Helena Ch. 07: Barbecue, Bears and Butts

Author's Note: This is #7 in the Helena series, and I must always give tribute to my friend "Helena", a beautiful lady here on Lit who has become my muse and my friend in the last couple of years.

Leaving the river, we head home. It's still just a little after 3; too early for dinner. The river is clean and wonderful, but a nice hot shower seems like a wonderful idea. While you gather a change of clothes, I grab a couple of fresh towels out of the bathroom cabinet and hang them near the shower entrance, then go looking for you.

Your suitcase on the bed, you're going through some things, holding them up, as if you're considering them. I have no idea what the clothes are, because I'm rather focused on your delicious ass, which is most wonderfully naked. You don't hear me approaching.

I plant a kiss on the back of your neck just as I wrap my hands around your waist. I'm bracing for a scream, or at least a good squeal. I get neither.

"If you insist on sneaking up on vulnerable women, darling, you'll simply have to work on your skills," you tease me.

"How did...I know you didn't hear me..."

You give me that little laugh. "Oh, honey, don't you know? Every time you come near me, my heart just begins to flutter, my ladybits grow moist, my nipples..." you trail off, laughing at my raised eyebrows and open skepticism. "Okay, well, maybe if you weren't so focused on my bottom, you would have noticed this," you say, pointing to...the mirror on the dresser.

"Okay. But it's not my fault that I love your derriere. I mean, I AM a dedicated buttologist, so..."

"A what?" Oh, good. You took the bait.

"A buttologist. It's an emerging science. I'll explain it later, over dinner. But first," I pick you up and put you and your bare, beautiful butt over my shoulder, "Gog need shower," and with that I carry you away.

"Of all the cave men in all the world, why did I have to get kidnapped by one obsessed with my ass?" I hear you say.

The shower feels good. Where the river cooled us off from the heat, the shower bathes us in a relaxing heat. We take turns lathering each other up, which, of course, just means we have an excuse to touch each other. It's just fun, and we laugh as we do so, as if we'd been intimate lovers for ages.

"So," you ask me, as I towel you off, "what is the agenda for the evening?" You have to really make sure you get some spots dry, you know. Especially boobs and butts and lady bits.

"Well, I thought maybe we'd go to this little place I know of, up in Wears Valley, and have dinner. They have awesome barbecue."

Your squeal of joy echoes off of the hard walls. "Hurray! I finally get to have American barbecue!" I just smile at you; I love seeing you happy.

"Yep, you're going to finally taste what heaven will taste like. I figure we can get a sampler or something, so you get to taste a little of it all, figure out what you like." Hey, barbecue is an ART for us around here. All kinds of variations and forms. Pork, chicken, beef, pork, gator, wings, pork... Well, you get the idea.

Reluctantly, I finish drying you off, although I think there was just one more little wet spot that needs more attention. You turn and walk away.

"Hey! Aren't you going to return the favor?" I ask. As you turn, I flex my cock, which has begun to harden for SOME reason, making it bob up and down. You laugh at that.

"Sorry, I have an important date to get ready for. An American is taking ME to get genuine American barbecue!" You turn and practically prance away, but not before I see that smirk at my state of being.

You know what you're getting yourself into, woman?

*****

Wears Valley Road is a really fun, really beautiful, really dangerous ride. It takes you from Townsend the "back way" into Pigeon Forge. It climbed up and down foothills of the Smokies. In fact, going this direction, the mountains across the valley to your right are IN the Park. There are places that sell wooden carvings; eagles and bears and Native American figures representing the history of the area. Often, you'll see the artisans out carving them with chainsaws right on the side of the road, but the driver really can't spend too much time looking at the scenery; this road switches back and curves and twists quite a bit, and going off the road may mean either going into a wall of rock or plunging hundreds of feet straight down.

There are other businesses and stores, and a smattering of restaurants. Restaurants which feature breakfast, especially pancakes, are a big draw in this region, as are barbecue places. As we wind through the countryside here, you're pointing out sights to me.

"Look! They have those wooden bears like the ones on your porch!"

"When they say moonshine, what are they talking about?"

"My goodness, you Yanks must really like your pancakes!"

"Oh, my, look at that view!"

I just can't help smiling. It's like bringing a kid to the world's largest candy store. We wind our way through the scenic parts, which also bear much historical significance for the area since long before the National Park was the first National Park in America. One of these days, I'd like to spend a month or three just researching the area for writing materials. I've toyed with the idea of penning a series of erotic fiction stories set in the area, dating back into the first white settlers. A little wife-swapping among the Ogle and the Hubberts; some swinging with the Cox and Callaway and Reagan families, maybe. Maybe Lady Duggan having a highly inappropriate member of Cherokee tribe could be hot. Rutting in the moonlight...

Well, anyway...

As we get closer to Pigeon Forge, I spot our destination up ahead. Big Bob's BBQ. Big Bob's isn't a whole lot to look at as far as the restaurant goes, but it's eye-catching: A couple of old red fire trucks and a tractor sit out front, right along the road, as does an impressive double-smoker trailer. Their menu isn't super diverse, but it has the basics, and they are all great: Brisket (beef), shredded pork, pork ribs, chicken, and sausage. Great potato salad and beans so sweet they're almost a dessert.

I can see the skepticism in your eye as we get out of the Beast and walk towards the front door. It's a small place; I don't know if they seat 50 people, but the crowd is already beginning to grow.

We order; well, actually, I order for both of us. As we are getting drinks, I see a familiar face.

"Hey, Bobby, how are you doing?" I greet him with a handshake and a guy hug.

"Doing well, John, staying busy as you can see," he gestures to the crowd. We got in just before a line formed. "So, who's your lady friend here?" he asks, wiping his hand on his apron and extending it towards you.

"Bob, this is my friend Helena. Helena's visiting from England, I promised her some tremendous American barbecue. Unfortunately, we ended up here instead, though," I tease as he envelops your hand in his.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am. If this rough character here gives you any problems, please let me know, and I'll have him escorted off the property," he tells you, smiling. "England, huh? Well, I hope you enjoy the food, even if you can't enjoy the company. Y'all enjoy, I've got to get back to the back."

Bob disappears into the back, and we get our drinks and head to a table to wait for our food. Taking a seat in a front corner, you lean towards me and whisper to me, "That man smells..."

"Smoky?" I offer.

"I was going to say delicious," you correct me. "That smell is positively mouth-watering!"

I laugh at that one. "I was cooking for a group of men once for a church event. I did about 20 pounds of wings, and several hams, and I think a couple of turkeys, all on the church's big grill. I had a man walk up by me, stop, turn, and tell me, 'Man, you smell GOOOOD, brother!' First time I'd ever been told THAT by another man!"

We both enjoy a laugh over that. You get one of those funny smiles on your face.

"So...about this 'Buttology' business... Tell me about that, oh wise one!"

"Yes, well, about that...you see, it's a well-researched fact that a person with an innate sense of what we in the field call 'Derriereity' can discern much about a person, especially a woman, by the shape, contour and other features of their buttocks." I am trying SO hard to maintain this "professional" tone and demeanor during all of that.

"Derriereity?" you confirm, but for some reason I think you're still holding on to your skepticism. "And you say this is research-based?"

"Yes, of course."

"And the researchers...?" I roll my eyes at this silly question.

"Established professionals in their field. We actually gather together regularly to discuss our results and work on establishing a core of standards. In fact, sometimes we meet right here at Big Bob's. Bob is a member of the research team."

"Bob? As in, smells like heavenly smoke Bob?" you ask. "So, what, you shut down the restaurant and meet?" You're asking great questions, but I still get the feeling you're not really buying in.

"Oh, no, no, no! We don't shut down; that would be counterproductive. You see, the clientele in here provides excellent research. We assess the asses, as it were, and then classify them according to our very intricate system of grouping."

"So, in other words, you sit here and stare at women's rear ends. Is that what you're saying here?"

"No, we don't stare; that would be crass. We are very discreet. We are, after all, professionals."

"Uh huh. So, these classifications, these groups, how do they work? Do you give them scores of 1-10? Grades like in school? 'Oh, she's quite the A+!' 'Ugh. Can't give that lass more than a C-!' Is that how you work it?"

"Of course not! That would be sexist, and lead to body shaming and all kinds of bad habits! We do not grade them on a scale of attractiveness; well, we have discuss the need to assess the "Bakery Fresh" buns with a squeeze test, but we have some legal technicalities to work out on that."

"Yes, I'd imagine so," you respond, rolling your eyes but smiling. "The term 'sexual assault' comes to mind. So, what are these 'groups' anyway, other than the Bakery Buns thing?"

I resist the temptation to correct you. "I hoped you would ASSk that. Let's take that woman right there, the dark haired woman in the blue blouse. She would be put in the Cereal Box group."

"Cereal box? What on earth about that lovely woman reminds you of a cereal box? She is by no means flat, if you didn't notice!"

Now it's my turn to roll MY eyes. "There you go, objectifying a woman's breasts! You'd think we were still stuck in the mid-twentieth century! Remember, we are a group of scientists. We would never let our mindset swayed from the focus of our research by a really big set of breasts. We are professionals."

"Professionals? Professionals? You just said that woman is a cereal box! What kind of science is that?" Is that sarcasm in your voice, love? Because it sounded like sarcasm...

"We are NOT saying she is a cereal box. We are using that as an allusion to her particular type of buttocks shape."

"Okay, I'm going to regret this, I'm sure, but I'll bite: Why would you use that to categorize her?"

"Oh, that. Have you ever read the side of a cereal box? You have those in the UK, right?"

To this, I just get a stare. I just move on.

"So, on the side of a cereal box, it always says, 'Contents may settle during shipping.' That means that while it may have been full to the top when they sent it out, sometimes, stuff...settles, and there's more at the bottom than there used to be. BUT!" I have to cut you off; I can see you're going to say something about us being cruel and sexist and something else, "BUT, inside, there's still all the same sweetness that there always was! We believe that almost ALL women have a sexy derriere; we just have to look at it the right way. I mean, who doesn't' love bakery-fresh buns, for example? Am I right? And pumpkin patch, well-"

"Stop. Just...stop." You're just sitting there, shaking your head, wondering how you ever ended up with an idiot for a lover. I KNOW that look. But...I can still see you smiling, or at least having to work REAL hard not to.

About that time, Bob comes, bringing our food himself. "Here y'all go," he says, as he puts several plates piled high with food in front of us. "John, I'll let you explain the sauces," he tells us, gesturing to the bottles on the far side of the table.

"Excuse me, Bob, I wonder if I might ask you a quick question," you say, smiling at him.

"Well, sure, ma'am. Ask away" Bob smiles at you, but I'm busy sending Bob a telepathic Man Message.

"So, John here tells me that the two of you are 'Buttology' researchers, and you meet here to discuss and classify women's derrieres into random, strangely-named groups. Is that true?" Oh, please, Bob, I think, go with me on this one, come on, roll with it...

Bob looks at you. He looks at me. He looks at you. He looks at me, then back at you.

"Ma'am, I don't know what to tell you, but if I were you, I'd get away from this man as fast as you can. He's a known liar, and we try to keep our womenfolk, our kids and our small farm animals away from him." Bob, you punk! How can you do this to a brother?!

"I take it that it's all a lie, then?" you press him, smiling at him then me like the cat that just caught the canary.

Bob is just silent for a moment. "Ma'am, I hope you enjoy your food. Let us know if you need police protection." With that, he walks back to the kitchen.

I gotta find a new barbecue place. And a new friend.

*****

We leave the restaurant with a couple of to-go boxes carrying leftovers. I ordered enough so that you could taste a little bit of all of it, knowing we'd have some leftovers. I glared at Bob standing behind the counter, but he just smiled at me. I waved at him and shook my head, smiling. He knew I'd be back, and probably hoped I'd bring the hot English woman with me.

I always keep a cooler in the Beast; never know when I might accidentally catch fish, or need to ice down drinks or keep groceries cool. I stop down the street and grab ice, a case of bottled water, and some gummi bears (my own personal drug of choice). While we're there, I fuel up the Beast, which is thirsty. Twenty five gallons and sixty-five dollars later, I climb back into the Beast and look at you. "Where would you like to go next, Beautiful?"

You look at me and smile. "Take me...take me somewhere beautiful, baby."

"Well, that's easy," I tell you, and I reach across in front of you and lower the visor. You turn to see what I'm doing, and smile when I flip the mirror open. "There you go; most beautiful thing in America, right there."

I kind of expect a, "Aw, how sweet!" response or something like that. Instead, you just keep smiling as you look in the mirror, and tuck a hair back behind your ear.

"I really DO look good, don't I?" you say.

What am I gonna do? Argue? Nope. "Amazing," I reply honestly.

"Seriously, though; take me someplace beautiful. As if you had to pick one place to take someone and show off this part of the world. Take me there," you tell me.

I have to think about this for a few seconds. We are close to so many gorgeous sites. I could take you to the top of the big mountain on 441, where the Tennessee and North Carolina state boundaries cross the road. It's gorgeous out there.

Or Laurel Falls. Bit of a hike, but so beautiful..

And then it hits me. I know where I'm taking you.

"Okay, we can do that," I announce.

"So, where are you taking me?" you inquire. "Wait, let me guess: A mountaintop! Someplace with an amazing view for miles and miles!"

"Nope."

"A waterfall? I read on Google that there are a lot of waterfalls in the area. They looked beautiful. Are we going to make love under a waterfall?"

I grin at that. "No, not today, but I can certainly put that on the itinerary for tomorrow! I don't know how the park rangers will feel about that, but maybe we can have them join in..." At that, you smack my arm lightly and smile.

"So, not a mountain top, not a waterfall...where ARE you taking me?"

I turn and smile at you. "I'm taking you to church."

Your eyebrow cocks up, and that skepticism from earlier arises. "A church? You're taking me to a church?" you ask.

"No. I'm taking you to CHURCH, not a church," I reply cryptically. "No more questions, though. You'll see it when you see it. Trust me, trust me," I add in my best creepy-villain voice.

The drive to Cades Cove from here takes us down 441 and into Gatlinburg. We cruise down the strip and then enter the Park. At the Sugarland Visitors Center, we veer right, and then it is a good long drive up and down hills and mountains and down through cool, shaded valleys, along clear streams. We pass a deer on the side of the road, casually eating as if cars aren't zooming past. Finally, we turn down the road towards Cades Cove.

"Oh, this is the place I read about. Some kind fo loop, right? And they have a petting zoo or something?"

I laugh. "It IS a loop, but most certainly NOT a petting zoo. If you see any animals, no matter how tempted you are, don't try to approach them. In fact, get away from them."

We enter the loop, and I put the windows down on the Beast. Almost immediately, there are horses and cows on our left, but they are domesticated. A little further, and I point out wild turkeys, out in the blowing grass. Then there's a deer, then we see that it is not one, but 5 or six deer, the buck standing farthest away. At a bend, going into a wooded areas, we see two cars stopped ahead of us, and we stop behind them, giving about a 10-yard gap between us.

"What's the matter? Do you think they broke down? Can you go around-" I reach my hand over and put a finger across your lips.

"Shh. Look," I say, and point to the side of the road, about where the first car is. Quietly, I hit the button and put your window up.

You gasp when you see it. A black bear sow, probably 175 pounds, is ambling along the side of the road, not 4 feet from the front vehicle. The vehicle doesn't move, just allowing the animals to move naturally, which is what you're supposed to do. The bear passes the first car, then comes alongside the second. The bear stops, and looks at the car and its occupants. Man, I hope they got a good picture of that, I think, even as I raise my phone and activate the camera. The bear, done with the photo op, then strolls on by and heads toward us.

"John! Are we safe? What will it do?" you ask in a frightened whisper, clutching my arm. I switch my camera to the other hand.

"We'll be fine, she's just going on her way." About that time, the bear turns, and begins to cross the road between us and the second car. This time, she comes to the Beast - maybe they recognize each other? - and rears up a bit, looking in the front window. She kind of groans, looks at us, groans again, then drops her paws back down and crosses the road, heading off into the field to our left. I think that's about when you figured out you needed to breathe again.

"That was...incredible!" you finally speak. I'd like to play it off like a cool local, like, "Oh, that, that happens ALL the time.." but I can't. That was indeed incredible.

"You said she; how did you know it's a female?" you ask.

"Well, it's the shape of their heads, and the proportion compared to the circumference of the chest and..." I point out the window to the road ahead of the first car, "when you don't get measurements of those, you just look for the ones that the kids are following." Up ahead, three cubs, maybe 50 pounds each, little black balls of fur, are trotting down the road, then veer off into the field in pursuit of Mama.

The bear family having departed, we begin to move again. Another bear is sighted off in a field, but after our close encounter, that seems almost trivial. As we round another bend, about to enter an open patch, I pull us in beside the Cades Cove Methodist Church.