OF DANE AND CORNFIELDS

I arrive at my gate at about a quarter past six, and there aren't that many people there yet for the seven o'clock flight. Not surprising -- most people on the plane will be passengers scheduled for the previous night's flight, but who missed it because of weather-delayed connections, like me, and like me they'll be pretty dog-tired -- I'm only in there that early because I didn't know how long it takes to get by train from downtown Chicago to O'Hare, this being my first (and unexpected) visit to the city, so I asked the hotel to wake me at five just in case -- so I look around, and most seats are empty, and for those that aren't there's a bit of a pattern to how they're occupied -- rows of four seats face each other, and people have chosen seats in a knight's move sort of arrangement, one row across and two seats along, so they don't invade each other's personal space. I see a spot near the gate -- duffle bag on the seat diagonally across, probably means the person who owns it is sitting on the other side, so I can just doze in my own space until it's time for boarding.

A few minutes later I find I was wrong, as the bag's owner sits next to me. I'm not sure why: maybe it's that it was his seat before, and he's kind of tired and just thinking he wants to sit in his own seat; maybe the whole personal space thing is just something in my own head, partly influenced by being from New Zealand -- I've found, travelling, that everyone else has a smaller personal distance than I'm used to, and especially around the Mediterranean people would lean in closer and closer in conversation, which felt weird at first, and I'd find myself edging away, but I'm now getting used to it; or maybe it's some other thing, or no reason at all, but I'm too tired to think about it. So I just look up, and smile, and say "hey," and he says "hey there" back. Could be worse, I think -- my first impression is that he's nice-looking, in a scruffy sort of way (not that I look my best shortly after sunrise) -- but it's still vaguely uncomfortable, and since I'm sitting next to him I don't get the advantage of scenery. Maybe I should move -- I sat near his bag, invading his space -- on the other hand, actually moving would look pretty rude -- and then I think, Ah fuck it, I'm tired and can't be bothered even standing up, and if he's really uncomfortable he can move.

Time passes, I'm reading about the Spanish conquest of Mexico, it gets to five minutes to seven and there's still no boarding call, and then there's an announcement that the flight's been delayed, and I and the guy next to me groan simultaneously; he gets up, and I think that he's going to move now that we have to wait longer, but he just wanders off, leaving his duffle bag on the seat where it's been since I arrived. Bathroom visit, I guess -- he comes back a short while later, I look up and smile, noticing a bit more about him -- buzz-cut hair, about a number two comb in length, short beard which is more like neglecting to shave for two weeks, sweatshirt, jeans, one of those necklaces made of wooden beads that's tight around the throat -- and he sits down again. And shortly after that comes another announcement, that the flight's been delayed again. He groans again, and I laugh -- I'm pretty tolerant of airlines, but American Airlines really is hopeless, with this on top of the debacle of the previous evening, where there wasn't even a helpdesk to confirm whether we'd missed connections, or to help rebook, or even to explain where to go -- and I decide it's my turn to get up and go for a walk. I look for some breakfast, and find a Mrs Fields cookie store, and buy a juice and four of the cookies, figuring I can offer him one, and then things will feel less awkward; I'm normally reasonably friendly, but actually being polite and making any words come out of my mouth is feeling like way too much effort after so little sleep, so maybe a cookie will be an adequate substitute.

I come back and offer him a cookie, which he declines with a smile.

"Are you sure? They're gooood," I say in a conscious imitation of my parents speaking to a five year old.

He smiles again, wider, and says no, and so I sit, and the space feels more companionable than before; but I'm still surprised when, a few minutes later, he actually begins a conversation and asks why I'm going to Cedar Rapids. I grimace a bit inside -- I know the glazed look I'll get -- and decide I'll go for the really superficial explanation.

"I'm off to a conference at the University of Iowa, on algebraic techniques in gene sequencing."

The expected blankness.

"You know the Human Genome Project? How they've already mapped the genes for this type of fly, and now there's a race to map a person's genes? Since the parts in the genes aren't random, there's work going on to use algebra to describe the sorts of patterns that are allowed in genes, and that's what I do." Only very sort-of, but it's short, I figure lots of people know about the Genome Project, and I've always been afraid that talking about synchronisation of generative grammars would give someone an aneurysm one day.

"Mmm."

"How about you? Are you a local?" I ask, to remove the pressure that seems to compel people to respond "That's interesting" even while their eyes look like small trapped animals'.

"Yup. I'm just going back for a few days, and then I'm driving a truck down to Texas."

He doesn't look like a truckdriver.

"My grandfather lives down there, and I'm taking a dredge down there for him."

He tells me a bit more about himself, that he's a student in construction engineering at Western Illinois University; and he asks me where I'm from -- guesses England, but so does almost everyone in the US -- and I tell him about Auckland and New Zealand in general; and then he tells me some more about Iowa too, what Iowa City's going to be like, what places there are to go and see bands -- I'm feeling like seeing one, and it seems like an American college-town thing to do -- or just to hang out: I get some tips from him on places, Gabe's being the main one; he was at UIowa for a while, and so knows it pretty well. Soon I can't remember why I didn't feel like talking.

As we're talking, another announcement comes over, saying that the delayed flight's been cancelled, and we'll need to rebook. This time we both laugh, and as we go to stand in the queue he tells me that he actually slept at the airport last night, on a cot, but they packed the cot at four in the morning, so he's not feeling very positive about American.

A bit of silence, the queue inches forward, then he asks me about rivers in New Zealand. For a second it seems out of the blue, but then I think of his construction and dredging background, and can see that it's more than just skin-deep, not just something he does to earn money like so many of my friends did accounting or computing. So I tell him the little I know about Whanganui River; and he tells me more about his engineering; and when I ask he tells me that his father is also in construction, and he works for him, when he's not studying I guess.

"And you're taking a dredge to your grandfather ... so the whole dredging thing is a bit of a family tradition then?"

"Yup."

"Algebraic techniques in gene sequencing isn't a family tradition for me." Just a reflex joke, but he smiles a smile that makes me wonder at first if I have indigestion -- it's been a long time since I've felt this, and this is an airport, it's completely unexpected -- and then I realise that it's just my chest suddenly constricted, and he's gone from nice-looking to beautiful in a second -- the dark eyes, the short hair coming to a slight V at the front, but mostly the smile -- and I feel like I must have been asleep and not noticing anything all the morning.

"By the way, my name is Ian," I say.

"Dane."

Dane! It sounds like he should be the hero of a romance novel, or the lead in a soap opera. I think it's a great name.

Then he tells me that his father is collecting him at Cedar Rapids airport, and it'll be no trouble for them to give me a lift, since they're going through Iowa City anyway. I don't know if he's just being polite, but I'm still a bit dazed from the smile, so I accept. He also says he can give me contact details for some of his friends in Iowa City so I can hook up with them -- I'd much rather hook up with him, I think -- but we get to the counter before anything is sorted out, and rebook our flights.

We leave the counter at different times, and when I do he's talking to someone else. The body language suggests it's someone he knows and is friendly with, and it's not the sort of person I'd have guessed to be one of his friends -- someone large, really large, maybe 300 lbs, and androgynous, and shy-looking -- I feel like I realised later than everyone else that people tend to hang around with people as attractive as they are, that that's often what governs what they're interested in in life generally, whatever their equi-attractiveness circle is doing; and Dane is cute, so I'd put him as hanging around pretty much only with attractive bar-going friends; it's nice to be shown to be wrong with presuppositions like this.

He's still talking to this person, so I start walking over to the new gate that we've all been redirected to. Maybe his offer of a ride was just a polite nothing, along the lines of "We must catch up." Maybe I'll mention it to him at the end of the flight; it's an excuse to talk to him again anyway. I end up at the gate, and sit down, and start reading more about the fall of Tenochtitlan.

I'm deep in the story when I hear a "Hey, pardner," and it's unexpectedly him. Both he in general, and the "pardner" in particular, make me smile.

"So tell me more about this math you do." I see he's not afraid of an aneurysm.

"Do you know Noam Chomsky?"

"No sir!" This time I want to laugh out loud, it's such a cute turn of phrase; I have a vision of an army of midwesterners no-sirring each other. On rare occasions when students I've tutored have called me sir I've found it funny, and Dane is older than them, I'm guessing maybe four years younger than me. But I don't laugh; I don't want him to think I'm making fun of him.

So I skate through Chomsky and compilers and formal language theory, checking all the time to see when I'm reaching the boredom threshold, but he keeps asking questions so I keep talking. At the next announcement of a delay we wander over to the window next to the gate, to see if the plane's even arrived from Cedar Rapids, and it hasn't; and segue into talking about music -- he's been in a few bands, plays the violin, harmonica, and harp, and sings -- he seems endlessly talented.

"Are you still part of a band?"

"I've just found a couple friends who're interested ... who knows, maybe this time something'll get off the ground ... the last lot were pretty much just boozehounds." I can see there's reminiscence behind the smile. My smile's again for the way he talks; I really do like it.

I mention I played keyboard for about ten years, so the conversation goes to types of music we learnt, both starting classical and branching out.

Then -- maybe there's been a miraculous intercession of the Virgin -- the plane actually arrives, and we board. We're not sitting together, but I figure we'll see each other after.

The plane lands in Cedar Rapids, with me waking shortly before the wheels touch the tarmac, having slept for most of the short flight, and just seeing the edge of the cornfields as we touch down. Leaving the place, I wander towards the baggage claim area, stopping at a bathroom on the way. When I get to the baggage, Dane's already there, already talking to his dad. They don't look at all alike -- his dad is more solid, with a rounder face, and balding -- but they have a closeness that's immediately apparent. I raise my hand as a tentative hello, feeling like I'm interrupting, probably because I am.

Dane's dad's shakes my hand. "I'm Bill, I hear you had a rough evening."

"At least I had a hotel room. Dane got a much worse deal."

Dane's bag comes round, and then mine, and Dane's dad -- Bill -- says, "The truck's just parked outside," and offers to carry my backpack -- I'd guessed Dane had told him before I got to the carousel that he'd offered me a lift, but I was just hanging around a bit uncertainly in case I was wrong -- and out into the carpark we go.

Dane and his dad talk about local stuff on the way -- Susie who's just come back to town, and John and Tammy who've just gotten married, and Dane's grandfather -- with both of them giving occasional commentary to explain who's who so I don't feel left out.

We get to the pick-up -- big, and clearly a real work vehicle -- and climb in, with me sitting in the front seat next to Bill, and Dane in the back. As we're leaving the carpark, Bill gets out some photos, and shows me the dredge that Dane will be taking down to Texas. They're both pretty proud of it; they built it themselves. I'm pretty impressed too, since I'd have no idea how to even go about building anything mechanical from scratch. Then they start talking about cars, so I switch myself into guy-mode and talk about cars too. Not something that excites me greatly -- but for Dane and his dad it's clearly one of those topics that's more about sharing a family closeness, and I'm grateful for the lift and their friendliness, and don't want to sit there silently standoffish -- and I did play around with my first car, so at least I know a carburettor from a muffler -- so I join in. They also tell me more about Iowa -- mostly Bill does -- Dane has to lean in close to me to make himself heard, which I don't mind in the least -- if I turned my own head my lips would nearly touch his cheek. He smells good.

As we get close to UIowa, I suggest buying them lunch, as thanks for the lift, if they're not in too much of a hurry. They say yes, and I'm happy.

After a tour around Iowa City to get me oriented, lunch is at the Fajita House. I was worried I might blow my budget, but it doesn't look like I will here. The waitress brings drinks, and almost as soon as she does I, as usual gesticulating while talking, knock mine over. I apologise a lot -- I'm tired, and particularly clumsy, I say -- which is true and not true, I'm pretty clumsy anyway, and now I feel like Dane's about to realise, Aha! Ian's concealing the nervousness of an infatuated teenager. But he doesn't, and says not to worry about it; and when the waitress comes back, he flirts with her outrageously with his smile, asking for napkins:

"Maybe a couple dozen extra, just in case there's another, um, earth tremor."

As if he were already a friend I kick him under the table, and he makes a big display of mock woundedness.

As lunch is arriving Dane and his dad are talking small-town again, about Jody, whose mother's just died, quite young as well. Dane's sad for her, and sad that he hasn't really kept in contact to know this.

"When was the last time you saw her?" asks his dad.

"Don't know. Maybe a year ago." Pause. "I didn't like the fellas she was hanging around with. They were trouble."

He seems uncertain what more to say, but it's clear there's some relationship. I raise my eyebrows in polite curiosity, genuine but I don't want it to seem like I'm being prurient.

"She's my ex-girlfriend."

I start recalibrating the likelihood of any assumptions I've made about potential interest on his part. But the main thing, that I'm enjoying his company, is still there and unaffected; it's still been a worthwhile plane delay.

Dane changes the topic, and talks about where he's travelling to next.

"Have you been to California?" I ask, since he's just come back from Oregon, and California's one place in the US I've actually had a chance to visit so far.

"No; I just visit where I have friends. So there are lots of places where I haven't been yet ... Australia's one of them. But I've got a friend there now." And he smiles at me, and reaches across the table to shake hands with me. He has nice hands too. My brain is starting to get faintly appalled at how happily liquid-honey-like this makes my stomach feel.

Then they take me to my accommodation at UIowa. Dane and I swap email addresses, and I wave goodbye from the steps.

The conference is a mixed affair, as most are: some good talks, some where I do possibly the most intricate doodling I've ever doodled. But overall it's interesting, particularly the talk by a famous Romanian academic, who also turns out to be unexpectedly funny; unexpected partly because he doesn't tend to put jokes in the middle of his work on tree automata and higher-dimensional morphisms, and partly because after years of old black-and-white Cold War movie reruns I guess I've subconsciously learnt to associate Eastern European accents with complete humourlessness. It puts me in a good mood which I'm still feeling when a group of us go out for dinner later.

The dinner's quite good, and I get to know who the others are -- I only know a couple of them already -- and I seem to be appointed de facto organiser for going out post-dinner; which is fine, but there's noone I'm driven to know better, and the loner instincts kick in, and I decide to go out by myself tomorrow night, see a band at Gabe's if there's one playing.

The next day's not as interesting as the first, so it's a really nice surprise when I read my email during the morning break and find a message from Dane: he'll be driving to Texas via Iowa City, and figures he might drop in and say hi. Or hi pardner, I hope: I recalibrate likelihoods again, laughing at my hopefulness as I do. I email back and say I'm planning to see Mustard Plug at Gabe's this evening. His reply says only, Cool, and that he'll be arriving late afternoon. The fact that the remainder of the day's talks are about theorem proving techniques, which normally make me run from the room at the tedium, is now immaterial.

I leave early and sit in the field opposite the Iowa House. It's a nice afternoon and the sun's extremely pleasant; I just lie around and enjoy it and occasionally think about what to wear tonight. College-town bar band, so not too fancy. Jeans and black V-neck from Montreal, I reckon. A bit different, but still fits the mood.

I see a large truck arriving, with a huge tarpaulin-covered lump on the tray; it can only be Dane driving the truck. He pulls alongside the field and hops out, and I wave him over. The stomach-turns-to-honey smile. Maybe I can't handle an entire evening of this.

"Hey pardner."

Especially if he does that. Maybe I can sit on my hands so I don't rip his clothes off. Calm. Calm.

He has a bag with him -- the same duffle bag from the airport, in fact, I think -- so I ask if he wants to come up and get changed after the drive, which he does. As we go up to the third floor we chat about the drive here, long drives in general we've done, just stuff. When we get to my room he checks it out briefly.

"Nice room."

"Yeah, I like the river view."

"Y'know, I really stink after the drive, almost as bad as the night at the airport with no shower."

"Sure. Spare towel's on that metal rack."

"Thanks."

He gets out a change of clothes and takes them into the bathroom with him. Darn. Not that I'd expect he'd necessarily strip in the room in front of me, but I wouldn't have minded it, something my body's telling me about strongly. I don't resist running my hand along my dick a few times, and then I have to wait for a while for it to go down. So I'm still getting changed when Dane comes out of the bathroom, and I quickly finish buttoning my jeans.

"Watching TV always slows me down."

He looks at the blank screen.

"Nothing interesting on."

He looks really good, all freshly scrubbed, T-shirt loose with jeans and boots. He strikes a pose.

"Look OK?"

"Weelll ..." I squint my eyes, the reluctant but forced-to-be-honest critic. His face drops slightly. I smile. "Just kidding. You look good. I predict endless pick-up attempts."

He laughs, and knees me in the side of the hip.

Whether or not anything happens, he's fun company.

We go to the bar, and he offers to buy the first beers. The band's starting earlier than is typical, maybe because it's summer and out of school time. Neither of us has heard Mustard Plug before, but it's a positive surprise: there's not much, musically speaking, that I don't like, so there wasn't much chance that I'd hate it, but it's better than just OK, it's actually really fun. Kind of ska, lots of energy. A lot of what look like undergrads jumping around up the front, despite it being vacation. Dane and I are sitting at a table at the back with our beers. Our elbows touch on the table -- it's hard to tell how they got like that -- and it feels nice, so I don't move my arm. Neither does he. I leave it for a while, and there's only the movement of raising beer glass to mouth, which brings our triceps into contact too. The moment of truth: be daring, or kick myself later? So I look down at our arms, and then look at him, and smile; and he smiles back, the smile I wanted to see.

I go to buy the next beers, and run my hand over his spiky hair as I leave the table. He hits the back of my leg in response.

After the band finishes we're lying on the lawn outside the university's administration building. It's late -- I definitely wouldn't be doing this back in Baltimore, where in my first three weeks after arriving from New Zealand I didn't leave my apartment after dark -- but here it feels fine. We're lying side by side, opposite directions, heads near each other's hips. He stretches, pulling his T-shirt up, exposing his stomach, and I'm really turned on. I run my fingers lightly along his side and he shivers with goosebumps. He hooks his hand over my belt and inside my jeans and boxers and pulls himself upright, at the same time drawing his fingernails over the skin right near my cock, and now it's my turn to shiver.

"Take your shirt off." I swallow in the middle, so it sounds like a question, although it's more of a plea.

He does -- I look at him for a moment, his balance of hair and smooth skin seems perfect, just because it's him -- and I do the same, and then take his hand and pull him down on top of me just as he's lowering himself onto me. There's that moment of skin contact that tells you if everything's right, and it is, and we kiss, tentatively at first and then stronger. When we stop, I look at him and he looks at me and we smile together. I run the tips of my fingers along his back, because just the feel of his skin makes me wild.

"Would you like to come back to my room?"

"Well, I do have to pick up my clothes."

I run my fingers along both his sides at once, and he lets out a long sigh.

"And maybe other reasons."

We walk back to the Iowa House through the deserted campus, shirts in our hands, occasionally brushing each other; it's such a warm night everything feels really good. We go up the stairs, past reception -- I wave to the woman at the desk -- up the elevator, and we're at my room.

I've barely closed the door behind us and turned around and he's almost naked already, boxer shorts just past his hips, looking incredibly sexy. Then he's naked and hard -- it's the first time I've even seen his legs, and they're as fine as the rest of him, as is what's in between -- my heart's beating fast and my chest tight with wanting him -- and I rip off my jeans and boxers as fast as I can, and leap on top of him, pushing onto the bed. My cock on his skin feels amazing, as if it's the first time I've ever experienced it. We kiss again, a long time, as we hump against each other.

I kiss slowly down his neck, along his chest, trailing my fingers after through the soft hair near his clavicle. I get to his cock, lick my lips, and then swallow it in one gulp, so that he gasps at the suddenness. I look up at his face and smile, and then return my attention lower down. Soon I can feel his cock throb, so it's time to pull back.

I look at his face again, and know what I want to do to him. Not that we have to; we can do anything he feels like, and I'll be happy. But I ask anyway.

"Can I fuck you?"

A "Yeesss" of anticipation.

With that word I become even harder, and take the Wet Stuff from the drawer next to the bed. As I'm kissing his stomach and inserting one and then two fingers into him he runs his hands through my hair.

He turns over onto his hands and knees to tell me he's ready. I hold him by the hips and slip into him. He gasps. I'm almost sent over the edge by the pleasure of the slickness, starting to slide in and out. After a few strokes I put my arms around his chest, leaning over his back, and then lift him upright so he's on his knees on the bed, and hold him against me. I can see us in the mirror on the dresser now, my head next to his, blue eyes next to brown, his body slim and hard in front of mine, and he's so beautiful. I know I'm going to come sooner than I want, so I start stroking him, slicking my hands along his cock, then faster. More touching, sliding, lips on his neck, and I'm turned on by seeing his eyes close in pleasure in the mirror and his neck muscles tense; then he comes quickly, being brought to the brink before, and I feel the contraction in him that always sets me off. I come too, inside him, and then we collapse onto the bed, me still in him.

After a while I pull out, and we roll apart and sit up.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" I hold my breath. I still like him just the same after the urgency is gone; and the armour's not back up yet.

"Weelll ..." OK. It was an enjoyable experience, and I don't need anyone anyway. "I was figuring I might go out and work on my truck. And then there's the statue of women peeing in Des Moines that I was planning on seeing tonight urgently. And ..."

I hit him with the pillow. "Bastard."

He smiles the smile and lies down again; and I lie down with him, putting my hand across his chest, playing with the V of hair where it descends to his stomach.

I'll deck the next person I hear knocking Iowa.

First story I've written. Email comments more than welcome at mark_410@hotmail.com