Crossing the Stream

"Sure, why not?" Collen answered—without hesitation.

If he was in on the code, that was the sealing of a deal. You didn't accept a second drink if you were thinking of backing off. And he'd picked the venue, so I felt safe that I had him.

"German isn't exactly a Colorado thing. Are you from here?" I asked.

"No. Michigan. I went to the University of Michigan. Ann Arbor. And then to Germany for specialized studies—Augsburg University. Most of my work is with the university press at Ann Arbor."

We couldn't be more different in interests, I realized. But now, for today, with my balls aching to fuck him and him signaling willingness, we needed to jell on some level.

"That's a coincidence," I said. "I came here from Michigan myself. Meeting here seems to be fate. I landed in Colorado in a team trade. What brought you here?"

"I came here for the isolation—for the solitude of the mountains. Editing academic material is pretty intensive. I do it better without a lot of distraction."

"But you don't avoid all distractions, do you?" I asked. "You don't always want to be alone."

"No, I don't always want to be alone," he said, looking up into my face and giving me that shy smile. "Sometimes I want to be with someone else."

"With a man?"

"Yes," he said.

"I'm a man," I said, with a smile.

"Yes, you most certainly are," he answered.

I fucked him in a motel west on East Main Street, route 50, at the edge of town. The motel consisted of individual log cabins set back from the road and obviously catered to gay male hookups. There was practically a beaten path from the Crazy Horse to the motel and the motel had an ad up on the bulletin board at the bar. Can't get any more obvious than that.

He didn't question why I wanted him to totally undress for me and let me turn him around and glide my hands over his naked body. He had no idea that I had been dreaming of doing this for weeks. He wasn't a novice. When I sat at the foot of the bed, pulled him toward me, and coaxed him down to his knees between my thighs, he moved there willingly and in the same fluid motion I watched him in doing his exercises. Without prompting, he undid my belt, unzipped and flared my jeans, pulled the waistband of my briefs under my erection and balls—gasping at the size of me—slid his lips down the side of my cock, and gave me expert head.

I didn't have to worry about whether or not this guy was a novice at this.

When I couldn't take any more without blowing, I pulled him off my cock and raised him to his feet. Rising myself and turning him to the bed, I eased him down on his back.

"Open your legs and roll up your ass," I commanded. "I'm gonna eat you out and then do you." Last chance for him to say "just kidding."

He complied without hesitation. He gasped and writhed under me, as, holding his hands captive with mine, I sucked his cock and balls and ate his ass out until he begged me for the cock. Rising over him then and capturing his eyes with mine, as I rolled a condom on, I then slowly fed my cock into him, as he arched his back, opened his mouth in a silent scream, and started to pant heavily. And then I fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

We rested on the bed, and then I moved him on all fours, mounted him, and fucked him again, at last emptying out the months' long accumulation of cum in my balls and luxuriating in his whimpering of how big I was and how totally and gloriously I was possessing him.

When I woke up from a doze after that, I was alone in the motel room. But I in no way thought that this was the last time we would fuck. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to say he usually came in to Montrose on Tuesday afternoons. I got the distinct impression that he said that so I would take note of it.

On the way out of town, I saw a book store and stopped and went in. A prim schoolmarmy woman stood behind the desk.

"Do you have any literature books in translation by German authors?" I asked.

She looked surprised. "You read German literature?"

"I am going to read it now," I answered.

"Well, there are some famous German authors we should have in translation—Goethe, Kafka, Hermann Hesse, and Thomas Mann, for instance. Which of those—?"

"I'll take one of each," I said. "You choose what would be best."

* * * *

The next week was much like the previous several weeks—adjusting my schedule to when the young man I now knew as Collen Dergenwald, the German literature academic press editor, was out of his cabin, in the buff, and moving around for exercising—with two exceptions. First, I was doing a lot of catch-up reading of German authors, which was eye-opening and mind expanding. Much of this was done at night under a reading lamp in a comfortable wing chair. And, second, when I was outside—and much of the time when I was inside, as well—I too was in the buff. I found that going nudist, save for sneakers on my feet, was freeing. I exercised on the west terrace naked, and I even did my running on the hillside—usually gauged for when Collen would be outside—in the nude as well. Also, with memories of the afternoon with the sexy little blond, I was in erection much of the time.

I must admit that I didn't mind that a bit. I did, though, pine to be inside Collen again.

The chance for that came on the next Tuesday afternoon when I saw him leave the cabin, my attention arrested because he was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, get into his pickup, and leave the cabin. Throwing on clothes, I went out to the Dodge Ram and drove down to Montrose.

I was in luck. I saw his beat-up old Ford 150 parked outside the Crazy Horse Saloon. I parked there as well. When I went inside, I saw him sitting at a table, facing the door, alone, as if he was expecting me. I bought two Bud Lites at the bar and took them over to his table.

"Do you mind if I join you?" I asked, standing there with the two bottles in my hands.

"You can do whatever you please," he answered with that special smile of his. "I would have thought you'd have known that now. We sorted that out last Tuesday. I'll blow you and then lay there with my legs open and let you do whatever you want."

With a little laugh, I sat at the table and handed him one of the bottles. "You don't mince words, do you?" I said.

He put the beer bottle up his mouth and let his lips go down the sides of the neck and back up and then repeated it so there's no way I wouldn't get the idea. As he gave the beer bottle head, his hooded eyes captured mine. I nearly shot my load right there.

"God, you are sexy," I murmured.

"God, you have a big cock," he countered with. We both laughed.

We sat there, staring at each other and swigging our beers for a long moment, both, I'm sure, knowing we'd soon be fucking.

He broke the silence, with a surprise. "Your preseason will start in mid-September. When does that mean you have to return to Denver?"

"The last week in August."

"So, three more weeks."

"Yes, that's right," I said. I almost said, so let's get it on; we don't have much time left. But then he continued to surprise me.

"The first exhibition game is with the Detroit Red Wings, isn't it? So, you'll be playing your old team. Deter Nielsen is right wing for them now. That's the position you played, isn't it? He's good, but your stats were better than his are when you left."

"Yes, that's right," I said, showing the surprise in my voice. "You've been doing your homework, haven't you?"

"Yes, I wanted to move in your direction. We didn't have much to talk about last time. Two different worlds."

"Talking wasn't what we did best," I said.

"No, it wasn't." He blushed and laughed. "God, you've got a big cock," he repeated in the unlikely event I hadn't heard him the first time he said it.

"I've been doing my homework too," I admitted. "I thought what you do—work with German literature—would be dull. But it turns out to be fascinating. I've been reading. Goethe, Kafka, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann. They all wrote homosexual themes and might all have been gay themselves. Quite a bunch."

"Yes," Collen said, laughing again. "Editing critiques of their works has its rewards and pleasant little surprises—Goethe's poem, 'To the Moon'; Kafka's Gregor Samsa; Hesse's examination of himself in Steppenwolf; even the ache of a man's desire for a boy in Thomas Mann's Death in Venice. All of them struggled with undercurrents of homosexuality at a time when it was taboo to discuss it openly."

"For some, it's still a problem," I said. I didn't mean to say that, but it was what was running through my mind all of the time I made discoveries of what the German authors were hinting at and struggling with in their writings.

"I understand," Collen said, nudging my knee with his under the surface of the table. "Nothing needs to be revealed publicly about it. I certainly haven't done so in the last years."

"What do you mean?" I asked, giving him a sharp look.

"I told you I went to the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor the other day. You didn't tell me that you did too."

"You knew I went there?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes. I was a freshman when you were a senior, a standout on the university ice hockey team. I knew of you then and started aching for you soon after. I followed you when Coach Lamont took you on to the Detroit Red Wings and then when he brought you to Denver. I knew you were lovers. I knew I wanted you too."

"How did you know? We were so careful. Did others know too?"

"You probably won't remember, but Coach Lamont took you to Mackinac Island that summer before you went with Detroit. I think he took you away often to keep people from knowing and so you could let loose. You stayed at a small gay-friendly hotel. My roommate from Ann Arbor worked there that summer. Coach Lamont and you fucked the stuffing out of him while you were there. He told me how big you were, and, if anything, I think he underestimated you. Later, knowing my inclinations and that I had a crush on you, he told me about that. I've been following you close—trying to get close. Learning of the house up in the hills here that Lamont left you, gave me my chance to get close."

"You came here because of me? You knew I was in the hill house across the stream from the cabin you fixed up?"

"Yes. Does that make me sound crazy—like a stalker? Have I blown it by admitting all to you?"

He was giving me a naughty puppy dog look. He was trembling. I could tell how crucial this moment was for him. I contemplated what he said. He wasn't voicing my worst fear—that "everyone" knew I was gay and had partnered with Oliver. What he was doing in saying he'd gone to the length of tracking me down here was flattering me. He was confirming that, from the beginning, he was willing to lie down, open his legs to me, and let me do whatever I wanted with him. He wasn't outing me to anyone else.

I gave him a smile. "Do you want another beer, or do you want to go to that motel on the edge of town now and find out all of the ways I can fuck you?"

"What do you think?" he said, and I watched the relief flood through his body. I had thought I had to do a lot of scheming to be with him, but it had been nothing compared with what he had done to be with me.

* * * *

I was on my back on the bed in the same motel cabin we'd done it in the previous week. This time, won over to Collen's "let it all hang out" I'd fallen in to in the hills, I had stripped down while he was doing so, and we'd gone into a standing clutch at the foot of the bed. We'd used hands and lips to explore each other's naked bodies in a slow-motion standing wrestling match. We'd eventually settled on the bed, with Collen suspended over me, in reverse stance, and he was sucking me off while I was doing the same for him.

I was in full-erection high heat and reaching over to the top of the nightstand for a condom packet when he rolled off of me and bounded off the bed and to the bathroom room with the comment, "Hold that thought; gotta piss first."

He didn't close the door to the bathroom and, as I rolled over and sat on the side of the bed, stroking my cock to keep it in fighting trim, I watched him standing in profile in front of the toilet, dick in hand, and waiting for it to soften up enough to allow him to piss.

He should have closed the bathroom door if he didn't want what he then got. I slit open a condom packet, crowned myself, and, taking another packet with me, sauntered into the bathroom.

"I'll be just a minute now and then you can—"

"I can right now," I said, coming in behind him and crouching down. I wrapped one arm around his belly and cupped his balls and dick deck with the other hand. I held his cock there while he pissed an arc into the toilet. "God, Pete. What are you doing. I've never—"

Again I didn't let him finish his sentence. He transitioned into a groaned, "Oh fuck, oh shit," As I lifted his feet off the floor with the strength of my arm encasing his belly and pitched his torso forward so that the palms of his hands and his cheek pressed into the mirrored wall. Then he was crying out, "Shit, Fuck. You're gonna split me. You're too big," as, proving that I wasn't too big—that I was just right—I lifted him ass and set it down on my erection and entered and entered and entered and entered him. He was writhing around, which only helped me get saddled.

I growled, "Settle down on and come for me." This reduced him to moans and heavy panting as I stroked inside him with my cock and stroked him off with my hand pulling on his shaft as it hung over the toilet bowl. I held him there, stroking him until he shot his load into the toilet. I was still fucking him, but not far from jacking. "Arch back to me, grabbing the back of my neck, and watch me finishing you with me in the mirror," I commanded. He complied, arching his back toward me and reaching around with one hand to grasp the back of my neck, bringing us cheek to cheek. We could see it all in the mirrored wall behind the toilet and sink.

He was panting hard and moaning, hardening up again at the view of me fucking him, and he reached down with his other hand and stroked his cock, arcing another load of cum into the toilet bowl before I shuddered, tensed, and then filled out the bulb of the condom inside him.

We held there, both trembling and panting hard. "That . . . was . . . incredible," he whispered. "I've never done anything like that before."

"We'll do a lot of things you're probably never done before," I murmured.

And we did. I fucked him in the shower, backed against the slimy tiles, his knees hooked on my hips and his arms slung around my neck, as I pounded up into him with a fresh condom, moving his back up and down on the wall, under the stream of water, with the strength of my cock thrusts. And I fucked him while I sat on the side of the bed, legs spread, and held his ass into my crotch, with him bent over, grasping his ankles with his hands, and me pulling him on and off my shaft. And when I tired, he rode me, with me lying on my back on the bed and him doing a revolving cowboy on my cock, using my shaft as his private gear shift to rev his engine, while I held his slim waist between my hands to keep his gyrations from putting him into orbit toward the ceiling. I fucked him so much that he was reamed to my requirements and never complained again about me being too big.

Afterward we lay there on the mussed-up sheets of the bed, stretched out against each other, touching each other intimately, each hoping that we would recover for another go at it before we had to leave.

"I don't know the next time . . . you weren't shitting me that you come into Montrose every Tuesday?"

"There's just a stream between us," he responded. "It's shallow. You can just cross the stream anytime you want. Any time you want, I'll want it."

"Yeah, I guess that's right," I said. "But I sort of enjoyed the voyeuristic aspect to it. Were you just teasing me with always being nude and doing your exercises outside in the nude? Was that just part of your tease?"

"No. I didn't give you a full explanation when you asked why I settled out in the wilds like this to live my life and to do my job. It was, certainly, because I wanted to get close to you. But I would have come to someplace remote like this anyway. I like moving around in the nude. I'm a nudist when I can manage it. I can be free to move at the cabin. You've been doing it for the last week too. Don't you feel freer?"

"Yeah, I guess. I certainly feel sexier. And I certainly like watching you do it. So, you're going to stay at the cabin."

"Yes, I'm staying. It suits me." We were quiet for a while except for the increasing heaviness of our breathing. We both knew I was recovering. We both were hard as a rock under the touch of the other. We both knew that I would roll over on top of him at any moment and take him again. "And you?" he whispered. "Two or three weeks and then it's back to Denver."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But it isn't that far down here from Denver. I'd thought of selling the place at the end of the summer, but now I think I'll keep it—and find time to slip down here in more than just the off season."

I didn't wait for him to respond. I rolled over on top of him and listened for the gasp and intake of breath as I thrust inside.