Summer Snow

"These are for you, Terri. Always for you. Why never for the guys on the line?"

The hulky Boomer was entering the second-floor dressing room behind the stage at the Brass Balls Saloon. His arms were full of flower bouquets, one noticeably larger than the other two. He was still wearing just black silk bikini bottoms and a black bow tie and white cuffs on his wrists.

"The guys on the line are hunky Chippendales dancer types," I answered. "You're all seen as tops. Who gives flowers to a top? Dale and I are dancing the poles and look like submissives. We get the flowers. You get johns out of this, though. Don't try to tell me you don't. They just don't think it's wise to send a macho top flowers as a hookup approach."

"They damn well could send me a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a box of Trojans then," Boomer growled.

We were both dancers at a gay male strip club near 9th and Grant, near Cheeseman Park, in the gay red light Capitol Hill district of Denver. The club had two kinds of dancers—gorgeous bodybuilders like Boomer and boyish pole dancers like me. I was of a newer breed, a little more exotica and intriguing. There were guys in the audience very curious about small, more pretty than handsome, young guys like me.

"There are three of them downstairs outside the stage door asking about you. One of them, the one with the biggest bouquet, banged on the door until I opened it. He gave me a twenty to bring you these and get you to come out."

"So, you get your reward after all," I said. "And it's a lot easier to spend a twenty than and bunch of cut flowers."

The dressing room window was over the stage door to the alley on one side of the theater and I went over and looked out. "I'll bet he's the old, fat, ugly one," I said.

"He's not that old. Not yet fifty. Bet he can still get it up." Boomer hadn't denied that he was fat and ugly. He wasn't obese fat, but he looked like he was a hairy one, and he certainly was no Mr. Beautiful. He was expensively dressed, though. The other two were no beauties either, and, though younger, they didn't look like money.

"It would have to be the one with the money. But I'm not in the mood," I said, pulling away from the window. I went back to my dressing table, folded up the red sequined pouch bikini I wore on the pole until the last minute of the lights coming up, giving a reveal all up and down the line, and then blacking out. I always listened for the gasp floating over the audience in the moment, and I realized—and appreciated—that much of the gasping was for me. That's a big reason I was this way—to hear the gasp.

"He wants an answer," Boomer said. "He gave me only half of the twenty. I get the other half whatever the answer is."

What I really wanted was for Boomer to tell me he wanted to take me home himself. Boomer was a real honey. I'd been willing to let him fuck me for some time. But he hadn't made a move. One of the other guys told me Boomer worked here just for the money. That he was straight. I wasn't sure of that. He'd been giving me "that look," and he flirted with me. I was sure he was curious, and it might only be a matter of time before curiosity brought him to me.

"Tell him not tonight. I already have a commitment tonight."

"But it isn't a flat no," Boomer said. "I'll be honest with you. I'd get a cut if you went with him."

"Just tell him not tonight," I said. I didn't want to tick Boomer off.

When he left, I finished dressing and left by the door to the alley on the other side of the theater from the stage door. I wasn't ready to go back to my dreary rooms yet. I'd really thought maybe I'd get it on with Boomer that night. The prospect of going out with some rich, old, fat, ugly guy just because, yes, I needed some more money to make the rent, had soured me.

As I often did, I went down to Sante Fe Drive to a bar called Trade, which had a bit broader tastes than gay, but where I often could hook up. I sat at the bar, talked with Steve the evening bartender who was gay, but another submissive like I'd been before, and with whom I could have a discussion between him fixing drinks about the Denver football team, the Broncos, or its baseball team, the Rockets, or the ski resorts up in the mountains to the west and what they did on sultry nights like this at the end of July.

"I understand that it can still snow enough on the taller peaks in the Rockies to have snow cover," Steve said.

"But surely not enough to cover a ski slope to stay in business," I retorted. "It's still in the eighties here in Denver tonight and it's after midnight."

"They have snow machines, I think, Terri."

"You think? You don't snow ski?"

"No."

"Neither do I," I said. That was the point at which the evening changed, though. Steve turned away to take a drink order, and a guy slipped onto the stool beside me.

"What are you drinking?" he asked. I told him and he ordered another one for me from the other bartender behind the counter.

His name was Bart. He said he was in town for a convention. He told me where he was from someplace in Indiana, but I doubted he was telling the truth, so I didn't pay much attention to that. I told him I was a Denver native, but that was a lie too. He touched me on the forearm as we did small talk and I didn't pull away, so he did that thing of brushing my forearm hairs with the tips of his fingers that guys do when they've already bought a drink for you and are trying to move in on you. When I just smiled at him and leaned in, one of his hands went to palming my buttocks.

I confided in him that I danced a pole at the Brass Balls Saloon. He confided that he was lonely and horny and looking for a good time. I gave him a dreamy look and did the trashy thing whores do with fishing the cherry out of the drink he'd ordered for me and making love to it as I pulled it into my mouth. The proposition came not too long after that.

He wasn't too old . . . nor fat . . . and he was good-looking enough in the dim light of the barroom. He had a room at the Days Inn on West Colfax, not too far north of the bar, and he had $300 in hand. And he said he was curious—up for something new while he was in Denver on business. This was the kind of bar you went to if you wanted to hook up with the kind of lay I was. I'd seen him talking to my friendly bartender earlier and the two looking around the room, mostly at me. Bart most likely knew what he was trying to buy.

He was good with it, admitting it was his first time with it, but adjusting without trouble, producing a respectable erection, and fucking me from above and behind, bent over the bed, doggy style. We rested and drank beers he pulled from the room refrigerator. His curiosity was such that, while we drank, he wanted to explore and put his hands all over me. It made us both horny again—he really was sweet and a bit naïve. I rode him in a Cowboy and went to the shower when he fell asleep. I could have emptied his wallet then, but I wasn't that kind of whore. I took my $300 and walked the five blocks to where I was rooming in a gay-friendly rooming house.

I really would have liked to go with Boomer that night, but this was good enough. It helped pay the rent and I didn't have any trouble with what Bart found to work with.

* * * *

"I've been given the key to use a ski lodge up at the Allenspark Ski Resort on Longs Peak, south of Estes Park. I see that we're both off this next weekend. Interested in going up there with me?"

"It's July. It's over ninety degrees here in Denver. Is this a time to go skiing in the mountains?" I could have kicked myself. Why was I being such a smart aleck? Boomer was suggesting an out-of-town hookup. I'd been wanting to go with Boomer—to be covered by him. He was a hunk and a half and, as I well knew it, hung.

"There's often snow on the mountains in the summer here. And Longs Peak is a high one. I got the chance to go up there and don't want to go alone. I could give you $500 to go with me for a couple of days."

He'd pay me to go with him? What sort of shit was this? He should know that a guy like me would go with a guy with him at the mere hint of the possibility. Pull it together, I told myself.

"Sure, I'd love to go up there with you for a couple of days. I don't ski, so who cares if there won't be any snow."

But I sure as hell would lie down and open my legs for hunks like Boomer.

* * * *

I'd never been up into the Rockies just east of Denver and it was a real experience to be taking the two-hour drive up to Longs Peak northwest of Boulder. I'd had no idea how tall—or isolated—the Rocky Mountains were. From Denver they had looked more like a stage backdrop. I had come to Denver in the late spring, so I hadn't seen the mountains snow-capped like they would be much of the year. As we drove up in elevation and into the Allenspark Ski Resort, pretty much deserted now in the off season, I could see patches of snow on the higher elevation, but nothing that would support any skiing activity here.

The cabin, really a pretty big log house, was located in sight of what I was told was the club house and I could see the top of the ski lift as we got out of the car. And then I learned why we were really coming up for the weekend and why Boomer was willing to pay me $500 to come here. Standing in the doorway, in a heavy white terrycloth robe, was big-bouquet Mr. Old, Fat, and Ugly from the theater stage door earlier in the week.

"That's Mr. Gowen. Franklin Gowen," Boomer said, as we got out of the car. "This is his house. He owns the resort."

"And he's the one who has paid for us—for me—to be up here for the weekend, isn't he?"

"Just give it try, Terri," Boomer said. "He's paying big bucks. He just says he's curious. Hasn't done it with someone like you before. It's not like you don't put out when you're being paid for it."

"I thought I was coming up here to put out for you, Boomer."

"Not with me paying five-hundred bucks for it. I can't think you'd believe I'd pay you for a fuck."

"Yeah, sure, of course not."

"We're here. Put on a smile and earn your money."

He had a point. I needed the money and we were here. In a threesome, at least there would be Boomer, and I'd wanted him to lay me for some time. I put on a smile and climbed the stairs. Gowen pulled back into the foyer of the log house to let me enter. The man obviously had money. It supposedly was a vacation house, but it was luxuriously outfitted with Turkish carpets and expensive pine furniture. A roaring fire was already going in a huge stone fireplace in the living room and a video was going on the screen above the fireplace and facing a deep, leather-covered sofa facing the fire.

The video, naturally, was a gay porn film shoot on a bear-skin rug in front of a roaring fire in a stone-faced fireplace in a wooden-log-walled cabin. This guy wasn't going to waste any time getting what he wanted from me.

"Get comfortable on the sofa and loosen up, Terri," Gowen said, knowing my name without him telling me. "I'll get us some drinks. I understand it will snow tonight, so we'll probably be all by ourselves up here on the mountain."

Terrific, I thought, as I went to the sofa. "Why don't you sit in the middle, between us?" I suggested.

"Not a chance," Boomer said, stripping himself down to a T-shirt and jeans. The fire was burning hotly. It was cold for summer anywhere but on top of a mountain outside, but not in here. "Take your coat off," he said.

Gowen came back with what he said were "special" drinks, first just mine and then his and Boomer's on a second trip. He'd unknotted his robe, which had fallen open to reveal that he was, as I surmised, hirsute and had a pronounced paunch on him that bubbled over a pair of skimpy black-satin bikini briefs. The saving grace was that he appeared to be hung. He certainly has in full erection.

We settled on the sofa, facing the movie on the screen above the fire. What started out as awkward, got a bit more chummy as I emptied my drink glass—and then a second one. I was sitting in the middle, of course, and both men were doing stuff to me with their hands. When Gowen came back with my second drink, he said, "It looks like it's going to snow. We could get snowed in up here."

Boomer said. "At the end of July?" My thought was a coarser, shit, I hope not.

"It happens" the man said, as he handed me my drink, and the cushions of the sofa made a deflating balloon sound as he sank his big rump down beside me. One of Boomer's hands grasped my right knee and Gowen's hand went to my left one. Their hands moved around from there as I sipped my intoxicating drink. I responded well to Boomer, but not so much to Gowen—at least initially. The drinks were strong—stronger than just being drinks—and as I started going under, I was getting woozy and losing control—and care.

Gowen's hand went to my zipper and Boomer helped by unbuckling my belt. The fat man's fingers moved under the waistband of my Calvin Kleins. That didn't surprise me at all, I knew it was his curiosity that had brought us here.

Well, OK, I thought. This guy is going to fuck me, but Boomer will be here, doing me too. This is why I had done it. I relaxed my thighs open, lay back in the sofa—with Boomer finding this time to lean over me and take my lips in his—and let the man do what he wanted to do with his fingers. I sank deeper into the effects of the drugged drinks. Gowen's fingers became very intimate indeed in their exploration and his murmurs of surprise and satisfaction.

At some point Boomer was gone. The last I remembered, the fat guy was pressing me into the sofa, where I was on my back, stretched along the cushion. He was on me, between my spread thighs. I remember having looked down on the floor between the sofa and a coffee table to see his black-satin bikini briefs lying on top of my Calvin Klein briefs. My T was off and he was licking the nipples of my pert breasts, and the fingers of one of his hands were playing in the folds of my surgically provided cunt. I remember gasping as his finger plunged up inside me to check how far in he could go—and that finger was joined by others.

As his thumb found and pressed into the glans of my vestigial penis at the top of the slit, his fingers spread my folds. Surrendering with a sigh, I arched my back, jutted my cunt up into his hand, and whispered, "Yes, yes, yes."

I dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades and began to pant as he repositioned himself between my thighs, moved the bulb of his shaft into position, and entered me. At that point, when he was well stuffed inside me and had begun to pump me, the drugged drinks kicked in and I zoned out.

I came to briefly at the sting of a slap across my face. He was pulling out of my cunt and turning me face down across the sofa. I could see, in my groggy state, that the fire was still roaring and the video still whirring. Boomer was nowhere to be seen. I felt crushed with the bulk of the man on top of me, but I wasn't taking his full weight. He was on his knees, on either side of my thighs, and ran an arm under my waist, raising my hips and pelvis.

I yelped as he forced his way into my ass channel, thick and throbbing, stretching me there as he had just done in my cunt. As he began the thrusting rhythm of the ass fuck, I zoned out on whatever drug he'd given me again.

* * * *

Even before I woke up, I knew that the room was flooded with light—not warmth, because I was shivering from the cold—but flooded with light. The light was penetrating my closed eyelids. Before I opened them, I had been on the edge of dreaming and reality, my mind racing on finding Boomer and hustling him into the car to drive down the mountain—to escape the pounding of the old, fat, ugly, hirsute man—Franklin Gowen.

I opened my eyes to see that, sure enough, the room was flooded with light—but it was oh so cold. I was lying on my back on the bed in one of the log house's upstairs bedrooms. I was sore and still stretched in both cunt and ass. My legs were bent and spread. I felt crushed, as if there had been a heavy weight on my body, which there very likely had been. I hoped it had been Boomer, but something told me it wasn't. I was still groggy from the drugs, but they hadn't given me a headache.

The brightness in the room made my head ache a bit, though. Why was it so bright in the room? Struggling out of the bed and wrapping the blanket around my naked body for warmth, I struggled to one of the windows. White. White everywhere, reflecting the rays of the sun into the room. It had snowed. It had snowed a lot. It looked pretty deep out there. So, it did snow in July up here in the Rockies.

I looked around for my clothes, but they weren't anywhere to be seen. The blanket would have to do. I stumbled off into the en suite bathroom, reaching instinctively for the light switch. Nothing happened. The electricity was off. So, it was cold because there was no heat. No electricity means no heated water either, which I only realized after I was in shower and turned the water on. Needless to say, I didn't stay in the shower very long.

Drying myself off quickly, I wrapped myself in the blanket and went looking for my clothes—and, I hoped, Boomer—to make our getaway. I was mad at him for getting me to come up here for Gowen to fuck me, but what was done was done. I was confident that what I'd let the man do—have his titillating experience fucking a fully transformed male-to-female—made the $500 justified. Of course, I'd been drugged. It hadn't been "letting" him do it. But it was done, and I went with men, even ones wanting to experience doing a T-girl for the first time, so what the hell? But now I wanted to get off the mountain and out of the clutches of the disgusting old man.

Descending to the two-story living room, I found it much the same as I left it upon blacking out the previous night. A fire was still roaring in the massive stone fireplace—thankfully—a porn video was still running on the screen above the fireplace, and Franklin Gowen was still sitting on the sofa, facing the fireplace. The big difference was that in the nearly full-wall of windows beyond the living room, all was a white wonderland.

"There you are," Gowen said, his face turned to me. He was wearing his white terry cloth robe. The heat from the fireplace was radiating out enough to reach the sofa. There was enough firewood stacked next to the fireplace to take away any panic that the house's sole source of heat was in jeopardy. Anyplace else in the house other than the sofa was frozen-breath zone.

"Come, sit with me on the sofa," he said.

I didn't really have a choice if I didn't want to become an icicle.

"The electricity is off," I said, as I sat on the far edge of the sofa from him.

"Yes, it is," he said, as he slid a little closer to me.

"It has snowed."

"Yes, it has." He moved a little closer.

"Where's Boomer? We should be going."

"He went down to the town to get beer—before the snow and the loss of electricity. He won't be back until it clears a bit, my sure. It would be hard driving in this snow."

"We were going back down to Denver this morning," I said, looking around into the kitchen area and seeing to the two six packs of beer on the counter next to the refrigerator.

"My understanding was that you were staying the weekend," Gowen said. "This is the only warm spot in the house. Sit here, wrapped in your blanket. I'll get us some coffee going. That will help warm you up. There are other things we can do to heat up too."

That's what I was afraid of, I was thinking.

"I can't find my clothes. I need my clothes," I said, as Gowen rose from the sofa and moved his bulk into the kitchen alcove. "How can you heat up coffee?" I added.

"The stove is gas," he said.

"Here, drink this," he said when he'd waddled back from the kitchen. The sash of the robe was undone, the edge dragging on the floor behind him as he walked. The robe was flared open. He was naked, potbellied, hirsute, under the robe, and he was in erection. He sat down right beside me.