The Dairy State Boy

As a Senior in high school, I had fallen into a relationship with Christopher -- Kip to all of us -- Jackson, one of the stars of our powerhouse football team. But, it was a clandestine relationship, on the down low, him by day with Corrine on his arm and by night sneaking through my bedroom window.

After we graduated, we continued our affair, but it was still hidden from view, occurring only in the dark of my room after the world and its preying eyes had gone to sleep. Very little grows in the dark.

As the summer wound down, I felt Kip slipping through my fingers, like sands through the hourglass. For college, he was headed to a Division II powerhouse in Georgia, and I was headed to Carleton in Northfield, Minnesota.

He said we'd keep going, but I didn't think we could. I wanted to, but I was not enough for him in our small hometown, so I didn't know how it was possible I could be enough for him when we were separated by a 1,000 miles.

The boy on the side never has staying power. He gets tossed, the way three-day old tuna salad gets tossed.

Beyond that, it was the 80s, and long-distance relationships faced far greater challenges than they face today. Long distance was expensive, and cellular telephones, email, Facetime, and texting were years away.

It is almost impossible for Sunday night telephone calls and handwritten letters to maintain a relationship, much less one that didn't get air or sunlight.

It was in that context that my parents drove me north, to a small Minnesota town.

With each mile that passed under the tires of our Cutlass, my heart broke and scattered.

I was not naive. I didn't believe in "absence makes the heart grow fonder." I believed in "out of sight and out of mind." And, I believed that, out of Kip's sight, I'd be out of Kip's mind.

My beliefs were prescient.

I arrived in Northfield to a room already occupied by Wyatt Bridges, from Madison, Wisconsin, the only son of two UW professors who, to their dismay, eschewed the free Badger education to become a Knight, although we called ourselves Carls, not Knights.

Wyatt was built and sized like I expected from a Dairy State boy. He was 6'4", a half foot taller than me. He was solid and thick, but not fat. He had curly, thick brown hair that he made no effort to tame and that he kept long to cover his ears, which were like wings. When I first saw him, I thought "I bet he can hear everything." Almost immediately after, I thought "I bet those ears would make great handlebars."

Between his ears, Wyatt had bright brown eyes that were so light they were almost green, but weren't. They were the most open, untroubled eyes I'd ever seen. Instinctively, I knew he was without deceit or guile. He was he, his existence and affirmation of "here I am, I'm not complicated, I'm not troubled, I'm just me, for whatever that is worth or not worth, a dichotomy about which I do not care."

He was as comfortable in his own skin as anyone I had ever met.

He hid his eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. He was not fashionable; he didn't care.

He was careless with his glass, pulling them off from the front and tossing them here or there.

He had a five o'clock shadow that -- combined with the amount of hair on his arms and legs -- suggested he was hirsute. To my surprise, he wasn't. He had no hair on his back or his chest. His extremities were a contrast with his torso, his edges dark and hairy and mysterious, his base clean and clear and pure.

He had a uniform. In order, depending on the weather, he wore a Wisconsin tank, a Wisconsin tee, or a Wisconsin hoodie, always over cotton grey sweats that he pulled up over his calves.

My goodness, those grey sweats. They were relevatory.

When he left our room, he pulled on a red cap with a giant W emblazoned on the front. When it was cold, he replaced the cotton hat with a wool hat, still red and still bedecked with the giant W.

I like referents. For him, I've never found a better one than Go in "Getting Go." When I watched that movie so many years later, I saw Wyatt in the dancer, the soulful brown eyes, the thick lips, the broad smile and happy, pleased and pleasing face, the thick build. If not for the dancer's tattoos and hairy chest, I'd have been totally mind-fucked.

Wyatt was a contrast. He was big and thick, his hands the size of dinner plates, his feet the size of the boxes not the shoes, his ankles and neck and wrists as thick in diameter as they should have been in circumference.

He looked like a jock or a woodsman, but he was neither. Instead of football or rugby, he painted and wrote poetry. He didn't watch sports, much less play them. And, instead of chopping and hunting, he planted and was vegetarian, refusing to eat meat, no matter how it died.

He didn't take dairy in. He was from the Dairy State, but he was dairy-free.

He didn't drink or smoke or take drugs.

"I'm very purposeful about what I put in my body," he announced.

His academic parents were counter-cultural. They didn't own a television, much less watch one. Instead, they read books at night, aloud, the father, the mother, and the only chlild choosing in order and then reading their choice aloud, words, not pictures, floating around and surrounding them. Their images were in their minds, not their eyes.

They listened to music constantly. "Life without music is not worth living," he declared, unpacking his minimal belongings, sliding a classical CD into his CD player, and hitting play and then repeat. From that moment, there would be classical music in our room, around the clock, his Bach or Beethoven or Mozart or Schubert or any of a number of majesties on "repeat," playing over and over and over until he grew tried and replaced one with another.

Wyatt and I were in Evans, Carleton's most social hall. We were lucky, as we landed in a double, not a triple or a quad, and -- even better -- had one of the few private bathrooms.

Exercising his prerogative as the first to arrive, Bridges had chosen the bed by the window.

I took the bed in the corner and then displayed my desperate love of the Cardinals in my choice of bedding (bright red), wall hangings (all celebrating the most storied franchise in the National League), and throw rug (round and white, with the birds on the bat and "Cardinals" in script right down the middle). I was trying as hard as I could to "hetero" my side of the room, to hide me from him.

As I surveyed it, I knew it was a bit much. Wyatt thought so, too, calling me Redbird, which soon became simply Bird. In no time, everyone called me Bird, except Wyatt, who -- in the confines of our room -- called me Little Bird, the opposite of Sesame Street's Big Bird. I don't know how he got there, but I liked it. It was a secret we kept inside our room.

As days turned to weeks, I couldn't believe my luck. I hadn't for one second believed the detailed "roommate profile" I had completed would actually be used to match me with someone who fit me. But, it had.

"At home, everyone -- literally everyone -- calls me Beef," he told me, after we had hit it off.

"But you don't eat beef."

"I know."

For most of his life, Wyatt had been "Meat." But, when Porky's came out, his parents refused to allow the moniker to continue, not wanting the world to think they referred to their son according to the size of his penis.

Meat was short for Meathead, his grandfather's favorite character on All in the Family. His family followed his grandfather's lead, Wyatt became Meathead, and Meathead became Meat. When Meat couldn't continue, Wyatt became Beef.

From Beef's ubiquitous grey sweatpants, I could tell Meat would not have been an inapt nickname. He seemed extremely proportional, his sweats pulling and pushing in all the right places, the legs tight around his thighs, the back tight over his round ass, and the front revealing that he hung low and right.

Beef was not a weightlifter, but he was devoted to push ups and sit ups, and his body reflected the devotion. He was stacked.

I started doing push ups and sit ups with him. I wanted to get stronger. But, I also liked being with him, doing what he was doing. And, in all candor, I liked holding his feet as he did sit ups. When it was the end of the day, I could smell his crotch, the mixture of sweat and urine wafting up and teasing my nose.

I also started running with him. It was a great way to see Northfield and a better way to get to know my roomate, who insisted the proper running pace was conversational.

We talked and talked and talked, our runs getting longer by the day. We ran regardless of the weather, Beef explaining that Madison Winters were long, Summers were short, and Falls and Springs were shorter still.

"There's no such thing as bad weather," he scoffed. "Just inappropriate clothing."

* * * * *

"Is Kip your boyfriend?" he asked on one of our early runs, gobsmacking me.

"I think so," I answered, choosing candor over deception.

"That's not something you 'think', he either is or he isn't, and you know if he is or he isn't."

"He is," I answered, not sure I actually believed it.

"Cool.... I'm cool with whatever."

It struck me as an odd thing to say, as if he expected that I would wonder whether it was okay with him that I had a boyfriend. I had not wondered, my attempts at being "hetero" notwithstanding.

After a little more running, I asked how he knew.

"Friends don't talk like you two do, even best friends. I mean, I've been best friends with Craig since he moved next door when I was seven. And I mean 'best friends.' We did and shared everything together, even my girlfriend. But, we haven't talked much since I came here and he headed to Lawrence."

I figured Craig's Lawrence was in Appleton, not Yonkers. I was also filing things away for future exploration, especially "even my girlfriend." I'd press that point, but not there, not then.

That night, while we were studying, he announced into his book that he "tried it once. It wasn't for me."

"Tried what?" I asked.

"Dick," he answered, matter of factly.

"Oh," I replied, only one syllable available to me, stunned by the unnecessary admission but pleased by the trust it showed.

"I mean, how do you know it's not for you if you don't try it?"

I thought of Mikey and the commercial for Life cereal as he continued, his eyes now up and out of his book.

"So, I took a dick. It wasn't for me. I mean, it wasn't horrible, and I was really fucking good at it, because I'm good at everything I fucking do, but it wasn't for me. When I was done, I was 'I don't think I need to do that again'. And I haven't."

I was amused by the time he finished. The whole story had been performance art, the animation that accompanied his "I was really fucking good at it, because I'm good at everything I fucking do" risible.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, also laughing at himself.

"One, you're really funny. You tell a great story. Two, you seem way too big to suck a dick. I can't picture it."

Without skipping a beat, he hopped off his bed, dropped to his knees, and feigned sucking a dick, his mouth open, his head moving back and forth, his hands on imaginary hips.

"Yep, that's about it," I said, as he returned to his bed. "I can't believe you didn't like it. I can't believe anyone who tries it doesn't like it. The first time I did it I was like 'yep, that's for me'."

"Different strokes for different folks," he deadpanned.

"So, Richard Pryor was wrong."

"Probably, but I'm not sure what about."

"In his act, he cautioned straight men not to try sucking a dick because, if they did, they wouldn't stop."

"I stopped..... He was wrong."

"How do you know you were good at it?"

"Craig told me," he said, confirming what I suspected. "Plus, I could tell. He was all... 'Oh fuck.... Oh Attie.... Oh fuck.... I can't take much more.... Oh fuck.... Oh Attie.... Oh Attie.... Oh my God, Attie.... Yes.... Yes... Yes'."

He had moved to his feet, his head rolled back, his hands in imaginary hair, his body shaking, and his voice louder and louder as he feigned Craig's orgasm.

He wasn't, but I was hard as a rock, watching how that scene played out.

"Did he, you know, finish in your mouth?"

"It's the only place to finish."

"Did you swallow?"

"I'm not a fucker."

I was about to black out.

"I thought everyone -- literally everyone -- called you Beef," I said, changing the subject just a bit.

"Everyone but Craig. He has always called me Attie."

"Did he reciprocate?"

"It was a trade. We each took the other's dick. I went first. Once I had done it, he couldn't back out. When it was over, we agreed it wasn't for us."

"Was he any good?"

"Nah. He wasn't into it, and he didn't perform for the sake of the performance. It showed."

"You were into it?"

"If I'm going to do it, then I'm going to fucking do it. I don't half ass my shit."

"And you're good at everything you do."

"Everything I fucking do."

"Everything you fucking do."

"Yes."

"I'm really good at it, too."

"I'm sure I'll find out."

"You are?" I asked, surprise shooting up and out of me like a roman candle.

"I know how this story goes, Little Bird. Something'll happen, curiousity'll kill the cat, and you'll take my dick and my nut. And, I'll let you, because I fucking love having my dick and my nut taken. It is, in the history of my world, my favorite thing."

"Beef," I said, one of the only times I'd call him that, presently trading it for Craig's Attie, "you know I have a boyfriend."

"I do, but I also know you're going to take my dick and my nut, so I was just trying to take a little of the mystery out of it."

"I won't because I can't."

"You will because you can."

"I won't."

"When you see my dick, you will. It's a beauty."

"Show me."

"Nay nay, Sire. My dick is earned, not given."

* * * * *

When Attie and I weren't studying and talking, we were reading aloud to each other, like his family had. It was better than television.

We alternated choosing books. I don't recall them all, but I know: Attie started, choosing to re-read his favorite, "To Kill a Mockingbird." I followed, choosing my favorite, "Winter's Tale."

We went on and on like that, sometimes going theatrical -- "Doctor Zhivago" -- sometimes going autobiographical -- "Seven Story Mountain" -- but mostly going historical, reliving World War II through the words of David Ambrose and Vietnam thought David Halberstam. To my surprise, we took in the War for Independence through the eyes of "Oliver Wiswell," a British loyalist.

We also played cards, Attie teaching me games I had never played before: Gin, Gin Rummy, and Poker.

I liked it most when we were talking, whether when we were running or when it was just the two of us, our lights out, our voices filling the darkness, neither of us wanting our private time to be ended by sleep.

"So," I said one night, "tell me about this 'even my girlfriend' stuff." When he didn't immediately answer, I reminded him what he had told me about him and Craig and, I discovered, Mollie.

He clicked his light on and moved to my bed.

"Sit up and move back," he said, and I maneuvered myself against the headboard as he sat cross-legged in front of me. "So, Mollie and I started dating Homecoming Weekend of Senior year. She was a cheerleader. I was the football recruit that got away, in a way that someone who never considered trying out for football gets away. Anyway, we were at an after party playing stupid games, and she and I got two minutes in the closet. We were nervous. Neither of us had ever really kissed anyone. Anyway, when we started kissing, we couldn't stop. It was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was magic. When they finally got us out of the closet, we left. We walked to Lake Monona, started kissing again, couldn't stop, groped and stripped and ended up fucking on the water's edge. Neither of us had ever done anything, but -- that night -- we did everything. We had no choice. We had to. We had found our missing pieces."

"What did she look like?" I asked, my erection hidden by the pillow in my lap.

"My mother described her as a 'raven haired beauty'. She was right. Mollie had perfect hair, a perfect face, and a perfect body. At fourteen, she was far ahead of the other girls. I was lucky the bottle landed on me. But, what happened in that closet and after was magic, something we couldn't control."

I knew what he was describing. I was lucky Kip had identified me. But, what happened that first time and after was magic, something we couldn't control.

"Her parents knew it. After they met me for the first time, they arranged for her to get birth control. With nothing to worry about, we fucked and fucked and fucked. She wasn't like most girls, she wasn't afraid to admit she liked fucking.... We were together all year and we ended up fucking whenever we were together, every which way. She bought a book, and we started at the front and did it every way the book suggested was possible. When we were about to graduate, she asked if I ever wondered what it'd be like to fuck someone else. 'Sure,' I answered honestly. 'Me, too.' So, we fucked each other's best friends, NSA."

When my face registered "I don't know what NSA means," he explained "No Strings Attached."

"We were in the same house, me and Debbie in one room, Mollie and Craig in the other. Assuming it was my only shot at Debbie, I fucked her all night, neither of us sleeping. By morning, I was all fucked out. Going in, I had thought all pussies were the same. I was wrong. They're like dicks, each a little different from the other. Debbie's pussy was so much tighter and wetter than Mollie's. It was a totally different fuck."

"Your dick's out," I said, when he paused. He responded by winking at me, acknowledging he knew the head of his erection had poked out of the fly of his boxers.

"It was not my only shot at Debbie. Not long after, Mollie watched me fuck her. And I watched Craig fuck Mollie. Not long after that, Mollie and I had Debbie join us, all of my sexual dreams coming true in one debaucherous night, me watching them make out and then eat each other out and then totally 69 clit lick. I fucked them both from behind, moving hole to hole. The next week, Mollie and I had Craig join us. Mollie urged us to do things we wouldn't. Instead, we just tag teamed and spit roasted her, our desires focused on filling her."

"Your dick is leaking," I observed.

"I know.... I'm all horned up."

"You have a really nice dick."

"You're wrong. I have a perfect dick, not a nice dick. It's not too hot, it's not too cold, it's just right. That's why I call him Goldilocks, even though he's a boy. He's just right, long but not too long, thick but not too thick, centered and shapely, columnar and cylindrical. I could be a dick model."

He was right. He could be a dick model.

"You're staring, Little Bird. You can take it if you want."

"You'd really let me?"

"Of course. I want my dick taken. I don't care who takes it. Fuck, every time Mollie took it, it wasn't Mollie taking it. I'd close my eyes and it'd be some hot momma with big thick lips and, in my mind, a deep throat. Mollie disappeared, replaced by betterness. When Craig took it, I closed my eyes, and Craig disappeared, replaced by betterness... Cindy Crawford and her mole. When I close my eyes.... " His voice trailed off, his head shaking left and right. "I have a fecund imagination.... When lips are on my dick, they are never the lips that are on my dick."

"Did you come in Craig's mouth?"

"You know it. That's a must. If you take my dick, you've got to take my nut. You can't half ass that shit."

"What did she want you to do, Mollie, when it was you and Craig and her?"

I was so hard, I could have cut a diamond. Unlike Attie, I kept my hardness covered, my pillow still hiding me.