This story is a work of fiction, and all the characters are products of my own overactive imagination. This story contains descriptions of gay sex, so if that's not your thing move on. Thanks to my editor William B. for all the help. I love hearing from my readers, so please feel free to comment or send me a note.
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I slid off my heavy backpack in the shade of a stand of Lodgepole Pine. It was 1980, the summer after I graduated from college. I had put life on hold to hike the Colorado Trail. I had no attachments, no appointments to keep, no place I had to be but on the trail and in the moment.
I unzipped the big outside pocket on my back pack that held my map and compass. I had to remove a paperback book that was also tightly wedged in the pocket. I looked at the cover and grinned. The title of the book was "Stories of Men Loving Men" and there was a cheesy illustration of two men embracing. Little did I know this book would change my outlook on sex, love and my life.
The book made me chuckle, as I thought of the day I left on my trip. My friends John and Dan had brought me to the trail head. We said our good byes and they handed me a package wrapped in old Christmas wrapping paper.
"Now don't open it until Christmas." said Dan as he opened my pack, and stuffed it in.
"Got anything else you want me to carry around for the next month?" I said sarcastically as I walked up the trail.
Dan waved and John yelled, "Send us a smoke signal if you need anything."
My first night in the wilderness I opened the package by the campfire. Tossing the wrapping paper into the fire, the burst in illumination revealed two books, "Adventures of an International Prostitute" and "Stories of Men Loving Men." There was also a note that said, "We hope you like these thought provoking readings. We got you one of each flavor because we've never been too sure about you. Sincerely, Your Buddies John and Dan"
I quickly read the "International Prostitute." A predictable read, I finished it in a couple of days then to save weight I promptly used it to start a fire in camp. On about day 5, I was taking a break from a strenuous uphill stretch, I settled next to a stream and began going through my pack in search of something or the other when I pulled out the second paperback. I decided to give it a look strictly for entertainment value.
The writing wasn't half bad and I found myself transfixed by the story I was reading. It was about two college roommates. One gay, "homosexual" was the term used in books in the 1980s, and the other straight. The story was all about a seduction ending with the gay student performing oral sex on his "straight" roommate and then convincing him to have anal sex.
By the time I had finished the story I was squeezing my hard cock through the sheer fabric of the nylon running shorts. Since I had seen no one on the trail since the day before, I released my throbbing cock and began to stroke in earnest. My head back, and my eyes closed, I imagined having sex with another man. I could feel my heart pound and my cock throb as the idea of man on man sex brought me to an elevated level of arousal. Fantasizing that a big thick cock was pounding away in my ass, sent me over the edge and I shot a huge load all over my hand and thigh.
After a bit of clean up, I hiked to my destination for the night, an isolated mountain valley. After setting up camp, I ate a quick dinner, made a small fire, and eagerly read the rest of the book. I shot my load twice more that night and in the next couple of days I would re-read the stories and jack myself off at least twice a day to thoughts of sex with another man.
Often I stripped naked for these masturbation sessions. My 5'10" frame was muscular and lean from all the hard hiking. I had taken to hiking in just my skimpy running shorts and my body was tan all over. Shaking my mane of long blond hair I felt like a sex crazed wood nymph. I would lay down on a rock in the sun and stroke my hard 7" cock. Imagining an orgy of male bodies, I would day dream of cock filling my mouth and ass, while a handsome lover would ride my erect dick. I would let the thick sticky cum splash on my chest and stomach. At first out of curiosity, then out of sheer animal lust, I would often lick the cum off my hand fantasizing it belonged to my imaginary lovers.
These frequent stroke sessions left me feeling a little confused but mostly free, wild, and hornier than ever. Several times I had wet dreams in which a male friend would feed me his seed or fuck me in the ass. I didn't know what was happening to me, I just knew that the cheap homoerotic novel had lit a fire inside me. The idea of making love to a man excited me like no other fantasy I had before.
Toward the end of my second week on the trail I had only run into a dozen other hikers. I was a little lonely, and my food was almost gone. I brought a fly rod and reel that I borrowed from my grandfather, and I had expected to catch lots of fish to supplement my dry food along the way. Having never fly fished before, and having little idea how or what to use in the fly box, I had only caught one 4" trout. I threw the little guy back, being unable to commit infanticide on the tiny fish.
That fateful day my destination was a high mountain lake, which on my map had a "fish" icon next to it. It was at 10,658 feet and I estimated the elevation gain to be at least a thousand feet to get there. I told myself that this would be my chance to catch a bunch of fish and replenish my hungry body. I broke camp shortly after dawn and by noon I was scrambling over large flat rocks to where the lake was indicated on my map.
The lake was nestled in a cirque at the base of a ring of snow spotted peaks. It was a turquoise blue and it shimmered in the midday sun. I was so taken by this beautiful landscape that I took off my pack and quickly retrieved my camera. As I framed the shot in the viewfinder I noticed that I was not alone. On the other side of the lake, perhaps a half mile away was a figure rhythmically casting a fly onto the surface of the water.
Part of me was disappointed that I didn't have the lake to myself, the other part of me was happy to see another fisherman that might be willing to give me some tips. I snapped my picture and put the camera back in my pack next to my maps and my now precious novel. I assembled the fly rod, added the reel and fed the line through the guides. The leader attached to the line was a bit of a mess but I carried on. I looked in the fly box and almost randomly picked out a fly and began to cast.
I was standing on a rock that was high above the water and my fly was falling just a few feet from the shore. I removed my boots and socks. The hike had left me sweating and hot so I decided that the cool mountain water would feel good. I removed my shirt so I was only wearing my shear and revealing running shorts. I waded into the clear water...damn it was cold. Stepping on a sharp rock, I slid, going into the lake up to my waist. Now my shorts were wet and see-through.
To add insult to injury, the wind picked up just enough to thrown my line into a hopeless tangle. Frustrated I looked across the lake to see how my fellow fisherman was doing. He was landing an energetic trout, the fish leaving the water many times before he secured it in his net.
"Damn!" I muttered under my breath as I scrambled up onto the rock to untangle the mess I had made. The leader and fly line were a giant tangled puzzle. I focused intently to remedy the situation as I only had two leaders with me. For what seemed like an eternity I untwisted, unknotted, and worked the jumble of line.
So intent on my task, I didn't notice that my fellow fisherman had left his spot on opposite side of the lake and was walking toward me.
"That looks like quiet a project you have going there." said the fisherman.
I looked up in a start. The man in from of me was about 6' tall with broad shoulders and an athletic build. He was wearing a tattered straw cowboy hat, and from my low vantage point I was looking up at his large muscular thighs. He was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans that would be considered very short, Daisy Dukes, by today's standard. His distinct package made a grapefruit sized bulge. Tearing my gaze away from his crotch I looked up to see a bright smile, rugged features and blue eyes, I estimated he was in his late thirties or early forties.
