"I think I'll go out on the dance floor," I said, not waiting for an answer. As I stood, Guy's hand fell away from my knee where we'd been leaning into stools at the bar at Davey's Locker roadhouse on North State Route 25, north of the Fulton County airport, which was nearly on the northern bank of Indiana's Lake Manitou.
Guy was a big, muscular black dude, ugly as sin in the face but a body to die for, if that's you came to Davey's Locker to get. I'd come with Juan, the Hispanic operator of the Lake Manitou boat rental company on the north shore of the lake, across East State Road 14 from the airport. We'd hooked up a few days earlier when I'd rented a kayak to explore the lake I had once summered at as a child. That had been more than fifteen years ago, though. Juan had both the great body and the good looks. We'd fucked in the marina office after I brought the kayak back and he'd suggested coming to this roadhouse. He said he'd bring me here, which he did and then, saying he'd hook up with me later, he pursued a young guy out onto the dance floor.
He left me at the bar and this black stud had immediately moved in on me. He seemed too big and mean to me—sexually arousing, but dangerous and aggressive. I was a little guy, somewhat androgynous in looks, some said more pretty and cute than handsome, and I was leery of the big guys, especially the black ones. They seemed to see me as a campaign, with my trim body and narrow hips—a challenge—to mount once to see how it would go and then be gone. Could they get it in? Would I squeal like a pig while they were trying?
This black dude, Guy, hovering over me at the bar, came across as that sort of stud. One hand on the small of my back, the other on a forearm, symbolically already possessing me. Offering to buy me a drink, with both of us knowing that was at least the start to closing a deal. His eyes were giving me that "Can I get it in? Will it be fun trying?" look. His hands were on my hips, stroking the hollows there—moving from hollow to pert buttocks, measuring the distance.
"Thirty-three inches," I said, answering the question he hadn't asked.
"Amazing," he said, and I knew he was subtracting from that in his mind however thick he was. "Listen, Clay, I was thinking we could—"
"I like this song. I want to go out on the dance floor," I said.
He said, "Fine," and I was off the stool and headed for the floor before he could say more.
I was in Rochester, Indiana, for the summer, fixing up and selling, probably, my family's cottage on Long Beach Drive on the shore of Lake Manitou. The lake pushed up against the eastern edge of the city. Rochester had been the town of my paternal grandparents before arthritis hit them and they moved to Tucson, Arizona. They had done that late enough, though, that my family, my dad being a military officer with us living abroad most of the time, had visited four summers in row to use their lake cottage. They were both prominent doctors living in town, but they had this Victorian-era lake cottage with two bedrooms downstairs and a big dormitory room in the attic. My dad had grown up in Rochester and had lots of stories of running with a bunch of kids at the lake and swimming off the dock of the Long Beach Drive cottage.
I was a writer, in graduate school in a creative writing program at the University of Chicago. My aunt, who had kept up with the Manitou Lake cottage and was still living in Rochester had died recently and I found I inherited the lake cottage. There was a writing symposium going at the lake this summer that was supposed to start in the coming week and I was combining taking that in and staying at the cottage to see about fixing it up and putting it on the market.
As much as my family had moved around in my life, I'd always thought of Rochester and Lake Manitou as some sort of "home," and when I came here for my aunt's funeral, stories of my family that people I met here, combined with stories my own memory had dredged up, had resonated in my brain. I hoped to spend time at the cottage pulling these even closer to the surface and writing stories inspired by my family's "Rochester years."
But I also wanted to write stories of the gay life I had been leading in Chicago. I was highly sexed. I wanted to live life to the fullest. Hence the quick hookup with Juan at the boat rental place and letting him bring me to Davey's Locker. Less than a week at the lake and I'd already been covered by a Hispanic hunk and was being rushed by a big black dude.
I wanted the cock of Guy, the black giant, too. He was curious about my thin hips and how well he could split those. I was curious about the same thing. He scared me, but I wouldn't tease him too long before we both satisfied our curiosity if he pursued.
Guy followed me out onto the dance floor, which was crowded, everyone dancing with everyone else. It suited my purpose. I got separated from Guy and was glad for it. He attracted me but he also scared me more than a bit. He obviously wanted to leave with me. I wasn't sure if I wanted that. I'd come with Juan and assumed I'd leave with him. We'd fucked on the desk in his office, but I wanted something more conventional, slower than that and I'd left the cottage prepared for a night of it. I'd expected him to take me back there and we'd do it on the bed of my grandparent's cottage—maybe for hours.
In his office, he'd been like any of the other built studs I'd been with—all aflutter on how easily he'd be able to get it into a small guy with narrow hips like me, and then celebrating when he found he could.
But I didn't see him on the dance floor or anywhere else in the bar.
"Are you trying to get away from Guy? You afraid he's too big for you?"
I turned my head in surprise. I was dancing in front of a dude a few years older than me—maybe thirty. He was tall and slim, but hard-bodied, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel to show a hard, bronzed chest. I almost thought I recognized him, but I had no idea where from. I didn't want to recognize him from anywhere, so I just shoved that out of my mind. What I was after tonight was a casual lay—no commitments or attachments. He was dressed casual expensive, not nearly as suggestive as my red-mesh athletic T-shirt and silky shorts. He had a really good face and a healthy head of black hair. He had a purposely groomed five-o'clock-shadow beard and mustache and the black hair curled around his pecs as well. He had leaned in to my side and whispered what he had in my ear.
"I'm Trent. I see that Guy is putting the rush on you," he said. "You don't look sure."
"I'm not. I'm not unsure either, just undecided," I answered.
"You might rethink that. He's a thick nine-incher and you are so slim hipped."
"Yeah, I'm not sure about Guy. He's pressing rather close."
"But you'd be good leaving with a man?"
"No, I wouldn't have any trouble with that. I came with Juan."
"Juan's already gone. He asked me if I'd give you a ride home. You're a really cute guy. You want me to give you a ride?"
"A ride?" I looked him over real well, and he knew what I was doing that.
"I give a good ride," he said, with a grin. "My name is Trent," he repeated. He gave me a close look before continuing, but apparently decided "What the hell," and said it. "I've got nearly eight inches. Not as thick as Guy, but we'll have a good time."
* * * *
Trent's car was a black Mustang. He was parked in a back corner of the Davey's Locker parking lot. The Mustang had reclining seats and we stayed parked for a while.
