers till I located his dick. He twitched again, but this time stayed in place. I slid my thumb and forefinger on either side of his cock. It was average - on the short side, but with a nice thick width.
Mike's hand was still touching my shorts. As I started moving up and down his shaft he began mirroring my movements. Pre-cum was flowing onto my shorts and crotch like a river. I slide up to the head of his cock and found a small but growing wet spot there too.
The feeling of Mike's hand lightly stoking my dick was unbelievable. I'd jacked off to fantasies about Mike a thousand times, but this was a thousand times better.
I wasn't going to last very long at this rate, so I picked up the pace. Sliding my hand up to the elastic band of his boxers I tried to worm my hand inside. Unfortunately Mike was evidently in denial about his waist size, and the shorts were far too tight to pull down from my angle. After a few seconds of fumbling, Mike's hand left my cock and I saw his shadow heave as he pulled his shorts and boxers down even with his balls. I quickly followed, pulling my own briefs down to above my knees. My imprisoned dick caught on the waistband and slapped back down against my stomach leaving a puddle of pre-cum.
I quickly reached back out and wrapped my hand around his now free cock.
I started sliding up and down as best I could from my rather awkward angle.
Mike's hand gingerly wrapped around my own dripping rod. He tentatively started mirroring my own motions again.
I sucked in a breath of air rather loudly. His grip loosened. Determined to show him how this was done, I tightened my own grip and moved up to the flare of his cock head. A drop of pre-cum had formed at the tip, so I smeared it over his surprisingly broad head, lubricating my short strokes. Mike followed suit, just as I'd hoped.
The extra pressure and lube had me straining to hold back the cum. I desperately wanted him to cum first, so I began twisting my hand over his cock head as I stroked. This time it was Mike that sucked in a breath of air.
I was nearly losing it. I was trying to think of something else - anything else - besides the fantasy wrapping its hand around my cock. In answer to my prayers, I suddenly heard a loud grunt and felt Mike's dick rear back, then spring forward. Cum jetted out in three short but ferocious contractions. I was barely aware of my own cum splattering out onto my sleeping bag.
I continued to gently milk the cum out of Mike. Suddenly his hand left my dick and he pushed my hand away from his. He rolled over onto his other side while simultaneously pulling up his shorts. I could see the shadow of him fiddling with the fly as he scooted back over to his side of the tent.
Traces of Mike's cum coated my fingers. My own cum was slowly soaking into the fabric of the sleeping bag. My dick gave one last twitch as I rubbed Mike's scent into it. I collapsed onto my back.
The sexual pressure gone, I was suddenly very much aware of what had happened. My fantasies had come true. I had just jacked off a man that I'd been masturbating to for years.
There was no shame - I'd wanted every second of it - but my fear grew as I stared at the dark roof of the tent. Mike's reaction wasn't promising. I could see him silhouetted against the tent wall, resolutely turned on his side away from me. He had pulled the unzipped sleeping bag over himself even in the heat.
Was he going to be ok with what had happened? Was this just a heterosexual male overcome by a case of blue-balls? Was I going to be the target of his wrath once it all sunk in?
I stared at the dark above me for what seemed like hours, knowing I wasn't going to be sleeping.
The light of morning proved me wrong again as it lifted me out of a fitful dream. I quickly rolled to my left. Mike was gone. His sleeping bag and other gear gone. My heart sank.
I untangled myself from my sleeping bag and began sorting my things into their various stuff sacks. I put back on my clothes from the day before and crawled out of the tent. To my great surprise Mike was sitting a few meters away on a log, watching me.
"I've got to get back to town. Get your stuff together."
Mike rarely if ever issued commands, so I knew things were not ok. I dragged the rest of my gear together and stuffed it haphazardly into my pack. Mike quickly tore down his tent and stuffed it into the top of his pack without even putting it back into its sack.
"Let's go."
I followed silently as Mike marched back toward the trail. As we reached the junction, Mike gestured that I was to go ahead. Not wanting to argue, I took off toward the car, quickly losing site of the shuffling figure behind me.
I arrived at the parking lot long before Mike, and tossed my pack into the trunk. I sat in the passenger seat and waited.
Mike appeared 30 minutes later, shoving his gear into the car and getting into the driver's seat. He never looked toward me.
Several miserable and silent hours later we passed into the outskirts of town and turned toward Mike's neighborhood. Mike swerved into his driveway and popped open the trunk.
He had grabbed his pack and headed for his open garage door before I was even around to the back of the vehicle. I picked up my own gear and walked slowly to my car, hoping to hear something from the figure disappearing into the house. The garage door began to grind down instead.
The drive to my house was short, and soon my own garage door was closing behind me. I left my pack in the trunk to deal with later.
I sat on my couch and stared at the blank screen of the television. Had it been worth it? Was five minutes of mutual masturbation worth losing a friend? I didn't know.
My phone rang. I rarely answered it - virtually all my calls were telemarketers - but in this situation I had to know if it was him.
"Hello." A long pause followed. "I just wanted to say thanks." Click.