Into the Wild
As the intense summer heat dissipates, our lives have taken a peculiar, yet curiously tolerable rhythm. It seems that the very high notes and the very low notes can't be heard by anyone but us. They involve only us and no-one else knows about them. We don't talk about them and once they are over, we are able to live in the mid-tones. In the open.
Bizarrely, in the mid-tones, we are developing what one could consider a friendship at the hand of our girlfriends, who seem to enjoy nothing more than organizing double dates. We picnic in the park, go for hikes, nights out and even the odd run together. Though I must confess, there have been brief, animalistic interludes in male bathrooms and more than one run has ended with in us in an alleyway, behind industrial bins, frenetically jerking each other off.
Honestly, if you got the chance to run behind Ethan, seeing the easy way he moves, the way his calves flex with each step, his hamstrings pleated with lines that run all the way to his... Put it this way, I don't care who you are, male or female, you'd have a damned good chance of ending up behind a dumpster, just like me.
Tonight, the four of us are grabbing milkshakes in the village. He and Liza are sitting across from me in a booth, and Jess is tucked neatly up against me. Conversation is flowing easily, though I'm becoming increasingly aware of his heat. He's leaning back against his seat, the angle of his head emphasizing the razor-like line of his jaw. I'm watching the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down slightly when he talks and can almost make out the beat of his pulse at his jugular, although, maybe, that's my heart I feel throbbing. Under the table, I can feel how close his legs are to mine. We aren't touching, but that's only making it worse.
"Do you, Oliver?" The sound of Liza's voice breaks through the fog in my brain, like the shrill call of an alarm going off in the morning.
"Ah, pardon?" I stammer.
She shakes her head and says with a patient little smile, "I said, do you like fishing?"
I seem to have missed a large part of the conversation, as I have no idea what she's talking about but with an almost imperceptible glance at Ethan, I say quickly and with great gusto, "Yeah, sure. I love it."
Just to be clear, I haven't been fishing since I was eight and even at that point, I had no strong feelings about it either way. Liza gives Ethan a little nudge and a look, as if to say, 'go on, ask him'. He looks at me with a wry smile, "What do you say? Want to go fishing next week-end?"
I don't skip a beat.
"Sure." I say, impressed at how neutral my voice sounds, "sounds good." Inside, my heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised Jess can't hear it.
*
The days leading up to the fishing trip seem to drag by. I don't see Ethan at all and I'm jonesing badly. Like,
badly
. I'm hanging on by a thread, but neither of us can risk meeting up when the girls know we are going to be spending the whole week-end together.
He picks me up from work and we leave the city behind. Bob Dylan plays on his tinny car speakers, as concrete finally gives way to lush green. Even though I never consciously feel that I can't breathe in the city, we open the windows as we leave the tarmac, and as I fill my lungs with air, I'm instantly aware of how different it feels. Clean air. Wide open space.
Freedom.
We must lose signal as we head down the narrow, dirt track to the cabin, because Dylan stops playing and the silence is quickly replaced with that same old charge. It's familiar now, but still, no less shocking every time it happens. He slams the truck into park, leaving a little cloud of dust settling behind us, as we leap out, doors banging shut, bags and groceries all but forgotten.
He leads the way into the woods, not looking back as he lifts his shirt over his head, quickly followed by his jeans and a quick little hop as he pulls each shoe off. I follow suit, matching each garment he loses, with my own. He spins me around so fast, I hardly know what's happening as I bend and brace myself by grabbing the rough bark of the tree in front of me, and then, with a grunt he's inside me. Hard. Thick. Long. Loud. I take everything he has to give me. I take it over and over again. Long deep strokes. I take it all.
Gratefully.
I glance around quickly as soon as we're done, I have no idea where we are in relation to other cabins or people.
"Did anyone hear?" I ask, mildly panicked, as I look for my clothes.
"Nah," he laughs, "and even if they did, no way anyone would think those sounds were human."
He has a point.
*
Back in the cabin, it's not much different. I could barely tell you what it looked like in there, other than to say there was a lot of wood, the smell of pine needles and a bed. There was definitely a bed. I couldn't tell you what we ate, though I'm sure we must have had something. All I can tell you is that we
fuck
. Again and again and again. Both of us completely insatiable.
I'd kind of wondered how things would work out with sleeping arrangements. Back home, both of us tend to get away from each other as fast as we can when we're done, but being stuck in a cabin, miles from anyone else, things are different and I'd wondered if he was going to be weird about where we sleep.
Are we going to fuck and then awkwardly head to separate bedrooms?
As it turns out, when we finally do sleep, we pass out, more than falling asleep. Him on his side and me on my back next to him. I don't know if it's the quiet darkness of the woods, or the warmth and weight of his body next to me, anchoring me down, but I sleep like the dead, unmoving, waking only when the morning light filters through the cracks in the curtains.
He's still sleeping. His face looks so different. So peaceful, hard lines softened. His dark eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheeks. The intensity of my gaze must rouse him, as he opens one eye, taking in his surroundings and probably, registering the fact that I'm gawking at him. He grabs a pillow and shoves it over my face playfully, but still, I'm a little embarrassed that he caught me watching him sleep.
My embarrassment doesn't last long though, as he reaches for me, wrapping his leg up around me, hands wondering downward. I'm hard, and not just because I always have morning wood. He pulls me toward him, chest touching chest, mouths touching too. He runs his fingers down my crack, expertly seeking my hole, brushing against me, circling slowly before gently pressing in.
"Aaahh, shit!" I whimper, as I buck to get away.
"Are you okay?" He asks, concern written across his face.
"Oh, shit," I say again.
He giggles remorsefully, "Oh, fuck. Did I wreck your ass?"
The answer, it turns out, is yes. It seems that no matter how willing, there really is only so much an ass can take and we appear to have stretched the boundaries of what's possible. I'm always tender when I've been with him, but this time feels like the very, very edge of good-sore and damned close to you're-going-to-find-yourself-needing-medical-attention-sore.
"I'll be fine," I say.
"Come 'ere, let me see." He smiles cheekily.
Fuck no
, I think.
