Adam

By mid-afternoon we've established our new campsite on the west bank of the river at Lava Canyon. Full of warm drinking water I jump almost falling down from the raft walking immediately to water's edge to take a leak. Hands on hips, initially I just let my limp penis droop over my bathing suit as urine gradually snakes through my urethra constricted by an enlarged prostate. Suddenly Adam stands beside me pulling down the front of his Sun Devil shorts.

"Hey, how's it going?" he smiles as if we're standing at adjacent urinals in a locker room.

"Slowly," I answer, and glancing down at my anatomy, Adam looks away pissing a big ragged amber arc plashing into the river. As my own little stream begins to trickle, I widen my stance to avoid pissing on my feet reaching down lifting my penis outward to initiate my own inferior arc as Adam finishes shaking his dick.

"Patience," he teases, winking, snapping his shorts back up, turning and walking away. Emptying my bladder I fill with ambivalence. On one hand I'm honored that the young college grad genuinely seems to like me. (Is he trying to be cute? I mean, he must know I'm attracted to him.) But I can't escape the obvious: that he also feels safest with me, the oldest gay man on the raft, as if I'm impotent, harmless, over the hill. Shaking my dribbling penis, I tuck in and return crestfallen to the circle of chairs where happy hour is getting underway.

Ricardo pulls up beside me, locks me in a friendly head lock with his big hairy left arm and reaches across with his right hand to cover, squeeze and rotate my small left breast. It's a nice gesture. It feels good. But I wonder, am I for him a surrogate woman? Is Carey for him a surrogate wife? Ricardo lets go of me, and I proceed to the cooler for a beer, thinking, I want a man because he's a man, with the body of a man, not the tits of a prepubescent girl.

By day five I must say the last two days have been exciting though in different ways. For one thing, the rapids have gotten formidable. Sliding toward each new set we usually glide down gently over three smooth swells then drop suddenly into wall after wall of back-crashing white water that has "warmed" into the low fifties, according to Cliff.

It's fucking wild! After you drop into the first deep trough, the raft climbs a turbulent wall of surf drenching you with frigid water. The raft drops again crawling more slowly up the next wall, the engine straining. But after dropping a third time, the nose of the raft just can't recover in time - the waves are too close together - and a huge wall of ice water breaks right over the length of our craft as we scream and curse at the river like insulted cheerleaders.

This insanity continues for a hundred yards or more until the river spits you out the back side where it again flows smoothly. Shivering intensely, we laugh anxiously waiting for the sun and dry air to restore body heat. Sometimes, though, just as we get dry, we enter a whole new set of rapids holding tightly onto ropes and each other.

At our lunch stop yesterday, on a wide sandbar filled with small rounded stones, Cliff saw me standing alone and walked over. He turned me toward a narrow side canyon, draped his manly arm over my shoulder pointing and suggested I follow the barely visible footpath up through the boulders about five hundred yards where I'd find a "lovely" waterfall. Everyone was milling around the raft talking so I set off by myself, grateful for the momentary touch of Cliff's arm.

The uphill footpath merged into a shallow creek bed as the canyon walls closed around me. Soon I reached the waterfall, only about twenty feet high, but its source must have been a thermal pool: the clear falling water felt about seventy-five degrees warm.

Incredible! In seconds I was naked, standing under the sunlit waterfall actually bathing for the first time since Vegas. The sensations of heat and light were exquisite; letting water crash onto me frontally I indulged in burgeoning arousal.

But when I turned around I noticed several guys walking up the creek bed toward me. Well, let them see me like this, I thought, and too bad if they don't like what they see: I'm tan, I'm relatively fit, I'm hung, I'm mostly hairless and I happen to like showing off, deal with it.

I even started hooting loudly to proclaim my liberated joy at the discovery of this most sensuous spot so far in the whole Grand Canyon.

As the guys drew closer, I deliberately teased them turning my back hiding partially behind the waterfall. After a minute I turned back around, surprised to find everyone, the whole raft including Cliff and Adam, standing in a semi-circle watching me with interest.

Playfully I turned my hips waggling a plump penis at them then struck several Charles Atlas poses, which made some of the guys smile. Ricardo raised his GoPro on a stick taking aerial video; I could only hope I wouldn't return home to find clips of me all over YouTube partially erect under a waterfall.

Facing Ricardo I posed scowling like Hulk Hogan, the salient muscle between my legs better developed than any other on my body. He handed Carey the camera and peeled down his white bikini casually loosening with one hand his loaded genitals.

Walking right into the waterfall, with both large hands he simultaneously caressed my belly and buttocks. Oh, fuck. Lightheaded and thoroughly cleansed, I stepped back a few paces to grant him the spotlight, the others looking back and forth from Ricardo's perfect body to my nascent erection rising leftward.

Carey handed the camera to Marvin, daintily stripped trying to hide his distended cock then pranced into the waterfall to embrace his partner. Ricardo, now primed, stepped away to let Carey solo as the rest of the crew watched, captivated.

Marvin, by the way, is the only African-American on the raft. A balding Chicago cop about thirty-five, he has the body of a former athlete: thick rounded shoulders, muscular thighs and small, high buttocks. Handing the camera back to Ricardo he wiggled out of his tight purple Speedo to uncoil for the first time a long plump penis, which caught everyone's attention.

In response to Ricardo's stage direction, Carey leaned with hands against rock wall sticking his pale boyish butt out to deflect the waterfall as his partner videoed him - I swear it looked like the set for a fucking porn film. Speaking of which, Marvin strode right up to Carey's backside, grabbed the other man's upper buttocks and thrust back and forth against him in a convincing pantomime. Someone whistled. A few others laughed tensely. Marvin comically turned his head lasciviously sticking out his tongue at us slapping Carey's butt backing away, his big cock further lifting.

"Time for lunch," Arnold objected.

A soft, pale lawyer from Brooklyn, dressed in pith helmet, cargo shorts and tee shirt, Arnold has looked out of place on this trip ever since the launch at Lee's Ferry. He's blind as a bat - just this morning he stepped on something spilling half his little red bucket of urine in the sand just outside the circle of chairs. Several guys groaned. Arnold no doubt is very bright, but it wouldn't surprise me to learn he dearly misses his favorite New York City gay bar.

The day ended on another fun note as we encamped at Talking Heads. Throughout happy hour, dinner and twilight we tossed out lyrics as they came to us: "letting the days go by, let the water hold me down," and so on.

For the first time since leaving home I felt really horny from all the nudity, arousal and playful acting out. I considered jerking off to get to sleep, though I prefer to conserve, just in case. Anyway, I did fall asleep easily on my sandy plateau farther back from the river than anyone else. In the middle of the night, however, I woke to soft cooing. My initial guess was a canyon owl, if there is such a thing. Sitting up naked on my cot I listened to the faint pulsing sound and like an owl myself, turned my head left and right to locate the invisible bird.

There it was again, the soft cooing, and I could tell it was coming from my left, slightly below me, about thirty paces away. Then I smiled like an idiot: Ricardo and Carey had pitched their private tent among some trees exactly where I'd located the owl. Only that was no owl I was hearing, it was Carey, I'm positive, cooing softly like a young bride as I pictured him rocking on hands and knees, Ricardo fucking him forcefully from behind.

I was wide awake, and the night so warm I actually enjoyed the light rain that fell sometime past midnight. Unable to fall back asleep, I did try to jerk off, but was physically too played out even to maintain an erection.

Early the next morning, as a few of us, including Ricardo, were dinking fresh coffee, Carey tip-toed like a girl into the campsite in cute pink shorts and white tee shirt, Ricardo greeting him with a kiss on the lips. "Hi, sweetie," he said. They were an odd, darling couple.

At breakfast Cliff instructed us all to prepare sandwiches for bag lunches as we'd be taking a long midday hike. After crazy morning rapids we pulled over at the mouth of Havasu Creek, where two other rafts had already tied up. It was up above that Creek that I experienced my only scary moment of the expedition.

Cliff led the way, climbing up steep rock, side-stepping along a narrow ledge, climbing farther up a sheer, nearly vertical wall traversing another ledge back the other way, zigzagging, climbing higher and higher above the river. "Watch the feet of the guy in front of you," he advised; "don't look down."

My weak knees and damaged lungs forced me to use my arms and torso awkwardly to push and pull my body upward onto each new ledge almost losing a sandal as I struggled to keep up with Marvin, whose tight Jamaican-flag shorts bulged above and ahead of me. Finally we reached the top of an intermediate ledge that opened to the side canyon, but after straggling another fifty yards I realized I should've stayed below near the raft.

Gulping air I kicked off my sandals, plopped down and caught my breath, feet dangling in the cool turquoise pool from which water cascaded down some two hundred feet. When Cliff saw me dropping out he directed the group to proceed up the trail to the narrowest point in the creek and cross to the other side for more uphill hiking. Then he returned to ask if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I huffed catching my breath, "but my lungs can't take it. I'll just wait for you guys to come back down."

"It'll be an hour or more," he cautioned. "You sure you're okay here?"

"I'm perfect," I said, holding up my provisions. "I've got my sandwich, my water."

"Well," he said, "you do have a beautiful place to hang out. Just stay out of the sun."

I nodded, and with that he hurried back up the trail to rejoin the group, which had single-filed across the creek and was now disappearing around a massive wall of stone. Within minutes I devoured my sandwich and drank half my remaining water. Cooling my feet I marveled at the terrible beauty of this remote spot: smooth granite cliffs opposite me, huge boulders precariously balanced, the turquoise creek flowing down from my right into this pool, the blazing sun directly overhead. I was utterly alone, exposed and possibly at risk.

Soon I became restless. How could I stay here for at least another hour with nothing more to eat, very little water left to drink and no one to talk to? I decided to return to the relative comfort and safety of the raft.

Pushing up, stepping into my sandals I walked back along the narrow trail that had brought us to this point, but quickly reached a fork I didn't recognize: go left, I'm climbing higher; go right toward the creek, I'm circling a boulder I don't recall.

It wouldn't make sense to go higher when you're trying to descend, would it? Realizing I was probably making another mistake, still I chose the trail I couldn't remember. Barely two feet wide, it rounded the huge boulder only to end abruptly against an ancient limestone wall. I had to turn back, having picked the wrong escape. And I couldn't help it - I looked down.

Two hundred feet below me, the tiny turquoise creek silently flowed into the big green river. At the mouth of the creek three rafts, including our own appeared no bigger than the elliptical ends of kitchen spoons. There was nothing to grab onto to break my fall should I slip. As I back-tracked almost hugging the warm granite boulder, carefully placing each footstep, the inevitable headline flashed through my mind: South Carolina Man Dead in Canyon Mishap.

A strange taste filled my dry mouth, the metallic flavor of panic, which was alien to me. Stay calm, I told myself, shuffling back around the boulder, trudging to the side of the pool where I could finally plop down taking a deep breath. I was a fool. I didn't belong here. Even my sandals were all wrong. But at least I could push back from the pool into a shadowed recess in the vertical wall and there patiently bide my time licking a wounded ego.

A lime gecko crawled down the rock wall over my shoulder. Tipping its head, blinking microscopic black eyes, the tiny lizard seemed to ponder my stupid dilemma. I made eye contact silently admitting to the gecko that I was a supreme human asshole. And I envied him, his sure-footed survival in this cruel, unforgiving place. But when I reached to touch him for reassurance, he skittered away.

Luckily after fifteen minutes a young bearded guy from another raft appeared picking his way like a spider down over and around giant rocks. Humbly I asked if he were going back to the river, and he cheerfully invited me to follow him. It was so easy! My bad decision at the fork had disoriented me that was all. Otherwise I could have found my way. Now that I'd recovered a modicum of confidence I could afford to mock my ignorance and laugh at the tragic newspaper headline I'd imagined, the river looming ever closer below me. I thanked the bearded guy turning to complete my descent independently. "How goes it?" a voice called, ahead of me. Adam was smiling, wearing only his maroon Sun Devil gym shorts, squatting like an Indian in the shadow of a shallow little cave above the raft.

"Hey, can I join you?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, sitting, pulling his legs up near his chin, clasping hands around knees as I sat down beside him.

I told him about my tense moments above; he shook his head dismissively. "It could happen to anybody," he graciously offered. Welling with relief and affection, I looked away trying not to picture him naked.

Out of the blue he asked me when I had realized I was gay, and I walked him through my childhood and adolescence - alcoholic parents: unpredictable mother, distant father; emotional insecurity; my queer attraction to other boys, touching them playfully in middle school; jerking off in my teens with my best friend before denying, repressing and hating the obvious truth.

Adam, in contrast, was from a strict Mormon home, but he assured me he had a hot girlfriend who was now in Europe with her new roommate. She'd be returning to Tempe to begin her senior year, and he planned to meet her at their former off-campus apartment to reclaim some of the shit he'd left behind.

Adam didn't sound to me at all like a typical Mormon, so I wasn't surprised when blinking wounded eyes, turning away he revealed that his father had refused to attend his graduation, apparently betrayed by his son's immoral lifestyle.

Eventually the ten other guys returned to the raft, the baked aluminum deck of which we had to flood with river water before climbing aboard. The afternoon rapids were awesome, chaotically steep, the icy water in this punishing sun actually refreshing once you recovered your breath.

A small tourist helicopter landed below the Hualapai Indian Reservation. Later we camped uneventfully at Granite Park.

So, today is day seven and it seems I've been reborn. Early yesterday morning a raft similar to ours passed our campsite as we were loading. The raft was filled with solemn Native Americans with straight jet-black hair who, Cliff explained, were being escorted for the day by the young guy and pretty blonde gal to various sacred places along the river.

Mid-morning, Cliff and Adam beached our craft beside the Indian raft, now empty, facing a very tall waterfall. At the top of the waterfall, Cliff explained, tribal adults pierced the ear lobes of younger Indians so that their spirits one day could jump across the waterfall to join their ancestors' spirits. Our guide then warned us that the hike to the top would be the most arduous of the whole expedition. I easily decided to stay below, a no-brainer.

Everyone else disappeared single-file into a narrow shaft in high-rise vertical rock beside the waterfall and, like an old fart I backed into a recess to get out of the sun. The very cute blonde girl from the Indian raft appeared smiling from nowhere. I stepped into sunlight as she walked right up to me cheerfully introducing herself shaking hands.

She wore baggy gray gym shorts and a revealing light blue bikini top the color of her eyes. A worn red baseball cap identified the small college in California she attended. She was exactly the type of girl I recklessly pursued earlier in my life, climbing out on a limb drunkenly to fuck once or twice before preemptively dumping.

The girl invitingly described the purpose of their visit to the waterfall, the earring ceremony, her college, her hometown. As she spoke I became increasingly distracted by loneliness. My gay rafting adventure had produced only a few fleeting friendships, some fun teasing nudity, for sure, but not a trace of romance or true love, certainly no sexual contact. Cliff was way beyond my reach. Aussie was playfully elusive. Ricardo and Carey were hitched. Adam was hopelessly straight. Nobody else attracted or interested me, and vice versa.

Smiling helplessly and perhaps sadly back at the blonde girl, I almost interrupted her to ask if I could please just see her small pretty breasts. But what if she agreed? What if she led me back to a secret lair also to remove her gym shorts and tempt me with her vagina? I mean, what if she actually wanted to fuck me?

This possibility, a distinct probability here in this secluded spot that we had all to ourselves, sent a warning down my spine. With a shiver I politely told the girl it had been a pleasure meeting her, we shook hands again and I retreated to my original shelter, a pathetic homosexual loser.

But if there's one thing I've learned about this billion-year-old gulley in the earth's surface, almost anything can happen here. And I kid you not when I say we actually set up our campsite early yesterday afternoon at Surprise Canyon, which is really where the whole trip happened.

Okay: we're near the end of the expedition. Marvin and Francis are skinny-dipping while a few others take naps. Tex-Mex and Paul disappear into the trees. Cliff and Adam organize their kitchen. But it's way too early for happy hour, the sun almost directly overhead.

As we'd been approaching this crescent of beach surrounded by willows, I'd noticed a narrow spit of sand isolated from our campsite by a haphazard spill of gray boulders big as cars and small buses. Now's the perfect time and place for me to be alone, to reflect and jot down more impressions in my notebook, so I walk back toward the spit of sand, glad to see that no one has noticed or followed me.

I step carefully through knee-deep water around the lowest boulder to reach my private beach, where I drop notebook and pen, remove bathing suit and lower butt onto hard moist sand leaning back propped on elbows, my feet stretched out before me. Taking the deepest possible breath, I gaze up at protective canyon walls, sunny distant mesas almost a mile high and I acknowledge my need to reconcile my experience, to absorb and commit to memory all the wonder of this unique place, which I admit I'm ready to leave.