Story and Art by
Story and Art
Matt's canoe cleared the riffle and entered a long stretch of unbroken water. He stopped paddling and allowed the current to move his little craft downstream. Flat Rock Creek was high from recent spring rains but it was clear, and this warm April day in the year 1977 was a pleasant interlude in his complicated life. How could Matt know that it was to become one of the most memorable of days? Today he felt entranced by the glittering water and overhanging trees. Somewhat drowsy, he placed the paddle across the gunwales and closed his eyes. Suddenly the current was strong and swift. He was swept into a bend of the stream and then he was in a chute. His passage was blocked by a large, fallen tree.
In an instant the canoe was broadside to the tree, capsized and pinned by the powerful current against the massive trunk. Matt was driven down among the branches and the swirling water. He felt the rocky bottom as his ass began bouncing there. Feet-first he bounced along and calmly reflected on the possibility of death.
When Matt surfaced at the tail-end of the chute he felt some pride because he was not afraid. As he waded ashore he looked back to where the twelve-foot Grumman canoe was lodged in the downed tree. Matt sat down on the sandy beach and laughed at himself and at his predicament.
Fortunately the sun offered some heat so Matt got out of his soggy shirt and khaki trousers and allowed the warm rays to touch his skin. When he stepped behind a big sycamore tree he was virtually naked, boxer shorts wet and clinging and hiding very little. He was looking through a line of trees and across a field to a distant farmhouse while he peed. Until he heard the whistle. It was a "wolf whistle." He hadn't heard one in years. Matt was so startled by it that his stream of urine abruptly stopped and he wanted to hide behind the tree. But where was the whistler?
"How was the swim?" asked the whistler who now appeared from the line of trees. There was a playful sound in his voice that matched the grin on his face. He was a young man in his mid-twenties, rugged but handsome and very well constructed.
"The water is kinda' cold," Matt replied, "but it's a nice day at the beach."
"Do you need some help? Or do you want this beach for yourself?"
"I need help." Matt described the tree and the trapped canoe as he approached the stranger. Within arm's length he became aware of his own nakedness, not ashamed of it but a little insecure. He was also alarmed by the roving eyes of the young man, wide and grayish green eyes, as they moved over him. Matt sensed that he might be the prey and this handsome man a predator. "My name is Matt O'Brien," he said.
"Russell Hardy. Call me Russ." He unbuttoned his shirt. This simple act was so disarming for Matt that he averted his eyes, for in glimpsing the bare chest he anticipated a finale in which both would be naked. "I live on this farm," Russ added, pointing across the fields to the house, "with my folks." By now he was down to his jockey shorts, ready for a swim.
Within fifteen minutes the canoe was dislodged from the tree and floated to the beach, and Matt said: "I owe you one. Don?t know what I would have done if you hadn?t come along.?
"Do you do this often? Canoe alone?" Russ asked.
"Whenever I get the chance. My wife thinks I'm nuts, spending so many Saturdays out here, but this is what turns me on." Matt was trying not to look at Russ who was stretched out on the sand three feet away. Resting on his elbows, his legs spread wide, Russ was massaging his chest and abdomen. The curves of his broad chest collided with the ridges in his midsection, the lean hips were flat against the sand, a muscular penis arched upward and nestled against his belly. Matt was so unnerved by the masculine beauty on display that he jumped up from the sand. "I guess I'd better get going," he said.
"I wish you would stay," Russ said. "You work out, don?t you? I like guys who are in great shape." Now Russ was standing just twelve inches away. He gripped Matt's bicep with his left hand. When he placed his right hand on the other bicep Matt averted his eyes. Those wolf-like eyes were hypnotic. "Do you like to wrestle?" Russ asked, seductively. "We could do some wrestling up in the barn if you?re interested."
Matt turned away. He retrieved his wet clothing. "Sorry, Russ. Got'ta go." For some inexplicable reason Matt was losing his voice and he began to perspire. He knew in his heart that he wanted to stay.
"Look," he said, "I'm afraid of you. Not because you might whip my ass if we wrestled. It's because you're coming on to me. And I just can't get involved, Russ."
Again Russ made eye contact. He said, "In three weeks I'll be in California. To stay. My brother and his wife live in Oakland, and they want me to live with them until I get settled. So I'm out of here, Matt. Away from this farm for good." He waited for Matt to reply but there was silence. "Will you come back next Saturday? Meet me at the barn? We'll do some wrestling, just for kicks."
Looking into the gray-green eyes was a tactical error, for the eyes held Matt as the eyes of a wolf hold a rabbit. Secretly, Matt wanted to be devoured by the wolf. At last he nodded and walked away. He launched his canoe and without looking back he said, "I can't promise," but in his heart he said yes.
The days of the week that followed were long days and the nights were full of dreams. At last it was Saturday morning. Matt paddled to the little sand beach and made a landing. Matt had surrendered to secret fantasy and now he would learn the truth about himself. When he approached the barn he heard the wolf whistle, and then he saw a form in the doorway. It was sleek, like alabaster, and it was motionless but seemed about to spring, like a great white wolf in ambush. Every muscle in the body was tense and every sinew was tight and at any moment the body would be upon him, the powerful arms would hold him, the mouth would taste him.
"Did I hear a wolf whistling?" Matt called out.
"Come into my den," said the wolf, and then he disappeared into the darkness of the barn.
When Matt reached the barn door he peered into the blackness. He could see nothing but a circle of light in the very center of the barn, lit by a beam from the sun, from the loft above. Canvas was stretched over bales of hay.
"OK, Matt," said the wolf, softly, from out of the darkness. "Strip."
Matt took off his shirt. "Okay, I'm ready," he said.
"I want you naked, Matt."
"What? I agreed to wrestle . . . but . . . I've never wrestled that way."
"Come on, Matt. Take it all off."
Now his fantasy became reality. Matt had dreamed of this encounter with a beautiful man for too long, had tried to forget it, had married a woman; but today he would live the dream. In the dream he was naked and the man was, too. He was pumped up and covered with sweat, he was dominant and then he was submissive, and the dream always ended in a wet climax. His penis thickened in anticipation. He removed his jeans and jockstrap and moved toward the circle of light.
When he reached the arena Matt was blinded by the light. He peered into the shadows and saw a crouching form, an eerie shape, a man-wolf with gray-green eyes aglow. The wolf leaped. It dragged him down and Matt fell upon the mat of hay, held by powerful arms and pinned beneath a broad chest. The muscles that touched him were smooth and hard, like the rocks in the bed of the creek. Vibrant energy flowed from those muscles as strong currents flowed in the stream. Matt was overwhelmed physically and sexually and it was the most exhilarating moment in all of his life, his first sexual experience with a man.
Spread-eagled, his face just inches away from the handsome face of the wolf, Matt was momentarily in awe of his adversary. And he was distracted by the big, solid cock which began moving back and forth from his crotch to his chin, sliding between his abs and over his navel. He began to think that this match would end too soon; so he tried to concentrate on his high-school wrestling techniques, knowing that he was more than a match for Russ. A strict exercise and diet regimen was an important part of his life and he had never been in better condition; his weight and height were similar; and after all, Matt had been a school wrestling champ and a gymnast, too.
Russ was straddling Matt's hips, more and more aroused by the erotic frottage. He failed to control Matt's muscular legs, and suddenly Russ found himself clamped in a body scissors, around his hips. When Matt tightened the vise Russ grunted, more in surprise than in pain. Then he smiled. "Man," he muttered, "your legs are strong." As Russ attempted to break out of the scissors Matt managed to secure both of his wrists, and for several magnificent moments the beautiful torso and battling cocks were on display, shining in the soft light.
It was clear to Matt that Russ enjoyed being dominated as much as he liked to dominate; that he could have broken the hold immediately; that he was thrilled by the view of Matt's cock as it dueled with his own: and so both men reveled in the sensuality of this moment and made it last. When Russ finally escaped he broke away with an explosive burst of strength and energy, sending a signal that he was the more powerful wrestler. But Matt was the more skillful. He rolled Russ into a perfect guillotine and stretched the magnificent frame unmercifully.
Surprise again showed on his face as Russ struggled to break out. When Matt pulled up hard on the headlock and stretched his left leg Russ groaned again. The guillotine immobilized Russ and slowed him down, and he seemed bewildered when Matt suddenly rolled him into a leg split. Agony showed on his face. He reached for his groin and moaned "aw, shit." For one moment Matt became concerned, thinking that the excruciating hold may have pulled a ligament or tendon. He said, "Had enough?"
Russ laughed and said, "I never get enough," and his body uncoiled like a well-oiled spring. The reversal that followed was faster than Matt had ever experienced. The move was so fast and incredibly powerful that he thought "this isn't real, this is a dream." Matt?s head was scissored and his cheek was pressed against a hot, throbbing cock. He sensed immediately that his opponent possessed superior strength. Matt was vulnerable. Would Russ introduce him to oral sex?
Stunned and weakened by the figure four scissors around his throat, Matt was unable to prevent the camel clutch that followed. Now he was filled momentarily with another kind of terror. Did Russ have sinister motives in challenging him to this match? Matt felt a slippery rod in the crack of his ass, rhythmically moving up and down, and he wondered if this was the prelude to penetration.
Suddenly, powerful legs locked around his hips and flattened Matt's cock. Sweat lubricated every muscle and slapping sounds accompanied every new hold. As Russ rolled onto his back, the scissors intact, he put Matt into a reverse headlock. Now Matt was beaten, his body was limp.
Sensing that it was over, Russ released the deadly headlock and flattened Matt in a figure four scissors around the waist. Matt wanted to submit. He was close to climax. He didn't know what else he wanted from Russ, but he knew that his orgasm was imminent. His balls spasmed and precum juice dripped from the rigid cock. He muttered, "Aw, Russ . . . I'm going to cum."
"Don't cum," Russ whispered, pleaded. "I want you to fuck me."
"I can't," Matt said, "Please . . . I can't . . . "
"Why won't you?"
"Because I like you too much," Matt said.
"Is it over then?" Russ said softly.
Matt wanted more. "Aren't you going to pin me?" he asked. Spread-eagled on the canvas, Matt waited for those hard muscles to flatten him, remembering the dream. He closed his eyes. As Russ straddled his hips, Matt felt a warm tongue on his navel licking the salty sweat that had gathered there. The tongue moved through the crevice between his abs and pectorals and reached his throat. The mouth opened wide and sucked near his jugular and Matt was ready to die for this climactic moment.
But the wolf did not bare his fangs.
Insted, he pressed his lips against Matt's mouth.
At this moment Matt remembered how the dream ended: his cock hard against the cock of a warrior and the two joined in battle, and now it was about to happen. Russ pinned him and began pounding, almost frantic in the final throes of the match. Guttural sounds were uttered in unison, sounds of masculine passion, primal and fierce. Perspiration and precum lubricated their loins and the two rods moved like pistons, back and forth with the rhythmic movement of their hips. Suddenly Matt arched his back and his throbbing cock exploded.
Moaning, imploring, Matt said: "Don't go to California, Russ . . . please don't go." And then he could speak no more. For the first time Matt tasted another man's mouth, felt his tongue, was deeply kissed. For the first time . . . he had wrestled a beautiful man to an absolute climax and he had dreamed an impossible dream.
* * * *
Several months passed and Matt was filled with despair. And then one day a postcard arrived, a card with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and a few lines from Russ. "Our match was hot," he said, "but everyone out here gets fucked -- and I do too."
Matt knew then that he would not see Russ again.
His wife wanted a child, and he gave her one.
The years went by. The little girl was almost four. Matt's life was somewhat better because he had two people who needed him now, but he lived with too many secrets and he was haunted by a dream. In the spring of the year he would float his canoe on the same stretch of water and land on the beach and walk through the woods, and always he would look into the den where ecstasy had lurked in the arms of a wolf.
One day as he was eating lunch beneath the big sycamore an elderly gentleman approached. The man said: "You remind me of my son. About the same age, same kinda' build. And you're just as handsome as Russ, too."
"I know Russ Hardy," Matt said.
The old man choked on the awful words: "Russ is dead. He died last December. There is some kind of terrible plague out in California." He began to weep and Matt wept with him.
It was like a wave of water sweeping over him. It was like capsizing the canoe again and facing death again. No, it was worse than facing his own death. It was the death of an unforgettable friend. Matt was overwhelmed by a sense of guilt, guilt for having let his friend go. But in his heart Matt knew the real truth. Some men who pursue other men are offered perfection but cannot embrace it. Such men are wolves in imperfect skins.
Ken's story describes how a gay-identified man is destroyed by his culture's insistence on anal sex.
Russ has a beautiful and intense experience with Matt in the tranquility of their rural setting.
But the lure of "liberation" and promiscuous anal sex in the big city is too great, and Russ is swept up in and destroyed by the great anal sex frenzy of the late 1970s.
Sadly, Ken's story is all too true to the real-life destruction wrought by the purveyors of an ideology of "pansexual polypartnering."
My own lover left a good life in Richmond to move to NYC, in part for greater career opportunities, but also to participate in the sexual life of his time, and he was killed by it.
Hopefully, the next generation of gay and bi men will see the wisdom of seeking happiness in their own backyard -- and with the boy next door.
The Man2Man Alliance
© All material on this site Copyright 2001 - 2011 by Bill Weintraub. All rights reserved.
© All material on this site Copyright 2001 - 2011 by Bill Weintraub. All rights reserved.
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