Wayward Island (Part 2) How Randy Compared himself to Hrut in "Njals saga" By Jake Preston
Reader restrictions: no minors, no readers who are offended by explicit descriptions of gay sexuality. The story as a whole is a psychological study of gay athletic hunks who love nerds, and the nerds who love them in return. The story also deals with the problems faced by gay guys who live in rural areas. If these themes don't interest you, there are many other great "nifty" stories to choose from. All characters are fictional and are not based on real persons. Most place- names are fictional, too. Send comments and suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond to all sincere correspondents. Please consider supporting "Nifty Stories" with a donation! To learn how, click "Donate" in the index heading.
My sleep was restless with thoughts of Randy. His short stature and red Irish looks excited me. It's a cultural expectation that athletic hunks like me want to date other hunks, like birds of a feather that flock together. I could have held my own with beautiful people if I wanted to, but my eyes and my heart wandered to outcasts, to guys who couldn't make the team or get into the club, or weaklings who got beat up on the playground. If I were fated to wait for a sexy hunk, I would be like a guard keeping vigil in front of a mirror, waiting for the image to come alive. Randy didn't match my ideal exactly. He was too assertive for that. He wasn't Mr. Right. But he had the appearance and physique of the "other," the guy who would be left at a gay bar after everyone else had departed with their mate for the night. In the Cities I could have been a nerd-magnet, if that's what I wanted, but in the North Country, gay guys don't dare reveal themselves. Those that do get outed. Life becomes such a misery that they end up moving to the Cities after all.
These were the thoughts that interrupted my sleep—-I tried to understand why I was attracted to Randy, who had a leprechaun-like appeal that would normally be reserved to other leprechauns. Some guys would say that I lacked self-esteem—a weakness for which the remedy would be an affair with a guy who ranked higher on the beauty-scale. Self-esteem wasn't my problem. I had lots of friends in Ashawa and on the shores of the lake. More than once I had to fend off attempts by well-meaning women to hook me up with a girlfriend. My excuses were lame. It would be too embarrassing for me to disclose them even to you, Dear Reader. I'm sure I wasn't the only eligible bachelor in need of a wife, but equally sure that I was an object of discussion around dinner tables at which young ladies were present. If they only knew how hopeless it was! However so, I enjoyed being me, even though I seemed fated to be alone in my body. Unlike fantasy-nerds, Randy was tangible—a real-life possibility. That was part of his appeal.
Randy was a self-proclaimed top. That message came loud and clear, and was not part of his appeal. I had always fantasized myself in that role, unless the relationship was to be exclusively oral. However so, I reasoned that "hunk versus nerd" and "top versus bottom" were two separate issues. For me the first step was to find a guy I could like. "Top versus bottom" could be negotiated later. I no longer think this is the case, but at the time I was put off by internet "personals" that sorted everyone into tops, bottoms, and versatiles.
I showed up at Wayward Island Resort at nine. At breakfast we exchanged cellphone numbers so we could talk on the phone on the way to Hibbing. I led the way. Randy followed in the U-Haul. When we were on the highway, Randy called on the phone: "Hope you had a good night."
My sleep was restless, I said. Randy laughed. "So you stuck to your promise. I did, too." We made small-talk on the highway, until Randy broached the question: "Last night you said you're inexperienced. Do you feel comfortable talking about that?"
"I had a buddy in college," I said. "We exchanged blowjobs. That's about it: mutual fellatio. We were inexperienced. We each had straight roommates, so we didn't have many chances to meet. My buddy had mixed feelings about sex. We graduated college and went separate ways. He felt relieved when that part of his life was over. The last I word I heard from him was an invitation to his wedding, which I didn't attend."
"Most guys get more skin in high school."
"Maybe in Chicago," I replied. "Welcome to the North Country, land of repression."
Randy: "In view of your vast experience, why do you think you're a top?"
"I don't know," I said. "I guess I never thought about sex in any other way."
"I like being a top with athletic studs, Jake—especially when they are self- proclaimed tops like you. It's my weakness," Randy said. "In case you were wondering, lots of body builders and jocks get laid by nerdy normals."
"I never thought of you as a nerd," I protested.
"Of course you did, Jake, but it's kind of you to deny it. I like to play revenge of the nerds' with jocky tops." Randy signed off. He had a knack for leaving a guy with something provocative to think about. I knew he was messing with my mind, but that didn't dissipate his power of seduction.
The U-Haul center was a gas station off the highway in Hibbing. Randy returned the truck. I offered to show him the sights. "What could there be to see in a dump like this?" he asked. "You'd be surprised." We drove to a park overlooking the open-pit iron mine. "The old town of Hibbing was here, but the town was moved to make room for an enlargement of the mine," I explained. "Apparently this happened twice in the history of Hibbing, so this is all that remains of the second town." We could see street curbs and lighted lamp posts. Lawns and gardens covered the ground where the homes of miners had been.
We walked through the park to a viewpoint overlooking the mine. "It's the largest open pit mine in the world," I said. "The Mesabi Iron Range is the ass of the world, and Hibbing is the hole."
We laughed, oblivious to other visitors who stood behind us while we leaned on the iron rail overlooking the mine. "I won't carve out a hole quite that large," Randy said.
A good-looking Indian approached us. He introduced himself as Billy White Cloud, and handed us each a brochure with a picture of bears. "I couldn't help but overhear you mention the town of Ashawa," Billy said, "so I think you might want to visit our bear sanctuary in Orr. It's just a few miles north of Ashawa, off the highway in the woods, on a side road on the highway to Orr."
We looked at the brochure and talked about it with Billy. "It's a way to see bears in the wild," he explained, "much better than the exhibit in Ely which is really just a zoo. In the bear sanctuary in Orr, it's the people who are enclosed, while the bears run free in the woods."
"Why do I get the feeling that everything in this part of the world is in the woods?" Randy asked. He looked at the business card that Billy had stapled to the bear brochure. It had his name plus the name of a church in Crane Lake. "Mission Church; Reverend Billy White Cloud," Randy read out loud. "By the way, I'm Randy O'Grady, and my friend is Jake Preston." We all shook hands.
"Crane Lake is a good twenty miles north of Orr," Billy said. "Our little church is part on the Reservation. But you don't have to be an Indian to be welcome there. I'd be so pleased if you wanted to worship with us some Sunday."
"Chippewa, isn't it?" I asked.
"That's right, Jake. Our little church is a place to get to know people in the region who you wouldn't meet anywhere else." Billy King smiled. His eyes twinkled sweetly. My gaydar buzzed.
"I'm game for a trip to Crane Lake on Sunday," I said. "My friend Randy will have to speak for himself."
"Of course I'll come," Randy chimed in. Billy asked if we were planning to visit other sites in Hibbing. I mentioned the Bob Dylan center, and the Greyhound Bus Museum.
"If you follow me in my car, I can lead you to the "Zimmerman" house where Bob Dylan grew up. It's in a typical Hibbing neighborhood. It's unmarked, but I know where it is. From there I can lead you to the Bob Dylan center, and the Greyhound Bus Museum. Or if you prefer, you can leave your car here and I'll drive you to around."
We accepted Billy's offer. Billy was attracted mainly to me (no surprise), but Randy had the charm to chat him up. Randy rode shotgun while I sat in the back seat of Billy's Chevy.
First we drove to a residential street in Hibbing. The houses looked alike: modest two-story homes painted white, with one-car garages. Many of them had "FOR SALE" signs on the lawn. Some had boats and campers in the driveways, marked "FOR SALE' with shocking low prices.
"It's sad but true that most people here are underemployed, or out of work altogether," Billy said. "If you guys are in the market for a boat, even a Chris Craft, or a car, or a camper, this is the place to buy."
Billy packed his car in front of one of the homes. We got out and stood by the side of the car, with Billy in the middle between us. As we looked at the Zimmerman house, Randy moved in close to Billy. I did the same. Billy put one arm around Randy, another around me. "This is the place where Bob Dylan grew up," Billy said.
An elderly lady came out of the house. She approached us. "Hello, I'm Reverend Billy White Cloud," Billy said, and handed the lady his business card. "We're here from Crane Lake and Ashawa. I hope you don't mind the intrusion."
"Not many people know how to find this place," the lady said. "Bob Dylan's home, you know. Would you like to come in?" We accepted the invitation.
The lady introduced herself as Mrs. Ravitch. "No relation to Bob Dylan, but I do have a collection of memorabilia." She gave us a tour of the house. "I'm pretty sure that this was Bob Dylan's bedroom," she said when we got to one of the rooms upstairs. It was decorated with posters in frames, and record albums. "And now you must stay for coffee," she said. Mrs. Ravitch was alone in the world, and hungry for company. I took an immediate liking to her.
We sat in the parlor (her word) and waited for the coffee to brew. We moved to the kitchen table, where she served homemade donuts with the coffee. "I don't get much company here, so you boys have brightened my day. I hope you'll stop in again, next time you're in Hibbing," she said. She must have been prescient. She seemed to sense that we three were more than friends, which wasn't true at the time.
"Of course we'll come back," Randy said. "But you must come to visit us at my uncle's lodge. It's called Wayward Island Resort, on Lake Ashawa." He handed her a business card from the resort. "We'll treat you to dinner." He paused. "We can provide transportation," he added. "How about next Sunday? We could pick you up early in the morning, take you to church in Crane Lake, and then to Sunday dinner in the lodge." Randy wrote his cellphone number at the bottom of the card. Mrs. Ravitch was thrilled at the prospect. We all agreed.
"I would say that your missionary work in Hibbing has been quite a success," Randy said to Billy as we returned to the car. "There's nothing more effective than a grand old lady to bring three guys together." We had a plan. Randy and I would visit Billy's church the next morning. On the following Sunday, Randy and I would pick up Mrs. Ravitch, take her with us to Crane Lake. After church we would all drive to Wayward Island for dinner.
"You guys are mensch, aren't you?" Billy said as he got into the driver's seat. "I'm impressed."
"Maybe it's you who brings out the mensch in us," Randy said. Seated beside him, he gave Billy a hug.
We toured the Bob Dylan Museum, which offered lots of memorabilia, but it didn't compare to the free tour that Mrs. Ravitch gave us. Then we moved on to the Greyhound Museum. "Hibbing," Billy said. "This was the town where the Greyhound Bus Line was started, as a bus service to the Iron Range towns, and Duluth, and further south to the Cities."
Billy drove us back to our car near the open pit mine. We promised we'd see him on Sunday, and I invited him to my place afterward, for dinner. "You've sure given us a lot to think about," I said to Billy.
I took a different route home, through the mining town of Chisholm. "There's one big site that we haven't seen, the Interpretative Center. But that's a full day. Maybe somewhere to go with Mrs. Ravitch," I said. "She could probably interpret a lot of the family history there."
The road from Chisholm to Ashawa was deserted. After a few miles of farms and woods, we came to Tamarack Swamp, ten miles of swampland with tamarack trees, whose needles had turned to gold for the winter. The trees glistened and shimmered in the sunlight.
"How can a place be so dismal and beautiful at the same time?" Randy said. "Seeing this would have been worth the trip, even if there hadn't been anything else to see in Hibbing. It's an amazing place, Jake, and you're an amazing guy."
I noticed a wide space near the road and parked the car. We got out for a closer look at the tamaracks. No cars were in sight. We held hands. We exchanged kisses in the great Tamarack Swamp.
"Have you thought about what I said, about me being a top?" Randy asked.
"I've been thinking about little else," I replied. "What are two tops to do if they get together?"
"Easy to say," Randy replied. "One of them has to sacrifice his ass for the greater good, for the `summum bonum'. You're a philosophical guy. You work it out. All you need next is a leap of faith."
"I've been wondering what you've got in that package." I glanced at Randy's crotch.
"Ah, you'll have to be the judge of that," Randy said. He ignored my oblique request for his specs.
"I shouldn't have asked," I said. "I'm not as superficial as my question made me out to be. It's character that counts. That, plus a leap of faith, as you say."
"Let me tell you a story," Randy said. "It's about an Icelander named Hrut, more than a thousand years ago. I call him Hrut the Runt. In Iceland, Hrut got engaged to a woman named Unn, who was the daughter of an important law- giver named Mord. Before the wedding could take place, Hrut learned that he had inherited an estate in Norway, so he delayed his marriage to Unn—for three years. He sailed to Norway to claim his estate, and while he was there, he enrolled as a guard in the court of King Hakon. He became King Hakon's lover, and stayed in Norway for three years. Of course their relationship had to be kept secret. Many people whispered that he was sleeping with the queen, when all this time he was sleeping with the king. After three years of adventures and love-making, he returned to Iceland and married Unn. Their marriage was not a happy one, for reasons that no one could say, for Hrut was always kind to Unn. Two years went by, and three years, and everyone could see that Unn was unhappy about something. Finally, Unn went to her father, the law-giver Mord, and asked him to arrange a divorce from Hrut. She told her father the reason for her unhappiness. It was because Hrut was so well endowed that she could not enjoy sex with him in the usual way. The result was a quarrel between Mord and Hrut. The story ends with a scene in court, in which two boys and a girl pretended to be Mord, Hrut, and Unn respectively. One of the boys said, `I'll be Mord and you be Hrut and I will bring a lawsuit against you on grounds that you couldn't copulate with her!' Mord was angry, and thrashed the boy with a switch, but Hrut came to his aid. He gave the boy a gold ring and told him to stop hurting people's feelings. That was the story of Hrut the Runt."
We got back in the car. Tamarack Swamp was behind us. I asked Randy, "So who am I in the story of Hrut: Hakon, or Unn?"
"Well, you're not Mord," Randy chuckled. "In every relationship there are more than two people involved." A long silence followed. "That was my version of a story in "Njals saga"—hope it don't scare you off."
"Hmm," I responded. We drove through Ashawa and caught the road to the lake.
"What?" Randy exclaimed. "I've been to college too. Do you think I wouldn't know anything about "Njals saga"?"
"You know more about it than me," I said. "What does "Njals saga" have to do with me losing my virginity?"
"Everything," Randy said. "The problem with virginity is that you only get to lose it once. Most guys lose it too soon, when they're too young to know what they're doing. They give it away to some jerk who takes him for granted and doesn't value it either. He realizes later that he doesn't even like the guy. By then his cherry is gone and he can't get it back, and the jerk he was with doesn't even remember taking it. So what could have been a golden erotic moment is a memory best forgotten. And it is forgotten: a waste of nature. You're old enough to know better, Jake. You waited. Lucky for you!"
I still couldn't work out the link between the "Njals saga" story and Randy's discourse on virginity. The link is obvious to me now. Randy was using both to sweet-talk me into a cherry-busting session. "Revenge of the nerds" is a game for two. We were playing it. The prize was my ass.
We got close to Wayward Island. "Tell you what," Randy said, "if you're not ready, drop me off at the lodge. Or we can drive past the lodge and spend the evening at your cabin. It's your choice."
I saw the sign: "Wayward Island Resort." I drove past it. Wayward Island was behind us. It was impulse on my part, not really a choice. Maybe that's the way it always happens. I glanced at Randy. He gave me a sly smile that accentuated his charming dimples. Lust gleamed in his eyes. He knew he was going to get me. I saw that. I was caught up in a chain of events over which I had no control. I was driving, but Randy was in the driver's seat.
"Your Uncle Tom probably saw us drive by," I said.
"A small price to pay for love," Randy said. "He'll find out soon enough, anyway." He called Tom on his cellphone to say he was spending the night at my place. The triumphant timbre in his voice was meant for me. "Thanks for letting me know," Tom said on the phone. "I'm glad you two guys hit it off so well. It's good to have friends."
"Do you think he knows?" I asked Randy.
"He hopes for the best for both of us," Randy said.