A High Country Tale Ch. 03: Of Odin and Ovid

On the heels of the calamitous WWII, a loosening of traditional morals pervaded world society. A teenage Elmer had affected world history by surviving the stormy D-Day invasion, acting in heroic fashion to take out a cliff-sniper nest full of Nazis. Risking his life while hand-delivering a grenade into the enemy post, the shy youthful hero then followed it up by marching through Normandy, assaulting and taking Cherbourg on the way to liberating Paris. He and his platoon had sloshed their way to wet victory while being compelled into early manhood, wooing receptive French girls by the dozen during the effort. As veterans of both war and love by the 1948 Games, Elmer and the young beauty had acted out in ribald fashion, leaving little doubt as to their extreme attraction for one another.

Unfortunately for Private Edgewater, Trude's attraction had been purely physical, whereas his had been rooted far deeper. After St. Moritz, he had desired to bring the glamorous vixen home for a stateside life. The girl celebrated in her newly won acclaim, opting for the alluring course now open to her. She had behaved the 'bon vivant' then returned to the 1952 Olympics, winning further approbation and Olympic medals on her way to marriage and then a shopkeeper's quiet life with a husband from her home country. She and the young veteran had not spoken again.

The American soldier never understood, returning home to Denver in deep depression. Acquiring a parcel of land high up in the remoteness of the San Juan Mountains had been his solution. He constructed a lodge for himself far up the lonely heights of a then-undeveloped Telluride Mountain and wallowed in discreet, and discrete, rejection.

Decades passed before the Chastains and he intersected during the Love Revolution in the 1970's. A close friendship had been unexpectedly forged and the three bonded in beatnik fashion, shacking up together in a free-wheeling ménage-a-trois. The arrangement somehow worked for the better part of a decade when a sudden schism had developed. The loner ascended once again to the divide. Reverting another time to a hermit's existence, he had passed the intervening years in solitude to the present day. The epitome of a brokenhearted loner. And now, a disabled nonagenarian with very few options.

Annalise had persisted in the erstwhile relationship with Elmer Edgewater by her intuitive abilities for reading the poor man's psychological imbalance as no other person had been able. Bartholomew Chastain rose to the challenge by his unconditional love for the woman of his life, overlooking the side-effects left from the faltered entanglement. He even shaped a lasting, if tumultuous, relationship with the difficult old soldier.

Now, standing bedside to her grumpy ex-lover, the worldly woman viewed him with a mixture of emotions plainly apparent in her classic visage. "I just don't know how he will respond to this turn of affairs, Luke," she softly evoked. "He is not capable of dependence on anyone and with this badly broken leg and hospitalization, I am not at all certain how he can adjust." A tear trickled down her smooth cheek as she mulled over the scenario now unfolding. Old Bart wrapped his arm around his soulmate's still trim waist and drew her into him, affording her succor by simple strength of will.

"We will just move him into our place, Annie. It is ready for just such a predicament, dear. We have planned on such events for ourselves and are able to afford him the necessary aid. Don't you worry, my love, we will make it work." Bart attempted rationalizing the situation, in full knowledge of the battles sure to result by trying to help the old curmudgeon before them. Pride did, indeed, come before a fall. And persisted afterward, as well.

Bryce turned to Luke, tearing up himself, sensitive youth that he was, "Luke, we have you and Jake, both, and with Adolpho and Ambergai, we can all pitch in to help out, right? We are gonna be nursing Jeremy anyway, so why can't all of us just add Mr. Edgewater to our help list?"

"I agree with your compassion, Bryce, but it may not be that simple an answer. You have to understand; Elmer is a very private person who doesn't accept much of anything from anybody. The decision resides with him." I was trying to stay pragmatically detached, especially in light of the Chastain's own independently prideful ways. But, the fact remained that an effort had to be made. I had always maintained that the gay community's existential manifest lay in the way our kind were present in the world for the function of filling needs. For the orphans, the disabled, the destitute, the elderly of society. And such. It appeared our birthright and tenor may be soon tested.

Annalise broke in on us, "Boys, you are so dear to us. We treasure your friendship and familial ties. But this is Bart's and my cross to bear. We must meet it head-on. Elmer isn't going to allow for intervention by what he imagines to be 'strangers' and anyone except myself and Bart, here, classify as that in his mind." She was right. My previous words along with hers rang true. We all stood, contemplating the endless 'Circle of Life' as it now rounded another boundless corner in its continuum.

"Honey, I am not the invalid you make me out to be. Stop hovering. And, the itch is two inches higher and three to the right..." Jeremy smirked as he teased my efforts at nursing him. While he dearly loved attention, he had been bordering on defensive since we had gotten him home and propped before a roaring fire in the great room. Pride. He now lounged comfortably on the sheepskin cover over the recliner, big, sexy, two-toned feet propped on the raised portion of the rock hearth. He was delectably naked and the sheepskin lay partially draped over the half-hard shaft of the man's ever-ready endowment. My hands were massaging their way up his muscled left thigh. Notably, three inches to the left of his smooth scrotum. And two inches below.

Cal strolled in with a mug of hot-buttered rum in each fist. Hearing the patient's instructions, he pulled up short, laughing at us. His own package was stretching the pouched front of the baggie boxers barely covering his own crotch. Jake was following with two additional libations and he bumped square into his man's bare back. Froth and warm liquid spilled on the hunk's ebony dorsum and he jumped at the contact. Putting the drinks down on the rock surface, he turned, took the drinks from Jake, set them down too, and then spanked the spandexed buttocks escorting the spilling hands. Jake's peals of laughter filled the room.

God, how I loved these men. The four of us meshed so well that it seemed we had shared a womb. Able to read each other's moods, the four of us weathered good and bad in ways that most friends only wished to do. It crossed my mind at that moment to wonder at the Chastains and Elmer Edgewater's relationship. The three had lived together happily for close to ten years before their falling out. Even so, they had kept one another covered through thick or thin ever since. I hoped they could weather the present difficulties and conjectured, in tandem, whether these three men of my heart would complement me throughout my life in like manner. Excepting any fall-out, it occurred to me. I never intended our bond to wane. Jeremy was my rudder. That would not change. The other two people here were way too integrally important to my existence for separation of any sort. At least I willed such. Luckily, I knew these personalities enough to realize nothing could ever come between us and thanked whatever powers-that-be for the cognizance.

The sun was setting as we gathered for the hot drinks, weak sunbeams wafting through the big picture windows. Gai was asleep upstairs in the master suite after a long night out. He had arrived cold and bleary-eyed an hour before but hadn't shared with us where he had been. Hearing of Jeremy's mishap and assuring himself all was good now, the dreadlocked man ascended to a hot bath and warm bed. Adolpho had returned home to worry awhile over JK, too, but as he realized all was OK, he departed with his boy, Bryce, for dinner down the mountain. The boys had a date after being apart most of the day. The dog-boys, Suture and Elvee, were sacked out on their own sheepskin rug, soaking up the fireside warmth, tuckered from traipsing the property for several hours.

The four of us had changed plans due to the hospital run, choosing to hunker down for the evening while the festivities proceeded without us down-mountain. We knew we would not be missed. I was concerned for the Chastains and their friend, Elmer, so was content to lounge with my confidants in case their need came up. Actually, what with the trauma of Jeremy's scare and the vicarious psychological ordeal of Mr. Edgewater's situation, I was secretly very glad to not be out partying. It would seem my three boys were of the same mind. We spent the evening conversing many subjects, coming back several times to the fickleness of Life, with its twists, turns and unexpected cliffs. Home and snug was just what the doctor ordered... Before the eve was old, we were joined upstairs with our Jamaican, safe amidst the bond we all shared...

...I started awake to the clash of my surroundings. Having retired with my husband and best men to the downiness of our communal bed, it was discombobulating to wake up amidst a silvery scene of fluttering gossamer window curtains, puffing inward on a warm, moist night breeze. The distant echoing of thunder filtered in with the wind and struck me as aberrant in light of the lower edge of a full moon outlining the room in moonshafts by Artemis. A sterile smell of Ivory bath soap and pine sol cleaning solution returned me to an earlier time: one reminiscent of college days in Austin, Texas. Faint night sounds came to my ears and I fixed on the discernible dreamscape. It must be. My sensate being seemed intact, though on edge, while my musculoskeletal frame felt groggy and unresponsive. I had to be in a dream. The coldness of the room's atmosphere belied the warm moistness I could smell and feel. After a minute, I identified the chill as aloneness.

Rather than pinch myself, however, I answered curiosity and took further stock of these surroundings. The large open room had six windows. It was nicely appointed and there appeared to be an open bathroom door leading to where the smells arose. The place was sterile and without hominess or charm. A staging company from the home and garden TV channel could have been responsible for it. Not a single knick-knack or personal photo graced the setting. It left me even colder.

After this perusal, I sensed my hand wrapping the arching hardness of the throbbing boner there and slowly caressed myself, enjoying the tactile stimulation. Heavy balls were pendulous between my runner's legs and metaphysical inner self called to me. I was horny as shit. Noticing a pair of familiar ragged jeans hanging over a bedside chair, I rubbed bleary eyes to clear them along with my mind. Arising and donning the pair that I recognized as a favorite grunge fashion set which I had treasured throughout college, I took stock of my younger lithe form in the silvery mirror. I looked hot.

In another recollection, my mind kept playing the med school cadence familiar to all medical school students: On Old Olympus' Towering Tops, A Finn And German Viewed Some Hops...the mnemonic method for remembering the cranial nerves. Olfactory, Optic, Oculomotor, Trochlear, Trigeminal, Abducens... the strange discordance added to my separation from coherence yet provided a cadence for pressuring my piece. I deftly buttoned the old 501 Levi's, slipped on my Tigers, tied on a headband lying next to them and headed down the moonlit staircase.

It took me into, of all places, my Spartan med school apartment. All of the windows were open here as well, and the visible full moon lured me toward the door. I felt an odd mental angst for the neuro exam I knew to be scheduled in the coming day, but in this dream I recognized my opt-out clause through pinch-ability and went with my hormones. Something unheard of, had I actually been in real time. My school-era blinders had been solidly secure, keeping me on the straight and narrow then. Excepting sporadic sexual experiences, the mindset pushed any form of social life to the perimeters, in my desire to succeed. Inhabiting this dream scenario, I determined to virtually explore what I might have missed by the obsessiveness from that time. My conscience was temporarily null and void. Hmmmm.

Intuitively aware, somehow, what would be outside the front door, there was no surprise at finding the darkly close, after-midnight scene. Dim streetlights cast a dreamlike glow, only intermittently reaching me due to the craggily spreading oak tree branches lining the familiar street. I knew that down a block and to the west four and a half more, there would be a clandestine aperture through the hedges by which to gain entry to the community park with Shoal Creek running through it. Over on the far side of that, there would be the tributary Hondondo Creek feeding into Shoal with the elliptical trail way marking it. The entire area was hilly and densely wooded.

A notorious late night pick-up spot known by common gossip, I intended to see what went on there in the virtually realistic setting I now traversed. Floods of defunct memories rattled about my brain, invoking a long-ago world as if still extant. An alter-ego version of myself held ascendance over my actual persona. I was ready to explore the illusion. And break rules.

The warm summer midnight breeze wafted over my bare torso caressing my erect nipples as I sauntered through the darkened and seemingly deserted community park nestled beside the bend of Hondondo Creek. The favored well-worn and ragged 501?s hugged my slim hips, rasping against my body in just enough of a sensual manner to augment my hormonally heightened state.

Nothing more than the tattered denims, running shoes and headband adorned my taut body and I experienced a sexual strike of oncoming erogenous expectation as the clinging crotch of my jeans nuzzled my prodigious and anticipatory endowment. Oh, I had at some point slipped on an oversized metal cockring to enhance my proud, party-sized phallus and egg-sized smooth balls before leaving the bungalow, so there was that, too. Nasty as I wanted to be.

The comforting cylinder of the Rush bottle in my front pocket rolled erotically up and down my thigh, reminding me of the hoped for coming rapture. A quasi-dangerous effect of the unknown only amplified my tumescent state as I circled the old oak be-studded park, prowling for other similar-minded denizens of the dark this late vernal eve.

I reached up and grasped the inexplicable rolled joint balanced behind my left ear and retrieved the bic lighter from my back pocket, flicking a flame to enlighten my mood by the complementary effect of Bob Marley's iconic legacy. As the aroma emerged from the lit doobie I rounded a corner inhaling the cloying smoke and envisioned a vaguely silhouetted picnic table off to the side of the lane adjacent to the brook.

The babbling of water over river rocks provided a susurrus of background sound. It almost obscured a throaty moaning as the nocturnal wind currents eddied around the wooded setting. My senses peaked as I centered on the primal source of the rhythmic plaints arising from the barely discernible glade by peripheral night vision. Honing in on the table, I gradually fixated on a locus of intense eroticism rendering an outline of two bodies melded in the ancient exercise of hedonic coupling.

One body was bent over the smooth cement surface of the table. Small, round buttcakes arched upward to meet a sizeable glistening protuberance protruding from the second body positioned behind the bowed form of the greedy recipient. Both bodies blended with the shadows. As I silently approached the scene while inhaling another pleasurable toke from the joint, the beautiful swarthiness of the duo's forms came into a bit more focus.

The smaller, hooked participant bore the compactness of a bulldog. Velvety dark skin enwrapping a sexy torso and extremities punctuated muscular brevity. The black male was limned in sweat as he inhaled from a lidless bottle of poppers presently raised to a flared nostril. Short-cropped black hair under a skewed baseball cap crowned his head. Eyeglasses reflected in the intermittent moonlight as puffy night clouds wafted past just above and beyond the rutting pair.

The second figure was the incarnation of Mr. Marley himself, long dreadlocks cascading from his head down his muscular ebony chest and backside. The locks rocked in synchrony with his body movements. Athletic buttocks and legs moved in an undulating fashion thereby enabling a truly stunning ten-inch, blood-engorged member entry into the proffered ass before it.

One hand slowly massaged a pliant buttcheek. The other hand scissored a large blunt to his lips as he inhaled its rich scent. Holding it in his lungs, the satyr methodically slow-fucked the bubblebutt partner of the moment. A lazy cloud cleared the moon at that moment, revealing this wanton act in all of its animalistic glory. I gazed, mesmerized by the carnal scene. Just then, the sturdy topman cocked his head to notice my infatuation with his perfectly cowled manhood as it retracted momentarily from the well-greased and welcoming asshole.

A lascivious grin relayed his sanction of the watchful presence. Never missing stride, only the fleeting delay in re-entry to the pleasure hole proclaimed the black man's pride at my envisioning the pair's salaciously conjoined state.

He slowly exhaled as he pressed back into the begging cavity. The lucky boy receiving the donga dick succumbed to yet another penetrating stroke into his popper-relaxed butthole, noisily expelling a breath full of the high-inducing concoction. With the incoming push, the slut's head turned away from me. His enjoyment continued, wholly ignorant to the voyeurism.

Not so, the Rastafarian. The stud beckoned me forward through the leering grin, angling his amazingly proportioned body to that which maximized my view. Every nuanced gesture flaunted the piercing in-and-out intrusion of the high, round, globular masses servicing him. His perception of my interest obviously magnified the intensity with which he hit that bare hole.

My own dick had long since rejoined the scenario, snaking down the leg of my jeans provocatively. He noticed it, also, and reached out to familiarize with the contours. Quickly tiring of the denim obstruction he popped the buttons open and adroitly exposed my throbbing 8+ inches, sporting a big, perfectly cut mushroom head. Well aware I was hung, for a white boy, he tacitly acknowledged the fact, pushing my pants down below my ass and gathering my hairless balls in his palm, all the while stroking the unsuspecting sybarite bent before him with that greased pole.

The young man writhed pleasurably on the picnic table, loose sockless cross-trainers bumping off the ground with each impalement. The small man suddenly began vocally accessorizing the expanding episode, begging for the huge dick to fuck him, fuck him good, like a bitch. Give him that big load... Dredds Man abruptly spit onto his appendage as it again entered to its total 10-inch length, then positioned the fat blunt inwards in his mouth and leaned toward me, offering a power hit as inducement for my further involvement with the two.

I accepted by meeting his lips and sucking slowly on the barely protruding tip, inhaling deeply from the extra-potent delivery of his own tasty creeper weed. We separated after the sensuous lip-lock, holding the hit as deep in our lungs as possible.

Again exhaling slowly, he curtly complimented my fully engorged manhood through smoke-suffused breath then bounced it with his fingers as he moved back to squeeze my own round buttcheek. Excitement overflowed as he did so and my cock erupted in an unexpectedly volcanic release of cum directly on to his ripped hairless belly, dripping down as he amusedly snickered his surprise.