MY ELVISH BOYFRIEND (11)
By Dolphin Dan
The waning days of my long summer vacation in Varandikar, the elvish homeland, were filled with sex. I wasn't going to be there for very much longer, so Ernie and I tried to do it whenever possible, while still paying lip service to the fiction, for the benefit of his mother and sisters, that we were not lovers. We engineered some opportunities to fuck surrounding the doing of farm chores, which were greatly increasing as harvest approached. Ernie taught me to milk cows, and one afternoon during a milking session he came to check on my progress, leaned over and whispered that I should join him in the woods between the root barn and the graveyard so I could help him "carry firewood." The wood he had in mind was his dick, which was out of his pants when I reached the little thicket. He sat on a stump, spread his legs and I knelt down and sucked him to what sounded from the sighs and the little words he said was a very good orgasm. Later in the afternoon, in the animal barn, he sucked me. This was just one example of the stuff we did. There were evening sessions too, which tended to be more intense loving fucks, sometimes anal but not always.
We couldn't be together every night because it was too awkward for him to come to my guest bedroom in the farmhouse and we couldn't always stay in his retreat in the root barn. On these occasions I asked him if it was possible for him to give me a wet dream, like he did the last night we stayed in Belenta and possibly on at least one other occasion. "It is more difficult if you are not in the room," he told me. "But I will try." He also warned me that he couldn't control anything about the dream itself. That was up to my own subconscious. He knew a magic spell that would keep me asleep and another that would stimulate my penis, though possibly not as powerful as the spell in the hotel room in Belenta. I told him to try it.
The first night he tried this was very strange and it didn't work entirely. I didn't dream of him. In fact the context of the dream wasn't overtly sexual. I had an impression of sitting up against something, a surface that was colored green, but it was indistinct and I couldn't see what it was. It was moving, sort of rippling. In the dream I was naked and I felt what could have been a tentacle or some other appendage of the green surface reach out and grab my penis which was hard. In the dream (maybe in reality, in my sleep?) I said, "Oh, you want it to be like that, do you?" A pleasant rubbing motion began on my dick. It felt like fucking a hole lined with soft cool satin. But it was actually too slick and there wasn't enough friction. My dick got a pleasant massage but I didn't approach orgasm. I woke up some time later with a boner and guessed the dream was Ernie's attempt to get me off. I masturbated quietly and came in my underwear. Then I went back to sleep.
The next time, which was a couple of nights later (in between we were able to have actual sex in the root barn), he was more successful but the dream was very, very odd. He was in this dream. We were sitting around a pool on the deck of a resort or something. It was very sunny and people, mostly women, in bright swimsuits were diving in, swimming and such. I was laying on a towel on the pool deck, wearing swimming trunks. Ernie walked up to me, dressed like the first time I'd seen him years ago when he first came to Bellhampton High School, in acid-washed jeans and a faded OP T-shirt. He stood over me and began to unzip his jeans. His underwear was the fulsome "Commie shorts" he got rid of years ago. He pulled it down and took out his dick which was not hard. Then he told me to take my swim trunks off. I did, and my penis was throbbing at full staff. Ernie then proceeded, from a standing position, me laying down, to urinate on my dick in very short bursts. At first I was appalled, but the little splashes of piss were warm and stimulating. However, they got less forceful the closer I got to orgasm. At one point Ernie said, "I don't know if I can do it." I told him, please, just maybe two or three more will do it. A few more feeble dribbles of piss came from him. On the last one my dick quivered, I gasped and a very short but powerfully intense orgasm raked through me. I remained asleep through it and I don't recall how the dream ended. Perhaps it just ended there.
When I woke up it was morning and my underwear was soaking wet. I was really glad he'd achieved it and I told him that day that it had worked, but I skipped the details of the dream itself. I've never been into piss or watersports or anything like that; it's fine for the people who like it but it never interested me. So how or why the dream turned out that way I have no clue.
Finally, the dreaded day came: August 24, 1996, a Saturday, my last day in Varandikar, or at least my last full day and night at Ernie's family's farm. I honestly didn't know how I was going to cope without him. A couple of times throughout the visit we'd discussed the idea of him coming to visit me in the U.S., but it was never very serious. His mother and sisters needed him on the farm and in any event they didn't have much money so he couldn't afford a big international trip. Things would be different next summer, after I graduated from college, and there wasn't a very realistic chance that I would get to come back that soon. My heart ached with the thought of being apart from him. The worst thing was that our relationship was undefined. That day in Belenta he said he was "filled with rage" to hear about how I was with other guys in the three years since we'd last seen each other, but on the other hand he never said anything about expecting me to be exclusive to him (or vice-versa). He just didn't say anything. I think it hurt him to think about it, but our relationship was pretty much just going to end and that would be that.
Before that last day, August 24, Ernie and his family had been preparing for what he called a "ganoshka," which roughly translates in English to "send-off." If you have a valued guest in your home, it is Varandi tradition to throw a ganoshka the night before they leave. I knew little about it except Ernie told me there would be music, dancing and a great deal of food. He, his sisters Garaada and Cornuda and his mother worked hard to get ready. I know they slaughtered a lamb and a cow because one afternoon, the day before the party, I saw Ernie coming out of the animal barn, his leather apron covered with blood, carrying a huge machete. This image would be alarming if you didn't know Ernie and how he loved the land and the animals they raised there. Garaada milked cows and goats, plucked chickens and ground flour. Cornuda made cheese and churned butter. I helped as best I could, mainly hauling milk cans, delivering firewood (for real), and washing dishes. But the Varandi have a tradition that the guest of honor at a ganoshka must not work too hard to prepare for his or her own party.
I didn't realize until the afternoon of August 24 that Ernie had invited what seemed like half of Varandikar to the party. Guests started arriving at 11:00 AM. There were old men and women, younger couples with young kids, lots of families in homespun clothes, some who arrived in pickup trucks or cars from the 1940s or '50s. One family even arrived by horse cart--I'm not kidding you, this was 1996, five years before the end of the 20th century. Literally all were elves. I was the only boyach (non-elf) there. Long wooden picnic tables had been set up behind the farmhouse. The music, dancing and beer began at 4:00 PM. Ernie was still at the fire-pit he'd dug the day before near the barn, roasting an entire cow over a bed of coals that had been lit for 24 hours. I mean there was an entire cow on that rack--head, legs, tail and all. Ernie and Garaada had made a 55-gallon drum full of barbecue sauce (which Ernie told me contained 15 gallons of grain alcohol). They painted it on with the kind of paint rollers you use to paint a house. When it got dark the yard was ringed with torches stuck in the ground and candles were put on every table. It might have been 1000 years ago.
I wish I could communicate to you what this party was like but I can only give you glimpses. They laughed. They danced. They drank. The plates of food were endless, as were the im vyashods, the 64-ounce "bombers" of beer. Elves, especially Jewish ones, tend to lock arms and dance in circles, but invariably some very drunk guy gets in the center and starts doing Russian-style acrobatics. The barbecued cow was wheeled out on its rack, and everybody rushed it with their knives and plates, carving pieces off of it right onto their plates. Musicians took station with their guitars, flutes and balalaikas. Younger boys, age 8 or so up to about 15 fought and wrestled, with the men wagering additional im vyashods on the outcomes of matches. I myself won a bomber of beer betting on a boy who was apparently one of Ernie's younger cousins, fighting a young scrappy kid from Vychan. I had never seen people so cheerful, so eager to have fun. I was not the guest of honor. I was a minor character. My departure was merely an excuse to have this epic bacchanalia.
Finally there was a quiet moment. Ernie, quite drunk--and you must understand the staggering amount of alcohol it takes to get an elf drunk--got up in front of the guests and made a speech. I did not understand one word, as it was all in elvish, but he pointed to me a few times so I guess he was referring to me. Then Garaada handed him a guitar and he took a seat with the band, which included players of flute and balalaika, and they played a song that took me a while to recognize because with the traditional instruments it sounded very different. But when the guitar solo came I recognized instantly the melody of Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting." I almost burst into tears.
Slowly, very late, the party began to break up. Some people left, back to their villages and farms. Others pitched tents on the Maundelows' property to stay the night. I heard anecdotally that my ganoshka was the most epic party that Proscot had seen in 25 years, or possibly since the end of World War II.
Throughout this whole story I have been brutally honest with you and shared things that are tremendously private. The only thing in this tale I will hold out on, so to speak, is what happened between Ernie and I that night. I'll tell you this: I did spend the night in the root barn. And we did have sex. After all the bombers I'd consumed it's a miracle that I was still even conscious. And Ernie was three sheets to the wind, really the only time I ever saw him in less than total control. But I can't tell you what we did. It's too private, too beautiful. The memory of it is his and mine. The pleasure was immense, almost shattering my soul with its intensity. If the elves have an art they can bequeath to the body of human knowledge, it's definitely sex, and especially homosexual sex. And I, a geeky and unremarkable boyach from Washington state, got to experience it. He spoke some words to me too, which he made me promise never to reveal to any other human being, not even on my deathbed. I wish I could tell you what happened, but I can't.
The next morning Ernie was sick. I woke up and found him in his bedroom in the root barn on all fours, throwing up into a huge porcelain bowl. It was not the alcohol. It was the idea of me leaving, which he couldn't handle. In the early morning, which was surprisingly cool and misty, I packed up my belongings and loaded them into the pickup truck. Garaada would drive me an hour to Vychan and then I'd take a train to Belenta and stay in a hotel there for the night, because the first leg of my flights back to the U.S. would leave at 5:00 in the morning.
Garaada was a woman of few words. She said almost nothing on the drive to Vychan. Just before I got out in front of the train station she took something out of her pocket, a small piece of paper folded in fourths, and thrust it into the pocket of my jeans. Her English was very poor. She said: "I write on zis paper the day my brother will die. He does not know it, and no one vill tell him, but I see it. You must see him von more time before zis. Promise me you vill."
I answered unhesitatingly: "I promise."
I was very scared of the little paper she gave me. It was in my pocket but I couldn't touch it until the next day, after I'd been through customs and was on the first leg of my flights out of Varandikar. Elves do have precognitive powers; Ernie knew the date of his father's death exactly, before it happened. I didn't doubt that Garaada knew when Ernie was going to die. I'm not sure I wanted to know, but she obviously wanted me to.
When I was on the second leg of my long trip, the 10-hour flight from Frankfurt, Germany to Chicago O'Hare, I finally couldn't take it anymore and took the little square of paper out of the pocket of my jean shorts. The stewardess had just served dinner and I ordered a beer. I took a swig to steel myself before unfolding the paper. My hands were shaking. The plane was over Greenland, its glaciers, already melting from global warming, shimmering in the bright yellow sun.
Garaada had written on the paper: "JUNE 28, 2012."
Conclusion to come...
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