An Idaho White Bird by R. Nikolaus Merrell
The valley is two thousand feet deep.
To the east rise the wild Bitterroot mountains. Heavily forested and hardly populated.
To the west, and above, lie the prairie wheat fields, rich land, populated by the descendents of stable German Swiss, a wealthy people, large, tall and blonde, Catholic, tight families, extremely moral and ultra-conservative.
In vivid contrast to the wealth above, the workers in the valley are mainly workers in the forest, loggers and laborers in the lumber mills, people who move around a lot, far from stable, enjoy the bars and taverns, and frequent the two whore houses, one up the river and one down. And the people are radically different, too, a mixture of many kinds of whites, quite a few Indians and a mixture of both who, like me, are dark.
And it's Idaho, in the 1950s, with the most severe laws of all the states, if caught in any act of homosexually, loosely-defined, could mean life in prison.
It was a warm Spring night, almost a full moon, and our high school was hosting a basketball tournament. I was fifteen - not quite sixteen - and a volunteer at the soda pop stand. Wanting a quick Camel cigarette I stepped outside the gymnasium onto the darkened sidewalk. As I lit up a rowdy group of young prairie kids - probably eighth graders - passed. They stopped and one of them, the tallest, in a voice that had obviously just changed, snickered, "I have an extra- special cigar you can smoke - a `White Bird'."
I was tempted to flip him an extra-special middle-fingered "Dark Bird", but instead, I ignored him. A buddy next to him laughed and the others joined in. They turned and continued pushing each other down the sidewalk.
Later, this same "White Bird", his buddy, and whole group passed in front of the stand. They were what I expected - prairie, extremely white, blonde and blue-eyed. But White Bird was more than just prairie. In the light of the gymnasium he moved totally cock-sure of himself, obviously an athlete, a little awkward from too much new growth, but fascinating to watch. He was slightly taller than the others and carried a bit more muscle, too. Obviously popular, he was talking and laughing with the others as they churned along. But what was striking, even from the distance, was that he was not merely good-looking, but early in his youth he was already changing into extremely good-looking. Later, the prairie was sure to lose him to magazine fashion photos or even to Hollywood. His buddy not so much. He was shorter, stockier, cute enough but not in White Bird's league.
As his group surged closer White Bird's eyes caught mine then quickly darted away. I decided to ignore him, but my definitely not so white "bird" was pressing, hard and unbidden, against my 501s. But there was no way that the self-proclaimed "White Bird" could ever be separated from his group, or even if alone . . . And just before I could quit building on such an impossible fantasy and could force my eyes somewhere else he looked my way again. He was watching me.
I decided to dismiss all danger and moved to the far front corner away from the other volunteers and I called softly, "Hey, White Bird". He and his buddy exchanged looks. His buddy shook his head "No", but White Bird separated from the crowd, came over and was immediately followed by his buddy.
I checked White Bird up close. Wheat colored hair cut conservative, sky-blue eyes, beautiful smile, white teeth, full pink lips. A perfect budding specimen of pure white male beauty.
"You still offering that White Bird?" I asked.
His smile faded and he looked back at me, forehead slightly furrowed, questioning, quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. Obviously now on the defensive, he was unsure of himself, was trying to avoid a confrontation. His cheeks flushed and began to match the pink of his lips. I waited, hoping he would again make his offer. "I was just joking," he finally said.
"You're sure?" I checked his package. His chinos were loose but there was a noticeable swell. My guess, for his age he was well-packed. "Maybe you don't really have this `White Bird'."
Suddenly he relaxed his rigid stance and broke into an easy smile, obviously surprised, but seemingly delighted by the challenge of some risky banter. He reached down and brushed himself. Then with an even larger smile said, "Oh, I have one alright .. . It's just that I keep it guarded, tucked away from danger. I keep it safe in its package."
"Or," I countered, "maybe it's not that interesting, Too small. Maybe you keep it in its package because it needs to age more, still needs more time to ferment, grow a bit until it's big and smokable."
"Oh, its aged and fermented enough and plenty big and smokable. It's you who's not old enough . . ."
His group pushed in, interrupted. "Come on. We want to go downtown."
"Go ahead," White Bird said. "We're staying here."
One of them objected, "But we have to stay together."
"No, you guys go ahead, just stick with each other. You'll be alright."
"Well . . . OK." They left, pushing through the crowd.
"You're their boss?" I asked him.
Buddy interrupted. "He's our team captain."
White Bird glared at Buddy, turned to me and said, "He talks too much."
"What team?" I asked Buddy.
"Basketball. Junior high." He continued, "For football, too. He's our captain for both."
"Anyway," I turned back to White Bird. "What's this about everybody sticking together? You think they're going to get beat-up, murdered or something even worse?"
Buddy jumped back in. "No, but everybody knows really bad things happen down here. People do things they shouldn't do. So our folks gave permission so we can come on the bus. But everybody has to stay together."
"Oh? People do things? What kind of things?"
White Bird jumped back in. ""Like you, for instance. You're too young to smoke."
"You know that's not true. You saw me doing it." I re-checked his package. He was definitely growing. And his growth was affecting me. I was pressing painfully against my now far-too-tight Levis and I, brazenly, in front of him, gave myself a big squeeze and a definite brush. "And sometimes I see someone and I begin thinking of something bigger than just a cigarette, something different, more powerful, tastier . . . "
White Bird smiled, stood a little taller. "You better stick with cigarettes. A White Bird is too big and strong for you. You'd just cough and choke and . . . "
A customer wanted a Coke. I served him. Buddy pulled on White Bird, looked nervous. "Come on. You guys are talking crazy, and I have to take a leak."
I quickly challenged him. "Can't you go by yourself? Too scared?"
White Bird answered for him. "No. We stay together." As they left White Bird turned back, his eyes still questioning. He slightly shook his head, obviously wondering, is this just innocent banter or could it be real?
Not too long later, there was a lull in business. The other volunteers were back at the rear of the stand chatting, and White Bird was back followed by his buddy. They ordered Cokes. I set their Cokes on the counter. They each took a long swig and set their bottles down.
White Bird began, "We were wondering . . . talking . . ." He dwindled off.
Buddy broke into his silence. "Our bus goes back right after the games, and he says that you're dark and . . ."
"Shut up!" White Bird ordered.
But Buddy kept on, ". . . And he says this might be our only chance . . . "
"I told you to `Shut up!'" White Bird said. "It's just that . . . we were wondering. . . what we were wondering about is, if you were just joking about smoking a White Bird. Or if maybe you were really serious."
"What do you think?"
"I'm not sure, but I don't think you're joking. I think you might really want a White Bird."
"And if I do?"
"Maybe you could have one."
"But what would you do about Buddy here. He can't even take a leak alone."
"He's more than my buddy. He's my cousin."
"Oh?"
"And we both have White Birds."
"Wow." I looked at Buddy who suddenly has become Cousin.
"He's right," Cousin said. "I have one, too, but you wouldn't ever tell anybody. Right?"
"What would I tell? That I smoked a White Bird?"
I returned to White Bird. "This changes things a lot. Tell me more about these White Birds. Have they been already been smoked?"
"No, but we're with each other a lot. And then we kind of help each other out."
"Taste each other's bird? Tongue a bit?"
Cousin butted in. "We're not like that. We'd never do something like that."
White Bird dismissed him, smiled again, checked right and left, reached down and stroked himself, shifted back to banter. "Nothing more than handled. Both of ours have only been unwrapped and inspected. They are absolutely virgin fresh and have only been handled, never smoked. Never licked or tasted."
He locked his eyes on mine and brought his long pale fingers up to the counter, grabbed and fondled his Coke bottle, moved his hand slowly and began to stroke up and down. I reached across, covered his fingers with mine, helped him, caressed both his fingers and his bottle, helped him stroke up and down. He broke his gaze, quickly looked again both ways, checking. Still no one was watching. Satisfied his left hand covered mine and then I completed our weird hand grasp with my left hand and we completely covered his Coke bottle with our tangle of hands and fingers. I could feel his pulse as the blood of our fingers, our hands, pounded against each other.
He pleaded with his eyes. "Please? After the games our bus is going back. We only have right now and we really want it. You will? OK? Both of us?"
I squeezed our hands together, hard against the bottle, my owl had grown too hard against my Levis, and I reluctantly withdrew. "In ten minutes I'm going up the slope to the high school. Under the eves it's dry and almost dark. I might want to try smoking a White Bird." I looked at Cousin ". . . and if you're not too scared, maybe two."
Cousin couldn't keep quiet, begged, "Can't you go right now?"
I glanced to the back. "First, I need to give them notice."
And after they left I opened my matchbook and wrote down my number.
As I walked up the moon-lit slope, under the eves I could make out their forms in the semi-darkness. When I reached them I slowly and tentatively hugged White Bird. Cautiously, he put his arms around my back. He thrust forward a bit and our packages found each other, rubbed and pushed and I moved my lips toward his mouth for a kiss. He jerked and turned away fast. A kiss was not part of the smoke. We rested cheek to cheek for a moment, then he slipped his hands from my back and down to the fly of his chinos.
"No," I told him and pulled his hands away. "It's mine. I get to unwrap it."
Falling to my knees and unbuckling his belt, I zipped down his fly, lowered his chinos to his knees. The tail of the shirt hid his package. Carefully I unfastened the lowest buttons, pulled the shirt apart, and dove toward the White Bird now only wrapped in a humid, slightly moist and salty, and delightfully male-fragranced undershorts of white cotton. I mouthed him right through the cloth. The size of his White Bird was everything I'd hoped for, not overly thick, but was plenty long enough, and below, tucked into his package, lay two unadvertised prizes, a pair of eggs. I gave both eggs a loving squeeze and, right through the cloth, ran my tongue up the swell of his bird and pulled the cotton down to rest on top of his chinos.
And there it stood.
Even in the shadow of the moon-light his bird and bag of eggs were white, startling white, as if never opened to the sun, always hidden. Naked in its beauty it was shaped like a torpedo, the cap completely covered and faintly blunted. And the aroma - it was a hint of sweet, spicy, slightly fermented juices and aged perfectly. He grabbed my head, pulled me forward. Opening my lips, and using my tongue and teeth I pushed at his covering and slid it over the cap.
Slipping my hands behind him, I grabbed his tight, muscular butt then opened my mouth wider and pulled his bird inside. He reached the beginning of my throat. He was hot, white hot, and I took him further and swallowed. He was juicy, beyond juicy. Behind, I slowly parted his cheeks, searching deep inside his larger package, and my finger found his back entrance, discovered its furrows, played with the gentle ridges. He leaned back against my finger but he was too tight and dry to enter.
Beside us Cousin had already unwrapped his package, and his cotton packing lay tucked beneath his eggs. Impatient, he was jerking at his bird. Like his cousin, his eggs, bird, and flailing fist were white in the mostly darkness. Breaking away from White Bird, I turned to Cousin and swatted his hands away, not wanting him to finish himself and deprive me of his promised smoke.
Although his bird appeared to be the same whiteness as White Bird's it was shaped very different, was thicker, but shorter, and the cap was not that of a blunted torpedo but more of a mushroom. It was already wet, but I moistened it further, and with a long lick I sucked it in, then reached around to his meaty butt. Immediately he grabbed my hands and pulled them back to his front. I had trespassed, entered forbidden territory. But he was hot, smoking white hot, too, and suddenly my smoke was ending as he filled my mouth again and again with a surprising sweetness. He backed away and reached down and immediately began to re-pack his bird.
White Bird reached over and pulled me back. I replaced my hands on his butt and my finger dug again to his furrowed entrance. Chattering gently with my front teeth I ran down the full length of his bird to his eggs, licked them. Inhaled one, then inhaled the other, then filled my mouth with both. Loudly, I began to hum in satisfaction and above me he almost danced in surprise, then yanked my head up and shoved me back down on his blunt end, but he shoved way too fast and way too hard. I choked and coughed. Above me, he softly laughed. I responded with a gentle, but warning bite, and began again, losing myself, up and down, falling into a trance for, what I hoped would be, a long, delicious, leisurely smoke of his cured, delightfully aged and personally fermented White Bird.
But Cousin poked him. "Hurry."
"No. Shhh."
"We have to get back. The bus might be loading."
"No!"
Then Cousin was behind me, pushing and pulling on my head, trying to force me to go faster.
Instead of giving into temptation and slugging him, I gave up, backed off a bit, then covered my teeth with my lips, gave White Bird a couple of good gnaws and two good licks on his blunt end. Above me, he knocked Cousin's hands away and pulled on my head. Then he shoved his bird back to my throat and with "ya, ya, ya" he bathed me in what I was sure was flowing white hot lava. My smoke had ended.
Swallowing only a tiny bit of his juices I stood up and he clung to me.
Cousin begged at him. "Hurry! Come on."
"No. You go on back. He's going to smoke me again."
"But . . . "
"Go on. Stick with the others. Don't argue. And don't come back. Leave. Now!"
When Cousin left White Bird surprised me. He reached down, pulled up his shorts and chinos, tucked in his shirt and refastened his belt. Fully clothed, he grabbed me again and pulled me close, cheek to cheek.
"I want to tell you something," he said. "This is a secret. No one knows. I've been thinking about smoking for awhile, but I don't think about smoking my cousin or any of the others. I keep thinking of smoking something that's really different, something darker, toasted, well-fermented, something in a really different package and mysterious and cured and that probably would taste really different. Something people would say was really wrong and really dangerous."
Inside my 501s my bird was trying to break free, straining against its tight packing. I pressed hard against him, nibbled on his ear and he shuddered. He reached down and began lightly stroking me. "Then when you lit that match by the sidewalk and you were so dark and really good-looking and you were breaking the law and you looked really dangerous and like someone I've been imagining and I wondered . . . Something like this . . ." His fingers tightened around me. I was painfully hard. "Then in the gym you were looking at me . . . "
"If you really want to smoke," I said. "It's yours."
He dropped to his knees, undid my buckle and top button. Tore open my 501s, lifted up my shirt tails, and thrust down my shorts and Levi's. Unlike his, my bird wasn't visible in the darkness, but as his face rose higher my bird showed against his white cheeks and his pink lips, then he found me. Behind, his hands formed around my butt and in front my bird slipped inside his lips. He followed my earlier path on his own. Teeth and lips over the cover, sliding over the cap which isn't the mushroom of Cousin but neither the straight blunt torpedo of his. He tongued beneath the cap and sent chills up and down my spine. Then he almost engulfed my entire bird letting it hit at the beginning of his throat, and he coughed slightly, coating it with precious, slippery mucous. "Slowly," I said. "Take your time. Enjoy your smoke."
I was about to lose it. Usually, I'm in better control but I was too excited and he was too enthusiastic. I pulled him away. "Listen," I said. "I'm close. I'm about to explode and when I do don't swallow. Stand up and give it to me." For a moment he paused and I thought he had rejected my plan, but then he returned to his smoke with even more enthusiasm. And then, as I was sure was about to happen, I lost control and I bathed and bathed and bathed his throat and mouth.
Quickly I pulled him up and he hung against me. We opened our mouths and exchanged the steaming liquid of our hot smoking birds, our tongues battling, dancing, entering the hidden caves and crevices our birds had been too excited and too swollen to explore. And back and forth we mixed the spicy fermented flavor of our birds, continuing salivating, tonguing together, stirring the juices of our smokes.
He groaned and broke our kiss. "I'm addicted," he announced. "This is so much better than I imagined. I don't want it to ever end." He reached around and found my butt again. "But I have to go. The bus . . . "
I began pulling up my clothes which soon turned into a tangle of hands and fingers as he attempted to help. Clothed, we put our arms around each other, and our hands fell to each others behinds. He again began delightfully clawing at my butt and I joined him, clawing back at his.
"You know," I told him, "there are other ways to enjoy our birds."
"I know." His fingers dug at my Levis, and he separated my cheeks. "I've been thinking about them. A lot."
"I want to get together again," I said.
"Me, too, but I don't know how," he said. "We're different. People would ask questions about why we're together. They might wonder how we met."
"I have an idea. Maybe even a plan. Do you ever go camping?"
"With my family. We go camping and fishing every summer before harvest."
"Here." I reached in my shirt pocket and handed him my matchbook. "My number is inside. Call me and tell me which campground you're going to and I'll camp on a site close by and we can go on a hike and we'll disappear into the forest. You said you like mystery, dark adventure. We can turn our birds loose and they can fly and we'll be wild and free."
"Yes! That'll work because everybody knows I like hiking and exploring better than fishing. I'll call you for sure, but . . . this is really weird to admit," he said. "When I call you - if somebody else answers - I don't even know your name."
"It's Jayden, Jay. And yours?"
"Victor, Vic."
Another deep good-bye kiss and he tore himself away. "I have to leave. But please, please promise me." He held up my matchbook. "This summer."
"Yes," I said, "I absolutely promise. This summer."
In 1955 far to the south in the state capitol of Boise a huge investigation of suspected homosexual activity began. It lasted two years, and fifteen were found guilty and sentenced from probation to life in prison. About 1,500 people were questioned which included at least 100 teen-age boys.