Wayward Island (Part 9) How Jake and his friends gathered in the lodge, and met Ben Hasek 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. Send comments and suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond to all sincere correspondents.
Sunday morning: Roger, Randy, and I drove to Hibbing. Roger enjoyed getting acquainted with another gay white guy - only the second one he had ever met. He sat in the front seat with me, but most of the trip, he turned round to talk to Randy, who sat directly behind me. He calculated his chances. Randy didn't discourage him. Two confirmed tops: boy, are they in for a surprise, I thought, chuckling at the prospect. Which one would make an exception? Oh to be a fly on the wall!
In Hibbing we stopped at Ben Hasek's house, ten blocks from Mrs. Ravitch. His teenaged son answered the door. When Ben appeared, I introduced him to Randy and Roger. We shared the news about his burnt-out cabin. He wanted to know more. "I saw it by moonlight last night, so we didn't see much, but Roger here thinks it was arson. I think he's right," I said. Ben wondered if he should call the sheriff.
"You'll need a police report for the insurance company," I said.
"Do I look like a guy who has insurance? On the house, but not the cabin. The mining company has got me on three-quarters time. My foreman tells me I'm lucky to have any job," Ben replied. He invited us in for coffee, but I said that we were on our way to church.
"Stop by my place when you're at the lake," I said. "If I'm not there, you'll find me at the lodge." Ben promised to come later in the day.
We picked up Mrs. Ravitch. She brought a package of sketches and photos for our male nude project, and also a painting wrapped in brown paper. The painting, she said, was a thank-you gift for our host in the lodge. "That's very generous, since you've never met Tom," I said.
"It's not just for Tom, it's for all you boys," she replied. "Surely you knew that your kindness would be rewarded."
"I hadn't thought about it, Mrs. Ravitch, but if you're referring to Red Feather and I making love in your parlor, that was a spontaneous gift," I laughed nervously.
"And one that you will be required to repeat, dear boy," Mrs. Ravitch said. "Your impromptu love scene gave me the inspiration for my painting. We'll talk about it at the lodge."
We made it to Crane Lake in time for the eleven o'clock service at the Mission Church. We sat near the back, in folding chairs. Sam Black Bear was there, too, sitting in the front row. Whatever happened between him and Red Feather must have been positive enough to lure him to church. As a prelude to the service, Red Feather played a lively Chopin sonata, a suitable choice for Thanksgiving Sunday. "Jake, we must do something to help that boy," Mrs. Ravitch said. She whispered, but Roger heard her. I was glad to have such a formidable ally.
Billy White Cloud offered a first-time welcome to two Chippewa visitors, Roger Johnson and Sam Black Bear, and to Anna Ravitch, visiting from Hibbing. He offered a "welcome back" to Randy and me. In such a small, isolated church, reeling in five visitors was a big deal. I wondered what the congregation would think if they know that four us was gay, and the fifth was a painter of male nudes. My guess is that they wouldn't mind.
Like the previous Sunday, Billy's presentation was more dialogue than sermon. He asked the congregation to name some things about modern life that they were thankful for. People called out one-word answers: automobiles, television, movies, farm equipment, hospital, school. He asked them to name some traditional Chippewa things they were thankful for: wild rice, canoes, deerskin jackets, venison, walleyes, summer powwows in Orr. "Teepees," someone said. "Not this time of year," someone else said. Everyone laughed. I don't recall ever seeing a teepee on the Res. Some families have hogans- structures half-buried in the ground, heaped over with a mound of earth-but I have one of those on my homestead, too, used to keep vegetables and canned goods.
Billy spoke about how the Chippewa had lost most of their ancestral hunting lands. He asked for volunteers to hold up a large historical map of Minnesota. Two older women came forward. The old Chippewa lands colored in blue. With a magic marker, he outlined the boundaries of the Reservation with a yellow line. He contrasted the expanse of hunting lands with the much smaller Reservation. "It's small compared to what it was," Billy said. "But there's still plenty of land. We have that to be thankful for." He compared the Chippewa with the Children of Israel in the Bible. "They, too, suffered adversity, and yet they are still the Chosen People, the heir of God's promise to Abraham. He read a passage from Romans 14, in which the New Testament affirmed the promise to Abraham. "God never revoked that promise to the Jews, and he never turned his back on the Chippewa." That was Billy White Cloud's Thanksgiving message.
We were nine at the lodge (counting our dog): Randy came with Billy; Red Feather came with Sam Black Bear, Roger and Anna and I came together. We picked up Wolfie at my cabin, and drove to the lodge. When traffic in the restaurant died down, Tom joined our group. "I brought Red Feather back to you in mint condition," Sam said to me, quietly, when we had a moment alone. I didn't ask for details.
Later, at dinner on a table set up in the lounge, Anna announced that Red Feather would be going to Oberlin College in Ohio, her undergraduate alma mater, come next Fall. Tom cautioned about the tuition: "It must be about $25,000 a year by now." Red Feather agreed. A private school like Oberlin was out of his league. "That's for the grown-ups to worry about," Anna said. "Jake and I will figure out something. "Besides, young man," she said to Red Feather, "Oberlin is the only school I know of where non-conformist students are the norm. At any college around here, being Chippewa, gay, and a dedicated musician would be three strikes against you, but at Oberlin these would be viewed as virtues- especially by other students. Far from being out of your league, Oberlin would be just the right fit. Besides that, we need to get you into Interlochen for the summer. I've got a few strings I can pull. It might be possible." Anna didn't mention it, but Red Feather and I were aware that the college museum at Oberlin had several Ravitch paintings, donated by her. My guess was that Interlochen had some of her paintings, too.
It was as if the Virgin Mary had come down from heaven to visit the lodge in the person of Anna Ravitch. I knew that she could be relied on. She had helped other young artists in the past. I told her that I had been thinking about adopting Red Feather as my son. This was news to everyone except Red Feather. We had discussed it. "You're 26 and he's 19. How can you be his father?" Randy asked.
"It's not about age," I said. "Red Feather deserves to be grounded in a family-someone he belongs to, someone who will be on his side no matter what-and not in just an honorary sense."
"You're a nurturing guy, Jake, but don't do it just yet," Anna said. "Let Red Feather apply to Oberlin as an orphan. We'll get a better deal. You can adopt him later, after he gets in. Besides, when you adopt him, you'll have to stop sleeping with him."
"I know that, Anna," I said. "But Red Feather can't live with me in the woods. He needs to be free to become his own man. If I don't set him free, he might as well stay on the Res. His music is appreciated there, but he needs to be with people his own age who are seriously into music."
"Greater love hath no man, that he set aside his own life for his friend," Anna said. "I've said the same thing about other artist who I mentored in the past. Still, Red Feather will be my first musician. But it's time to unveil the painting that I brought for Tom." We moved to a table in the restaurant, where Tom could unwrap the package. It was the naturalist version of Water Hole Follies!
"This is a priceless painting," I said. "There's an impressionist version in the Autonomous University of Mexico. When the art world hears about this, they'll be visiting the lodge." Tom chose a place of honor for it, above the hearth in the lounge. Randy and Sam Black Bear got to work with a ladder, hammer, and nails, and set Water Hole Follies in its new home. Tom brought three bottles of brandy, and eight glasses, for a toast. Randy took some pictures of the impromptu dedication, and I wrote a news release. The Oberlin Alumni Magazine published the story in its Spring edition. Some local newspapers published it, too, along with Art News, archipelago, and Art in America (on-line), and Art Review, The Art Magazine, Burlington Magazine, and Dialogue (an Ohio publication which has since gone under). I'm getting ahead of my story, but our afternoon salon made Wayward Inn Resort famous-not to mention me and Randy, who got by-lines for the story and photographs.
Anna came prepared. She must have been a girl scout in her childhood. She showed us a print of Fréderic Bazille's Scène d'été (Summer Scene, 1869), which depicts an idyllic scene with seven clothed swimmers, and another print, Thomas Eakins's The Swimming Hole (1885), which shows six naked swimmers. Eakins made the theme famous. She read "Twenty-eight men" from Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (1855), Eakins's literary source, which describes a lonely woman gazing on naked men sporting in the water. "It had to be a woman, in 1855," Anna said, "but of course he meant a man attracted to male nudes." Then she read a passage from John Dos Passos's Three Soldiers, which transports the scene to France during World War I. She read another passage from Joseph Heller's Catch-22, set in World War II. Heller replaces homoeroticism with a darkly comic episode. [Note from the editor: Tim O'Brien uses the theme in July, July, published later, in 2002.]
Mrs. Ravitch described her artistic process. She prepared two identical naturalistic paintings, depicting forty marines in the Vietnam Jungle, fleeing from a swimming hole in various stages of nudity and dress while Huey helicopters approach overhead. She transformed one of these into an impressionist painting. That's the one in Mexico.
"How did it end up in Mexico?" Billy White Cloud asked.
"I painted it there, in the Muyil Forest, which is on the other side of the highway from Xelha and Tulum, not far from the Belize border," Mrs. Ravitch said. "The impressionist version of Water Hole Follies never left Mexico. Imagine the trouble I had getting the naturalist version through U.S. Customs in San Antonio? One of the guards disputed my claim that it was art. Fortunately another guard there, a Mexican immigrant, recognized Muyil Forest and came to my defense. In retrospect, I think these two guys were amusing themselves in a playful debate."
The naturalist version had never been seen, except by the Customs officers in San Antonio, and by Red Feather and me when we posed for Mrs. Ravitch and demonstrated our passion. Her source for the scene was a chapter in Larry Gwin's Baptism (1999), but she had worked on this theme in other paintings. She called them her "Soldiers Swimming studies." They were stashed in her attic. To shorten a long story, Anna gave me all the research I needed to publish a newsworthy story about Swimming Hole Follies-which explains why so many magazines and newspapers picked it up.
Red Feather changed the subject. He announced that he and I were planning to pose for Anna's next painting of male nudes. Anna brought out her package of sketches and photos, study materials for a classical theme. The material was sensitive, she said, so she wouldn't display it unless Red Feather and I agreed. Sam Black Bear, Roger Johnson, Billy White Cloud and Randy protested. "We're all gay guys, here," they said, and besides, everyone in the room had already gotten naked with us, except for Tom. "Very well, then," Anna said. "There's a long tradition in art, going back to the Italian Renaissance, that an artist should show his work in progress, and discuss it with others. One of the best artists, Leon Alberti, used to say that artists should listen to criticism even from laymen-or especially from laymen. The greatest Greek painter, Apelles, used to hide behind a screen when people visited his workshop, so he could hear their criticism of his paintings while the visitors spoke freely."
Mrs. Ravitch displayed her sketches. She produced more than twenty photographs showing Red Feather and me posing, singly and together. "Remember, gentlemen, these are research materials for a serious painting. I don't want to hear saucy comments about my models!" She was preaching to the choir. Everyone was respectful, and awed by the anatomical beauty of the pictures. Still, Nature must claim her due. We got horny, but kept our cool.
Our banter was interrupted by the appearance of Ben Hasek, the forty- year-old miner from Hibbing. We invited him to join us at our table. He had visited his burned-out cabin. "It broke my heart to see it," he said. Tom gave him a tall glass of brandy. "Drink up, Ben. Let us help you take your mind off your troubles," Tom said.
"Was it Elbo, the crazy Chevy dealer?" Ben asked me.
"I don't know," I said. "But don't be surprised if Willy Elbo offers you a low price for your land. He fancies himself the Mayor of Wayward Bay." I introduced Ben to Red Feather, Randy, Sam Black Bear, Roger Johnson, Billy White Cloud, and Mrs. Ravitch. Ben and Tom had known each other for years.
Ben noticed the nude photos. He blushed. "Did I interrupt something I shouldn't have?" he asked.
"Not at all, Ben," I said. "Mrs. Ravitch is a serious painter. She's working on a mythological picture that requires two male nudes. Red Feather and I have agreed to work with her as models. The sketches and photos are research in preparation for the painting. Here, have a look, and see if you approve." I handed him the sketches, and below them, the photos.
Ben took the sketches and photos. He didn't feign disinterest. He looked at each one, carefully. "By the way, Ben, Mrs. Ravitch is a near-neighbor of yours in Hibbing," I said, while he gazed at nude photos of me.
` "These are really beautiful. They're art works in themselves," Ben said. "I didn't know we had a serious artist in Hibbing. But then, Bob Dylan grew up there, so why shouldn't we have another artist?"
Ben wasn't put off by the photos. I was relieved. Ben was either gay or an open-minded straight guy. He looked through the photos a second time. He came to a provocative one of me in frontal glory. He looked at it closely. He gazed at me, and back at the photo. "This is very nice," he said. The others started talking among themselves, leaving me to be alone with Ben. I knew that Ben's wife had moved to LA where she works as a nurse. I hadn't been aware that his teenaged son was living with him in Hibbing. I figured Ben as totally straight. Apparently I was wrong. I wished I had gotten to know him better.
"We just finished dedicating an important picture that Mrs. Ravitch donated to the lodge. It's hanging above the fireplace in the lounge. I'll show you, Ben. Bring your brandy," I said. I took one of the bottles of brandy with me. I asked Tom to come get us when it was time to get back to discussing the project.
Ben followed me into the lounge. While we examined Water Hole Follies, I explained its history. This took some time. The painting had a rich history. I poured us a second round of brandies. We sat on the sofa in front of the hearth. Everyone else pitched in to clear the dining table in the lounge, so we could resume our discussion there.
"Jake, when I was looking at the photos, if this was a bar I would have asked you if you worked out," Ben said.
"This is a bar, sort of," I said.
"Jake, do you work out?" Ben asked, playfully.
"I try to keep fit," I said. "Call me some time and we'll make a date to talk about it."
"I'll do that, soon."
Tom called to us: "Mrs. Ravitch is ready to get back to work."
"You can join us if you want, Ben, but I'll warn you, knowing Mrs. Ravitch, the next batch of photos will be raunchy."
"I can do raunch," Ben said, smiling. His eyes said that he was eager to do raunch.
As we moved to join the others, I told Ben, "If Willy Elbo offers to buy your property, just say no. It might put you at a disadvantage, if the fire really was arson. Talk to me first. We'll figure something out. Don't give up your property to Elbo-or to anyone else."
Mrs. Ravitch produced the photos that depicted Red Feather fucking me. All eyes looked closely, except for Red Feather and me. We blushed-but got over our embarrassment. Ben's interest was palpable. Mrs. Ravitch and Wolfie were the only creatures in the room who were unaffected. He snoozed under the table, at our feet. Nothing is more soothing for dogs than human conversation.
"Ordinarily I wouldn't show these photos," she said, "but this time I must, because they are central to the project. There's a little-known myth from the Greek city of Pherae, in Thessaly, about Apollo and King Admetus. Euripides uses it in his tragedy of Alcestis, which was performed in Athens in 438 BC, and a Hellenistic poet of the third century BC, Callimachus of Cyrene, refers to it in his Hymn to Apollo. As you probably already know, in Greek myth Apollo had more boyfriends than any other male character, with the possible exception of Herakles. In these myths, Herakles always, and Apollo almost always, plays the role of erastes, what you guys call a top. On the surface, it seems trite and conventional to use Jake as a model for Apollo. When I thought about this, at first I rejected it, because it seemed too predictable. No offense, Jake."
"None taken, ma'am," I said.
"But then I recalled a rare myth in which Apollo was the eromenos, what you guys call the bottom, and Admetus was the erastes-an unusual arrangement for a god and a man. The story has a back-story, and I must tell the back-story first. Otherwise the story won't make much sense. But I fear that I'm dominating the conversation, boys."
We all prevailed upon Anna to continue. "Admetus fucking Apollo, what gay man wouldn't want to hear about that?" Randy said. Everyone laughed,
"I can make that a visual reality," Mrs. Ravitch retorted.
"Touché," Randy replied.
Mrs. Ravitch continued her discourse: "In the earliest Greek culture, the life of a man was divided into two phases: a homosexual one during adolescence and early youth, and a heterosexual one when he got married. In the homosexual phase, he was first 'abducted' by an older youth and served as his eromenos. The boy and his lover camped in the woods, and the older boy was supposed to teach hunting skills to his eromenos. By tradition, when the younger boy slew a wild animal in the forest, he was released from sexual servitude, and eligible to become an erastes. In reality, when the boy started to grow a beard, he was no longer an eromenos, but eligible to be an erastes. This tradition dates back to very early times, much earlier than the twelfth century BC. Originally it was part of a hunting culture, but it survived for centuries, after the Greeks became pastoralists and practiced hunting only for recreation. There are traces of it in other early cultures, too, including the Goths. The point is that for aristocratic males, the life- cycle consisted of three stages: the beardless boy as eromenos, the youth as erastes, and the married adult who usually was heterosexual. The Greek myths about Zeus abducting Ganymede, and Poseidon abducting Pelops, and Apollo abducting Hyacinth, and Herakles abducting Hylas, all depict gods in the second phase, the erastes. Or heroes, in the case of Herakles.
"Now we come to the story of Apollo. He was the father of Asclepius, the first "healer." Because Asclepius had disturbed the cosmic order by saving men from death, Zeus struck him down with a thunderbolt, but Apollo brought him back to life. Because of this defiance, Zeus punished Apollo by subjecting him to a year of slavery, during which he served as a shepherd to King Admetus in Thessaly. During that time, Admetus's flocks of sheep and goats multiplied, and he became a wealthy king. Admetus fell in love with him, and Apollo was his eromenos for a year. The story runs counter to the usual pattern in which a god is an erastes, never an eromenos, but at the same time, it fits the normal human pattern: a male becomes an eromenos first, then an erastes, and finally a married man.
"My composition will be a triptych. The first panel will depict the death of Asclepius by Zeus's thunderbolt. The third panel will depict Apollo's resurrection of his son. The central panel will depict Admetus having intercourse with Apollo in the fields, with a plenitude of sheep and goats, images of Admetus's prosperity. The two side panels come first in narrative chronology, while second panel will depict the final episode in the story, when Admetus succeeds in seducing Apollo. Jake will be the model for Apollo, and Red Feather will be the model for Admetus. I haven't yet found a model for Asclepius. I haven't decided yet, but I'm thinking that the central panel will depict life-sized figures, with goats and sheep in the background. I'll be asking you guys for comments as the work proceeds."
"Will Asclepius be a nude, too?" Randy asked. He wondered if he could model the world's first physician. "Then Jake could raise me from the dead." Mrs. Ravitch studied his face and his figure.
"Only the central panel will have nudes, but yes, Randy, I think you could be Asclepius. I would need to draw some sketches and take photos."
"How soon can we start?" Red Feather asked.
"I've already prepared sketches, 'cartoons', we call them," Anna said. "We can start the central panel as soon as you're ready and we have a studio space."
"I can help you with that," Tom said. "My most spacious cabin is the one on the lakeshore. It has a picture-window overlooking the lake, so there's plenty of light." We could see it from a window in the lodge. "Besides that, I've got a two-bedroom suite on the second floor of the lodge, with windows overlooking the lake. It's just down the hall from Randy's suite. You can have it for as long as you need it." We put on our coats and trudged through the snow to the lakeside cabin. Wolfie thought it great fun to herd a pack of nine people toward the lake. Anna said the cabin was just right for the project. Tom showed her the suite in the lodge, just down the hall from Randy's. I volunteered to loan her my spare computer. She would keep it in her studio-cabin, so Red Feather could use it, too.
We ended our time together. Four of us were bound for Hibbing, so we paired up. Red Feather drove my car, with Mrs. Ravitch. I rode with Ben. We took the long route, past Tamarack Forest and through Chisholm. Our conversation in his car was small talk at first, but we both needed a debriefing about our unexpected encounter in the lodge. Ben broached the topic: "I feel like I've just finished a crash course in Art Appreciation 101," Ben said. "Mrs. Ravitch is quite a remarkable lady, and your buddies are, too."
"It was the first time we all got together in one place," I said. He asked me if all of them are gay. "I don't know about Tom," I said, "but the others, yes."
"I sure would like to be part of your circle of friends, Jake," Ben said. "What I gotta do to make that happen?"
"That's easy. All you gotta do is sleep with them," I said. Ben looked apprehensive. "Just kidding! I'll let them know that you're in, and I'll make sure they have your phone number. Sam Black Bear and Roger Johnson are lumberjacks. They live in Crane Lake, but they work for my cousin, Dave Preston. Dave has a lumber concession on state land about five miles from the lake. Billy White Cloud is pastor of the Mission Church in Crane Lake. Randy O'Grady is Tom's nephew. He just moved here from Chicago, and he lives in the lodge. Randy and Billy are an item. That doesn't mean they're off limits; it's just something you need to be sensitive to. Red Feather is the musician at the Mission Church in Crane Lake, but he lives with me now. He'll be off to college in Ohio in the Fall. Mrs. Ravitch is hoping to get him into a summer music camp at Interlochen."
"I've wondered what a group of gay guys would be like," Ben said. "They all seem pretty masculine to me."
"We don't all prance," I said.
"I'm guessing none of you do that. But you guys look to be all paired up," Ben said. "I don't want to be a third wheel. Make that a seventh wheel."
"You wouldn't be an odd man out, Ben," I replied. "Sam and Roger are unattached. They are totally free agents. Red Feather and I have an open relationship. You could get a date with any of us, or all four of us.... preferable one at a time."
Ben laughed. Then he got serious. "When Sally left for LA to live with her sister, it seemed like my future was bleak. I've been living from day to day, for the sake of my son."
"Staying alive and carrying on with your work for the sake of another, that's a powerful life-force, Ben," I said. "There's nothing wrong with that. But you need to carve out a life for yourself, for your sake and for your son's sake. He might be too young to understand now, but he'll understand when he gets older. Don't lay a guilt trip on him by turning into a lonely martyr."
"There's something else you should know, Jake, as long as we're showing cards on the table," Ben said. "I'm a total newbie. I've never...."
"I knew that, Ben. A forty-year-old virgin. How 'bout that!"
"It sounds hokey. I hope it won't be a problem," Ben said.
"As long as we're laying down cards, virginity is a trump," I said. "You're holding a handful. Play them to your advantage. There's nothing more exciting to a gay guy than the privilege of introducing a newbie to some new domain in the landscape of gay sex."
"How 'bout you, Jake? Can I ask you for a date?" Ben asked.
"You've got it, buddy," I said. We drove into Hibbing. My car was parked in Mrs. Ravitch's driveway. Red Feather and Mrs. Ravitch had beat us home. I told Ben to keep driving: "Let's check out your place first."
Ben introduced me to Henry, his son. "Henry Hasek, that has a good ring to it," I said as we shook hands. We established that he was sixteen, and played forward on the high school's ice hockey team. "It's past time for us to clear snow and make an ice rink on the lake," I said. "You can work out on the ice there any time, Henry."
Ben went to the kitchen to get whiskies for the grown-ups, and a soft drink for Henry. "Are you Dad's new boyfriend?" Henry asked.
I was flabbergasted by this precocious boy. "Something like that, I guess," I said.
"Good!" Henry said. "Then you must spend the night here."
"I heard that!" Ben called from the kitchen. He returned with a tray full of glasses and a bottle of whisky.
"Your son is rather perceptive for a boy his age," I told Ben.
"He's full of surprises," Ben said. He invited me to sit with him on the sofa. I took a rocking-chair, and told Henry to sit with his Dad. We talked about the Hasek's burnt-out cabin, and why we suspected Willy Elbo of arson.
"Yeah, that guy creeps me out," Henry said. "I've heard him arguing with Jeff, and swearing at him. That's his stepson, just a kid, thirteen or fourteen. I guess we won't be seeing him again, now that we've got no cabin."
"Don't jump to conclusions about that, Henry," I said. "I think I can persuade my cousin Dave to loan you one of his house-trailers for the summer. He's got two of them, for his lumbering site. But lately he's been using one while the other sits empty at home. If we could get the lumber cheap, from my cousin, we could all pitch in and build a new cabin."
"I couldn't afford to buy the lumber," Ben said, "not even at a discount, unless I can get back to working full time. And what about logs?"
"Logs are the easy part," I said. "We can cut trees from my land. You'd have all the logs you need, with the help of two lumberjacks, Sam Black Bear and Roger Johnson."
"They would do that?" Ben asked.
"It would be like an Amish barn-building, in slow motion," I said. "They would do it because we're a circle of friends, and because they wouldn't want Elbo to have his way. Me neither."
That was settled-as much as it could be for the moment. I asked Henry to tell us about his hockey-playing. Ben produced a notebook with Hibbing newspaper clippings about the hockey games, and photos he had taken of his son playing forward. The book was a loving father's record of his son's life so far. Suddenly Ben seemed ten feet tall in my estimation.
I asked Henry if he was into figure-skating. "That's a girls' thing," Henry said.
"That might be true in Hibbing," I said. "But when I was in college in Bemidji, our best hockey players were from Winnipeg. Most of them worked out with figure-skates, too. It gave them the advantage of unexpected, sudden turns on the ice that caught their opponents by surprise. If you come to the lake to skate on the ice, I'll show you some moves."
"Awesome!" Henry exclaimed. "So, Jake, are you spending the night?"
"I haven't been invited," I said, "except by Henry."
"Da-a-a-ad!" Henry said.
"I guess that's my cue to invite you, so you're invited," Ben said. I called Red Feather on my cellphone and told him I'd be staying with the Haseks. We would regroup in the morning. He was all right with that.
Like most of the older homes in Hibbing, the Haseks had only one bathroom. Henry went to bed first. When we were alone, I asked Ben if he had olive oil in the kitchen. He did. "We might need it," I said. "I assume you don't have lube." He didn't. We talked about showering together in the bathtub, but decided against it. "I don't want Henry to hear us fooling around in the shower," I said. "It wouldn't be fair to him." So I used the bathroom first. Then Ben took his turn.
When Ben returned from the bathroom holding a glass of water and wrapped in a towel, he found me in bed naked on my belly, with my ass turned toward him, provocatively, while I looked back at him. It was one of the poses he had seen in the photos. "You look sensational in Mrs. Ravitch's photos, but better in living color," Ben said. "I might not have lube, but I've got some little blue pills," he added. We washed down the viagra with water.
"There's about a one-hour waiting period for viagra to work," I said.
"We would need it until then," Ben smiled. He discarded the towel, and draped his six-foot frame over me. "I can't believe my good luck," he whispered in my ear. I turned toward him. We shared a gentle, quick kiss. "I've never kissed a man before, Jake. I want to love you, but I'm thinkin' I don't know how."
"Just act what you feel, Ben, and I'll do the same. We'll be fine," I said. He groped my cock while his eight-incher nestled in my crevice. "Maybe more than fine," I said. I rolled over on top of him and massaged his chest. "You're a hairy guy, aren't you, Ben?" I kissed his shoulders and his chest. I licked his nips, and bit them. Ben yelped in surprise. When I pulled away, he pulled me back. He pinched my nips while I chewed on his.
"We've been in bed for ten minutes and you've already uncovered an erogenous zone that I didn't know about," Ben said. He corrected his math: "two erogenous zones."
"Call them erozones," I said between nippy mouthfuls.
"You made that up," Ben said. "How 'bout e-zones?"
"E-zones: sounds like something on the net, virtual zones," I said. I knelt over Ben and massaged his inner thighs. "How's that for an e-zone?" I asked. Ben just moaned. I reached behind his scrotum and massaged his perineum with one finger. "Here's another e-zone." He responded by spreading his legs apart. I tongued his navel and traced my fingers along the vertical line of muscle from his navel to his pubes. "They call this the 'white line'," I said, "abdominal linea alba." Ben traced his finger from my pubes upward to my navel, and inserted his finger-tip, playfully. I moved forward over his torso, opened his right arm with my head, and licked his pit, forcefully. I pulled at his pit-hairs with my lips, while I stroked the nape of his neck. Ben breathed heavily as the sex drive build up in him. I repeated the action on his left underarm.
I turned Ben over for a butt-massage, starting with his cheeks and inner thighs. I kneaded his buns and studied his pleasantly hairy crevice. I fingered its length from spine to hole, and back to his spine. His body tensed up. "Relax, Ben. I'm not gonna fuck you, not yet anyway," I said playfully. My finger repeated its crannied journey. "Just relax and enjoy. That's all you have to do right now." I lubricated my fuck-finger with olive oil, and inserted its tip into Ben's hole. It wriggled. He moaned. I misquoted Tennyson:
Flower in the crannied wall, I proddle you in the cranny,
I hold you here, root and all in my hand,
Little flower-and if I could understand
What you are, root and all, all in all, I'd know the mystery of Benny.
"Proddle?"
"Poetic license," I said. "Gentle prods with my finger, you see?" I wiggled the tip of my finger around the sensitive ridge of his Ben's anus. It seemed to Ben that I was preparing to fuck him. He waited in nervous anticipation. He was surprised when I embraced him and rolled him over. Now he was on top of me. I propped a pillow under my ass. "Olive oil ain't the best lube, so use lots of it," I told Ben. "It's gonna hurt, so take it easy on the penetration, but don't let anything stop you, no matter what I say."
Ben coated a finger with olive oil and stuck it up my ass. "First time for this?" I asked.
"Everything we do is a first for me," Ben said. He coated his cock with olive oil, and aimed it at my hole. He pushed forward. His cock missed the hole and pummeled my balls. On his second try, I reached behind me and helped guide his cock into my hole. Ben pushed forward and moaned. I yelped and groaned. "Oh my God you've got a big cock!" I said. Ben smiled, accepting my pain evidence of his virility. He pushed forward again, past my inner sphincter. My face and my neck reddened. I yelped and told him to stop. In response, he pushed his cock all the way into me. Our eyes locked. His was an expression of stern resolution. Mine must have been shock, like a deer on the road blinded by headlights. It felt like it did when Randy popped my cherry. I surrendered to the feeling when Ben started fucking me, slowly at first, but he was eager for an erotic rampage. Stimulated by my groans, he reamed and rammed without mercy.
I turned over so Ben could fuck me from behind. He applied a fresh coat of olive oil to his cock and fucked intercursally. I loved the intimate touch of his torso over my back. He nibbled on my ears and fucked slowly. My groans turned to moans. Several times, he withdrew and applied more olive oil. He loved the joy of re-entry. I showed him how to punch-fuck by withdrawing his cock and slamming it back into me. I yelped and groaned each time he did it. "This was your idea, Jake," Ben reminded me. He held my arms down so I couldn't resist.
I am one of those guys who can cum while getting fucked, but only the right conditions. I told Ben about this. "Just tell me what to do," he said. I lay on my back, with my ass on the side of the bed. Ben stood between my legs. I frog- legged and rested my forelegs on his shoulders. He entered and fucked gently, while we took turns frigging my olive-oiled cock. Jizzy fragrance filled the bedroom.
"You're pretty good at this, buddy," I said. "Are you sure that this is your first time?"
Lust flashed in Ben's eyes. He flipped me over and plowed me from behind, standing between my legs. His cockthrusts were awesome in epic duration and force. "I'm gonna cum, Jake," he said, gruffly.
"Don't pull out, Ben. Breed me," I said. Friction gave way to liquefied silk. Deep moans announced his release from the tension of sex.
We did our best to keep the noise down while we showered together in the bathtub. "That was the best fuck I've ever had," Ben said. "I never thought orgasm could be so powerful."