Summer’s End at Spirit Lake

David was gentle—at first—lying on top of me across the backseat of the car, between my spread legs, my left ankle hooked on the top of the backseat and my right on the top of the front bench seat, and with him, cooing to me and holding his hand over my mouth to stifle my deep groans, moving inch by inch up inside me with his thick cock. My luck to be deflowered by a horse-hung man. In the end, though, when he was three-quarters of a foot inside me, he lost control and started pumping in earnest. By then, despite the pain-pleasure, I wanted no less from him. His cock was all possessing, his kisses like wine. I never wanted him to stop sucking on my nipples; sending his cock revolving deep inside me; causing my channel walls to ripple from the pleasure of him; finding and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing my prostate with his bulb until I exploded in arcs of cum to his intake of breath and steely strokes. Again, and again, and again.

When he was done—and I had been undone—he said he didn't want me to leave him that night. I couldn't say that I wanted him to leave me either. He drove to a seedy motel at the north end of the lake that couldn't decide whether it sided with the Woodland whites or the Coon Town blacks and fucked me all night, leaving his girlfriend, Maggie, roaming through the lake house, nudging couples apart to ID them, and wondering where David was. She eventually found Danny, pounding furiously on Chas' locked bedroom door—where Chas was adding another, different charm to her bracelet—and led him away for each to console the other—laying a foundation for more intimate consolation when David's jet took a nosedive a few months later.

Late August to early November didn't leave much time for David and me. In fact, beyond the last weekend of that summer at Spirit Lake, there was only one brief, glorious weekend in October in my studio apartment at college in Athens.

I snapped out of the reminiscence to rejoin the summer of 1956, sitting on the dock, outside my family's lake cottage, where the next-to-last weekend of the summer was being celebrated and mourned in appropriate debauchery mode. LeRoy was on the slower Cole Porter songs now. It was his lot to play almost to the bitter end. He wasn't really a guest at the party; he was black; he was hired to be here. I sat through "Night and Day" and "Begin the Beguine." Couples were beginning to drift out onto the lawn to start their evening fucking. One couple already was at the other end of the dock, rocking against each other, playing "hide the hands." How much they missed David, they were saying, between moans and giggles.

I looked at my watch. Good thing it was time to be gone. I couldn't have stayed around for much more of this on this next-to-last summer party night. The rowboat was right there at the end of the dock, gently tapping against the pier. I moved down to inside the boat, untied the rope anchoring it to the dock, and pushed off with an oar.

I wasn't going to be state champion in anything this year if I didn't practice, practice, practice. I pushed away from the lights and laughter of the party into the wet darkness of Spirit Lake.

* * * *

I rowed all the way across to the eastern side of the lake, in quick time. Rowing that distance normally was a piece of cake. Tonight, though, I wanted to punish my lungs and empty my brain of thoughts of David—pull in more pleasurable thoughts—and so I rowed double time. Reaching the other side, which was swampy at the shoreline rather than dressed with concrete rip-rap like on the wealthy, white side of the lake, I struggled out of the boat and pulled it onto the shore. Struggling up the grassy verge, I plopped down on my butt, facing the water, and looked toward my lit-up house on the other shore.

I could still hear LeRoy playing the piano, the sound coming in on the breeze across the lake in more gentle, melded tones than as heard from my dock—and, most certainly from inside the cottage. Hoagie Carmichael this time. "Stardust," "Georgia on My Mind." LeRoy had his favorites that he played forever, from one summer through the next. Those who came to the parties at the cottage expected it and, in truth, had grown used to it as a nonintrusive background partner and shield to their fevered and lecherous business.

They'd be swaying against each other in the living room now. She'd have lost her panties somewhere and would have a knee hooked on his hip. He'd be inside her, undulating to the beat, moving his dick languidly inside her. Sighing in the living room, moaning on the grassy slope between house and water, cries of passion in the bedrooms, pans swept off the counters and hitting the floors in the pantry. Probably even the springs of the fire-engine-red '55 Cadillac Series 62 Convertible bouncing up and down as Danny fucked Maggie in the backseat, Maggie dreaming of being fucked by David, and Danny frantically trying to fuck David out of Maggie.

I wondered if they knew that David had grabbed my virginity from me in the backseat of that car. It was what I mostly was thinking of as we drove around the north end of the lake earlier in the day as I, smiling regretfully for the camouflaging effect it provided, removed Chas' hand from my crotch again, and again, and again.

In the dark now, sitting on the grassy slope of the eastern shore, I was hard. But it wasn't for anyone across the lake, at my family's vacation house. I already was shirtless. I pushed my shorts and briefs down, off my legs, and took my cock in my hand. Slowly beating myself off—putting my mind to discerning and matching the meter of the strains of "In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening" wafting across the lake from LeRoy's long, sensuous fingers on the piano keys. I had more than once thought of LeRoy playing me with those sensuous fingers.

I didn't flinch from within my reverie when my thighs were encased in beefy, brown, rugby-player-muscled thighs, thighs that then moved over mine, hooking my legs and teasing them apart, trapping me there. Muscular chocolate-brown arms encircling my shoulders; wet lips pressed into the hollow of my neck; a huge, hard cock pressed against my back, running up the small of my back; warm balls pressed to the base of my spine; a beefy brown hand covering mine on my cock and taking over the beat of my meat.

The cock was the thing. The muscles were very nice in their way. The handsome face didn't hurt. But though I tried to recapture over the last year at college what I had briefly had with horse-hung David, not before there was Sam had there been a man who could—who would—fill me almost to splitting me and make me come in great arcs of cum as David then could—as Sam Jackson now could.

By freak accident I had met Sam in the lake—in the lake's water itself. I was swimming laps across the lake and back to my house, stealing a march on the hard training that was to come when I returned to the University of Georgia in September. And there, right before me, completely unexpectedly, in the middle of the lake, had popped up the wooly black head of a black man.

The shock of it had made me swallow water and sputter. Sam had put me in a lifeguard's hold and paddled me to the Coon Town side of the lake, to this very shore. I probably would have been all right on my own, but the shock of his sudden emergence from the water had knocked the wind out of my sails. As I had been swimming I had been dreaming of that last time, in my college room shower last October—of David fucking me up against the shower tiles with the water cascading over our steaming bodies. His massive cock invading and possessing me fully, stroking hard and deep.

We had both been swimming naked, the black man and I. His nakedness was magnificent. The mouth-to-mouth resuscitation had moved from the clinical to the passionate. Still half in the dream state of David covering me from behind in the shower and possessing my lips as his staff invaded my channel, I grabbed the initiative, embracing the black man's broad back in my arms, digging my nail in the bulge of his shoulder muscles, weaving my calves around his thighs, possessing his cock in a death grip of a hand and guiding him inside me. He was hard and strong. I was yielding and moaning.

And I was fucked. Hard, deep, horse-hung thick and long, and at great length. Fucked.

Thus had Sam been included thereafter in my nightly rowing exercises during the weekend days of August of the year 1956. And in that next-to-last Saturday evening of summer at Spirit Lake for the year—I made a point of checking the statistics some time later—in which there were 492 reported lynchings of black men in Georgia, many for sexually messing with someone of white color, Sam Jackson fucked me hard, with no inhibitions on either side. He totally merged his black body with my white one as LeRoy Brown's fingers on the keys across the lake reverted to Cole Porter's "I've Got You Under My Skin."

He had slowly pitched me forward until my cheek was pressed into the grass. Working his way in licks and kisses down to my buttocks, his broad hands pulled my butt cheeks apart, and I groaned as his tongue went for the gold. He covered, mounted, and thrust inside me and fucked me hard and long in a no-prisoners-taken doggy fuck. He was more brutal and consuming than he'd ever been before, and I was afraid the taking was in some sort of retribution for my not having spoken up that afternoon at the gas pump.

I was equally scared that I had responded to this cruel taking with as much want and passion as I did.

"No," he whispered to me later, as we sat cross-legged, yoga style, my legs on top of his thighs, my ankles crossed behind his trim waist, and the bulb of his cock pressing, but not yet entering my entrance. "I would not have wanted you to say anything. I get that a lot when white folks drive through town and need gas but aren't happy they're paying a black man for it. That guy, despite his height and his Cadillac—probably his daddy's Cadillac—is just a pipsqueak in his brain. He isn't worth a fight."

He had Danny pegged to a T. "But why? You took me almost in anger just now. Don't get me wrong, I loved it. I'd take it every which way from you. But you haven't been that demanding before . . . well, the first time, I guess, but I almost took it from you that time, I wanted it so bad."

"Yes, you did want it bad, didn't you?" he asked, with a grin, pressing his forehead to mine. He looked down at his long, long, thick cock, poised there at my hole, the bulb resting at my throbbing entrance, his staff too throbbing in anticipation. His glance downward caused me to look down too.

"You know I'm going to give it all to you again," he said, calmly, matter-of-factly. "I don't usually go into the hilt, but today you get it all. And you want to know why, don't you?"

"I want it all. But, yes, I want to know why."

"I'm just sulking and looking for someone to hurt. You're leaving. You're going back to that fancy university town in Athens. You're probably now going to go back to that party of yours across the lake and fuck one of those hottie white women who was in the car today. Another week and you'll be gone. I won't be here when you come another summer, you know. I can't stay here any longer."

"But don't you have family here?"

"I got no one. And nothin' in this hell hole of a town. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

"I understand," I said. He made me stop and think. Who did I have here myself? My mom dead, my dad in New York most of the time, my step-mother clubbing her life away inside a martini glass in Buckhead. This was why I could use the Spirit Lake house every summer and trash it. No questions were asked when the bills came in to put it back together again. No questions were asked whenever I cashed a check. No one even asked where I was when I cashed the check.

What was I doing in Georgia anyway? Look at us, Sam and me. Him a black bull, me a white twink. Who cared what we did—other than the good people of Georgia? Who the fuck were we hurting by making our kind of love? We were committing a felony here in Georgia law, the two of us sitting close together, Sam just having fucked me; Sam about to fuck me again. A double felony. Not only were we both men, but he was black and I was white. Can't do that here in Georgia in 1956. Not that it even mattered that it was illegal. Who would wait for the law in Georgia when there were so many strong, low-lying tree limbs conveniently nearby? So, what the fuck were we even doing here in Georgia? Who would give a fuck if we just disappeared?

"I doubt I'll be coming back next summer either," I then said. "It won't be the same. It wasn't the same this summer. But, don't worry, I won't be fucking any women when I go home tonight. I'll go straight to my room and dream of your fucking me—even with you are doing it with a bit of anger behind it."

"That's the other reason I'm going to fuck you hard again," he said, with a grin. "You want it hard from me."

I couldn't tell him he was wrong.

"You don't fuck women?" he asked, doubling back on our earlier conversation.

"No, I don't. I can't help it; I only want it from men." I didn't ask him the obvious question, but he answered it anyway.

"I fuck women. I fuck both men and women. I like it both ways, so I do it both ways."

"I don't care," I said. "as long as you fuck me. As long as you fuck me again . . . now . . . and give me all of it. Make me remember this."

I was trembling when he placed a strong hand at the base of my spine and, our foreheads pressed together, my eyes locked by his, began to pull me into him, onto his cock. He released my eyes than, and lowered his, causing me to look down. His hands grasped, squeezed, and separated my butt cheeks.

"Here it comes," he muttered and continued pulling me into him. I watched, panting, groaning giving little cries, as inch by relentless inch he made it all disappear inside me. I dug my fingernails into the meat of his biceps on both sides and arched my head back in a cry to the sky as wild, wiry black pubic curls pressed into and mingled with trimmed blond silk.

Giving a grunt, he rose up on his feet, maintaining his hold on my buttocks. I, in turn, maintained the lock of my ankles at the small of his back, but I pulled my claws out of his biceps and let my arms fall behind me, reaching for the grass. My weight, such as he gave over, was resting on my shoulders. I looked up the line of my body to his magnificent, black, sweat-slicked torso, every muscle bulging, struggling to burst out of his skin, as he pulled my channel on and off his cock. Harder, deeper, deeper, harder. Stretching up for my tonsils. Faster, harder. Forever. The glorious shared gush of release.

Another chorus of "I've Got You Under My Skin" floating across the water.

The cottage looked like a battle zone when I returned. Everything that could be pulled down onto the floor or set askew was. There wasn't too much breakage, though, as was understandable. We'd already had another entire summer to tear the place apart and trash anything that wasn't nailed down. My father hadn't bothered to check the house out for years. Among the wreckage were bodies, strewn about in twos and threes and even fours. Legs and arms entwined. Clothes in tatters and pushed away from flesh. Still a twitch here, a movement of crotch against crotch or buttocks there.

No one was at the piano. I found LeRoy Brown on the leather sofa in the library. Naked, he was stretched out on top of Chas, whose face was turned toward mine, eyes slitted, and locked in an expression of total satisfaction. They were the only couple I could see on the battleground who were still fucking. She had two sofa pillows under her hips to give him a good angle, and he was languidly moving his long, gaunt, black body in pushups above her. He was taking long strokes—extraordinarily long strokes—in her maw of a cunt, much too cavernous to feel tightness from the invasion of his cock. Not being able to help myself, I took in a long breath as nearly a foot of shaft came out of her cunt and then let the breath out as it slid back deep inside her.

He wasn't wearing a condom—which was a detail that I was to remember of the night.

I just shrugged and trudged upstairs to unlock and enter my bedroom. I had locked the door against invasion by anyone else, knowing that the next-to-last party at my family's Spirit Lake house would end in precisely the shambles that it did. If I didn't have the fortitude to prevent the party, at least I could preserve a retreat for myself—and for my dreams of Sam—and, still, of David.

* * * *

The very last weekend of the summer of 1956 at Spirit Lake arrived. I had driven from Buckhead to the lake in my '54 two-seater Thunderbird. Danny, Maggie, and Thad had come from Athens, where Thad already was into week-day football practice, in the Alexander family Cadillac. I'd made one stop on the way down from Atlanta, and what I'd gotten was burning a hole in the floor under the driver's seat of my Thunderbird. By agreement we were hooking up at the Main Street Café in Woodland before going out to the house. Chas and June, their time totally free of any obligations, had stayed on at the lake house during the week to bring some semblance of order back into the house before one last shove over the edge of debauchery this weekend. Chas had her MG Sprite, so they were good to go for transportation.

"One more weekend," Danny said as we were sitting in the booth at the café. "Then it's back to school." All four of us nodded; it was the four us, the remnants of the Buckhead Wild Ones who were starting back at the University of Georgia in Athens next week.

"You got a letter from the basketball coach yet?" Thad asked, turning to Danny.

Danny looked away, gave a sigh, and then said, "God, I miss David."

"So do I," Maggie said in a small voice. I looked at her. It was obvious she did miss David, at least in comparison to Danny. In other circumstances, when we got back to school, I'd take her aside and tell her she needed to get on with her life—that Danny never was going to be David. That, in fact, she should stop trying to live in the shadow of any jock. That being a groupie for horny jocks was so high school. She had a good head for figures. She could make something of herself in her own right. Maybe I'd write that to her instead.

Thad looked at me then. "I'm team captain again, so I'm in solid on the football team. How about you, Lee? You heard from Coach Tomlin yet?"

Coach Tomlin. I sure had heard from Coach Tomlin, the swim team coach. He'd written about how anxious he was to have me back at school. How much his balls ached from not having me there. How hard he was going to fuck me when he could get me under him again. As if Coach Tomlin of the "not so much cock and even less stamina" knew what hard fucking was. Yeah he wanted me back. Pretty stupid of him to put it in writing like that, though. Not that I'd do anything about it, other than ensure he wrote me good letters. "Yeah," I answered. "Coach Tomlin's written me. I'm good to go for the year."

"Just one more weekend here this summer," Maggie said in a small voice. "It just hasn't been the same this year."

Each of the other three of us chimed in agreement in our own way and then each sank into his or her own thoughts, thoughts that were interrupted by commotion at the door and the sobbing, half hysterical exclamations of the woman standing inside the door, clothes in disarray, face puffy and bleeding.

All of the men in the café rose from where they sat, suddenly warriors, avenging knights in white armor. All the women shrank away from the sight, taking faint. It so easily could have been them. Every face in the café was white, of course, and steeped in avenging anger.

The waitress behind the lunch counter was the first one to react, moving quickly to Chas and putting an arm around her. "What is it, sweetie? What's happened? Who's done this to you?"