Dr. Tentmate

Epilogue 4: A Taste for Weasel Dick

I experienced wild mood swings over those first three weeks after my return from the Boundary Waters. Much, but certainly not all, of the solace and stability I did find during that period came from writing the Tentmate narrative. I suppose that was my way of staying “in touch” with Dr. T without actually being in touch with him. Especially after I settled in to tell, pretty much, the whole story, that is, after I turned in the failing paper that was Part 6. Instead of rewriting it, and telling what really happened that first night of togetherness, I picked up the story again on the following (Tuesday) morning with Part 7, with the intention of circling back to Monday night when I had sufficiently found the voice to talk about it, as I ended up doing in later sections of the narrative. One of the reasons, the main reason, that writing Part 6 had proven to be so hard for me was simply the coincidence of timing.

Just as I began trying to write about the first time Dr. T and I had sex, and about the “bargain” we had made, I was wrestling with what, if anything, the future might hold for Dr. T and me. And I also had to resolve an important “mechanical” (or point of view) problem concerning the story-telling. The fact is that I had initially misunderstood what Dr. T and I had agreed, and not agreed on, late that Monday night, and I really didn’t recognize that he and I did not share the same perception until Wednesday or Thursday. As I told the story of Monday night, for example, should I tell it from the perspective of what I understood on Monday night, or from the vantage point of what I later came to understand about Monday night, or what I knew/believed at the time I was writing it? For good or ill, I opted to tell the story (for the most part) as I thought it had occurred at the time the events were happening. If I learned something new on Thursday that changed what I understood about Monday, I would tell it when I was writing about Thursday, and not about Monday.

That decision would have repercussions in October, however, as the telling of my tale dragged on longer than I had ever envisioned it would. For example, as I was writing about the last couple of days of the trip, and the anguish I felt then about whether Dr. T and I would see each other again, I already knew that I would be seeing him in early November. I also knew that I would be seeing him, or so I was telling myself in October, only to tell him goodbye…to tell him goodbye the “right” way, I told myself. I procrastinated so much in writing the end of the story that I had set out to tell – for a number of reasons – that my “farewell” weekend with Dr. T was rapidly approaching with the narrative still unfinished.

I was determined to post “the end” of the story before I met Dr. T in New Orleans, and I did, but only just. Since I already knew in October how the story “ended” – indeed, I had already told Dr. T how the story was going to end – I was concerned that after New Orleans I would not be able to deliver what I had already promised to deliver – an ending to the week in Minnesota – much less an ending the “whole” story. I am convinced that that instinct, at least, was correct. The reader should be, too, since it has taken from November until February for me to even begin writing the epilogue. Those readers who fear that I am still going to be writing the Epilogue in April can relax, because I have set myself another artificial deadline, also rapidly approaching. And, of course, I am no longer constrained by the writer’s device of attempting to keep the reader in suspense from one episode to the next.

On Thursday I am going to Virginia for reasons wholly unrelated to Dr. T. He and I have planned to spend Saturday. and possibly Sunday, night together, and he has a Super Bowl bet to pay off. Whether that happens or not, the “end” of this story will be posted before I go to Virginia. One of the reasons for that is that I obviously have a strong aversion to seeing Dr. T with an “open” narrative about the two of us pending – this isn’t a diary after all. Another reason is that sometime last week I came to the realization that I have to stop writing about Dr. T. I also may have reached the firm conviction that I really cannot see him again. There’s more on that below, as the writing of this section spanned most of the past week. Anyway, there has to be an end to this story somewhere…and it might as well be soon.

I told Dr. T when I agreed to meet him in New Orleans that I was only coming to tell him goodbye, and I did tell him, unequivocally, goodbye in New Orleans. That was the first weekend in November. But here I am in February planning to see him next weekend in Virginia. I told him when we made these plans, just as I told him before I met him in New Orleans, that I would not under any circumstances see him again after we part company in Virginia. I expect to repeat that to him in person next week. Honestly, I’m not sure that even I believe what I’m saying about that subject anymore, so how can I expect him to? I now think that if I want either one of us to believe that we’re done then I have to show Dr. T (and myself) that I mean it – by not seeing him next weekend.

Some of you have written to me asking, in effect, why not keep seeing Dr. T every few weeks/months since it’s obvious you still care for each other? Why can’t you just enjoy each other’s company for what it is, understanding he’s married and is going to stay married? Dr. T wonders that, too. As do I on plenty of days. But others of you have written of your concern that I was playing with fire with Dr. T last summer and, more urgently, that having escaped the Boundary Waters without getting burned too badly, I am inexplicably continuing to play with fire. I’ve always been aware – “always” since I realized that I really did care about Dr. T and not just about getting laid – of the fact that there was not going to be a happy ending to the story. I can put off the ending and I can prolong the parting, but that’s not going to change the ending.

I knew that, finally, believed that deeply, if not in Minnesota, then certainly by the time he and I first communicated after we had returned to our “real” lives. I knew it in Minnesota, but there was still in me some spark of hope against hope that something would happen to make this story different, different from all  of the other gay-man-falls-for-straight-man stories that I have heard. No particular event made me come to realize that my story was not going to be different, but agonizing about that question for the first three or four weeks after Minnesota helped me understand that that was no way to live a life. I knew there was simply no incentive for Dr. T to change anything, and since I was and remain resolutely opposed to being the catalyst of a change in his marital status, there really wasn’t anything else for me to do, after we said “hello” again near the end of September, other than to say “goodbye.”

Having recognized that, and having told him so, you would be right in asking, ‘Then why did you even go to New Orleans?’ The answer is simple: for purely selfish reasons. I congratulated myself after that weekend, saying that it was bittersweet, saying that I had no regrets about either ending our relationship or in going to spend one last weekend with him in New Orleans. And I suppose that’s still true, no regrets, that is, but I’m essentially (not quite) in the same emotional place in which I found myself in September. And November. There is still not going to be a happy ending and I am still, or again, hung up on a guy with whom there can be no future.

That we made it a long good-bye in New Orleans did not cause me to seriously reconsider the decision I had made before I agreed to meet Dr. T, despite some fairly effective persuasion administered by Dr. T in a suite at the Windsor Court - fucking there is about as fucking far from fucking on a rocky fucking tent pad in the Boundary Waters as one can fucking get. If anything, though, being luxuriously intimate with Dr. T for two nights in New Orleans, and then taking him to the airport that Sunday so he could jet back to his family, the whole while trying to “cheer me up” by proposing a trip together “in three or four months,” made me see even more clearly that Dr. T had no incentive, nor any real desire, to be anything more than my occasional lover.

So back to the question of why I felt like I had to “end” the relationship with Dr. T, why some of you have said, “I don’t see why you can’t keep seeing him every so often – here is what I wrote this week to one follower who has become a friend and who had asked just that question: 

“Because continuing to see him is just like an open wound. I was a wreck (so to speak) for a month after the trip before we talked at all…and during that month I still knew that the “best case” I would hear from him, if I did hear from him, would be ‘let’s hook-up sometime.’ Somewhere near the end of that month I figured out that that was no way to live my life. If I could turn off my feelings for him and be his casual sex partner once in a blue moon, believe me, I’d do that in a fucking heartbeat. But what I knew by late September would happen has in fact happened - I can’t (or haven’t yet) put those feelings aside, so what happens is I find myself every day looking for email or text messages that don’t come, worrying about whether I should contact him…effectively putting my life (almost) on hold. Plus, I still feel guilty as hell because he’s married. I did last August, I did in November, and I still do. But it’s not “just” guilt - I care about him, and he cares about his marriage, so shouldn’t I care about his marriage, too?

“You’re married, so imagine if you were having an affair with a guy who lived about 1000 miles away and, at the same time, you were absolutely determined to stay married…well, your guy friend would fall pretty far down your list of priorities, that’s just a fact of life.  No matter how much you wanted to see him. You’d have to be lovey-dovey with your wife and family – you’d even want to be – so you’d have to keep your thing with the guy compartmentalized, keep him at arm’s length, until you could find one or maybe two nights you could be together - then you’d love him like crazy, but he’d know you were leaving in the a.m. and he wouldn’t see you again for two or three more months, at best.

“Now imagine that your guy friend is more than a jackoff buddy – in fact, he loves you, has fallen in love with you, is very much in love with you.  Given that, isn’t he bound to be fucking miserable without you? Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that you even love him – but you’re still not going to leave your wife for him. His feelings for you are not going to be eased by the fact that you love him and your wife. He loves you, but he can’t be with you, and you’re with someone else. He can’t continue like that – And why should he? You aren’t living your life like that.

“So finally this gay man who has fallen in love with you tells you he can’t go on in limbo, he’s breaking it off. You meet in person and talk about it, in between the sex, and after you part, you start to really miss him. Either you miss him, or you miss what he represents in your life.  You abide by his wishes for awhile, but you really do miss him, so after a couple of months you begin to write him again, then call him, with increasing frequency. You are encouraged by the fact that this guy still seems to love you…but your situation hasn’t changed, you’re not leaving your wife (that’s a given in this equation). You’re being sweet to the guy, you make promises about how things will settle down and be different, but all you’re really offering, all you can offer, is, at most, a weekend together every couple of months. Maybe a week in the woods once a year – maybe. He’s a grownup, and he understands that in the meantime you are going to/want to/have to/ have sex with your wife. Despite his seeming maturity, if he truly loves you (and he does), the thought of you having sex with anyone else, even your wife, can only make him jealous, more miserable. Rationally, he understands; emotionally, it hurts.

“Plus, because you DO like guys and, unfortunately, you can only see your friend every two or three or four months since he lives so far away, what the hell, you also find yourself cruising the nearby naval base and getting some cock on the side. You don’t feel bad about that, because you do have your needs, and I’m not suggesting that you should. But you do think it’s your distant gay lover’s fault, in a weird kind of way – HE’S the one, after all, who awakened your previously dormant craving for cock. Yes, you’re still dutiful at home, somewhat, but what you really need is to be with a man who shares your desires. Unfortunately (again), your friend/lover just isn’t around when you need him. He knows, or believes anyway, you fuck a couple (or couple dozen) sailors in between your visits with him. You think your friend ought to understand that, when it comes to the sailors you pick up, it’s ‘just physical.’ Isn’t he doing the same thing? Sure he is. Rationally, of course, he understands; emotionally, it hurts even more than your marital duties.

“Dear God, he still loves you, though. IF you loved him, too, he begins to think, you’d set him ‘free,’ because you do know that he is, if not, miserable, then at least something less than he should be. If you don’t love him, but only desire him, what you would do is keep him available to break up the monotony of banging your wife and cruising for sailors. Whether that’s what you’re really doing doesn’t much matter - because that’s exactly what it looks like to the poor guy who fell in love with you, that is sure as hell what your friend ends up thinking you’re doing. How can he not think that?

“Not surprisingly, your distant lover becomes more depressed, starts drinking more than he should. Fortunately, he’s not celibate, and he does fuck a couple of other guys, too – a couple of guys that he doesn’t care about, and fucking them (or whatever he does with them) doesn’t make him feel any better about himself or about you. It might seem to you that you’re both doing the exact same thing – that you’re both just curing a cock-craving until you can be with each other again. You might be right, but your friend doesn’t see it that way. You’re killing time, but he’s trying to fill a gaping hole in his life. You didn’t cause that hole, but it’s still there.

“Let’s say your friend is a pretty smart guy…he knows, rationally, this is no way to live a life. If he didn’t love you so much, sure, he would just enjoy the sex with you whenever he could get it. He’d be glad to do that. But because he does love you he understands that being with you for a weekend every few months isn’t going to satisfy him; in fact, he knows – or believes – that would just make him crazy, or crazier. The only sane thing for him to do, he figures, is to never, ever see you again. He may even love you so much that he can never speak to you again. You may even, deep down, love him enough to honor that and never speak to him again. Isn’t that really the only ‘happy’ ending there can be?”

I sent that email this week, after Eli and the Giants had won me a blowjob from Dr. T. All I have to do is collect it while I’m in Virginia. I think that email represents my clearest thinking about Dr. T. If I still believe that tomorrow morning, then I am going to cancel the blowjob. I was thinking along the same lines in late September, when Dr. T finally contacted me. I was far enough along this way of thinking then that I had pretty much decided three things, namely:  (1) I wasn’t calling (or texting, etc.) him first. No, I would have never simply parted from him without any words being spoken, but I wouldn’t have called him in September, not sure about October. He knew, I reasoned, that I wanted to be with him and had no real impediment to seeing him; I didn’t know that at all about him, and he did have impediments. (2) It didn’t make any sense, even if he did call, for me to see him again, or, for that matter, to try to maintain any kind of relationship with him. (3) Even so, what would it hurt to spend a couple of days (and nights) together, so that we could walk away from each other without regret?

The regret I meant then was the regret of our having spoiled our last night together by abusing the Weasel…maybe there was some regret over having abused the Weasel in the first instance, but honestly,  my deeper regret was purely selfish. I, we, had missed something altogether better, and more worthy, in playing that other game. That feeling was bolstered by the Weasel playing extortionist in Chicago, in between flights…followed almost immediately by another total loss of self-control, and mutual, air-borne hand-jobs. Yuck, I thought, he deserved the treatment he doesn’t know he got his last night in Minnesota. I figured I probably deserved the same treatment. I began to wonder who I really was.

The Weasel helped me remember. I did not call or text Dr. Tentmate on Day 21. Nor did he call me – and that hurt. Day 22 was a Sunday, and neither Dr. T nor I contacted the other. I alternated between bouts of despair and fury – I would never speak to that motherfucker again! I steadied myself to settle in for a long siege, though I couldn’t tell if I was being besieged. Perhaps Dr. T was just a boat that had become unmoored and drifted away in the night, never to be seen again. I was besieged, not surprisingly, by the Weasel, whom I had mostly ignored, and had not seen, since leaving the luggage carousel after our flight from Chicago. I had been tempted by his many invitations, or by some of them, mostly late at night. Instead of accepting them, I wrote…my installments became longer as my phone failed to buzz with news from Dr. T and seemed to never cease buzzing with opportunities from the Weasel.

When I thought about him during those days, and mostly during those nights, what I remembered was how big and thick his cock had felt under that airline blanket, and how it had thickened even more just before he ejaculated; I remembered him climbing up onto the rock shelf and out of the lake just ahead of me, the sunlight glistening in the water drops clinging to the tight black hairs curling out of the crack of his very firm ass. That ass had been my undoing, I was convinced.

One mid-afternoon while I was at work during that fourth week after our return, resigned to the fact that Dr. T was not going to be calling, and wondering whether I would accept that verdict with grace or would scuttle what was left of my pride and succumb to my own burning desire to call him, I got yet another of those stupid texts from the Weasel. This one said, “blow me stud.” Most of the others had also advised what he wanted me to do to or with him, things like, “wnt ur cokk fckng mi moth,” “need blo job?” or “u cd b lucky 1 2 fuk me.” The specific content, or lack thereof, of the Weasel’s messages wasn’t important. Or so I thought at the time. I had forgotten how literal the guy is.

Anyway, this time, during an apparently weak moment, I answered him: “Horny stud agrees. Let’s meet for beers after work. Know it’s out of your way, but I’ll need ride home after. Bring your toothbrush.” I had a boner by the time I finished typing that message. I had heard from James that the Weasel’s wife had finally changed the locks while he was annoying me and Dr. T in the boundary waters, and that since then he had been crashing on the sofas of various “friends,” so I figured he’d welcome the offer of a place to stay. Looking back on that invitation, I can’t help but wonder if I had been drinking while at the office, though I don’t recall ever doing that. Seventeen seconds after I sent that message, the Weasel answered, “t/p?” “Mulligans, 6 pm,” I responded thirty or forty minutes later, hard again. “c u then…O,” came the instantaneous reply.

While I tried to finish up a little work, I constructed a fairy-tale image of what being with the Weasel, alone, just the two of us at my place would be like. The predominant fantasy had me slowly undressing the Weasel in my bathroom, covering his hard, hairy body with kisses as I worked my way down, finally liberating his fat uncut cock and taking it into my mouth. I whisked him into the shower, a spacious open two-nozzle affair, no curtain, just a step down into a recessed area. It can be a romantic location. He would be spread-eagle, hands again the wall, water streaming down his back and ass, my face planted deeply between his cheeks. Etc., etc. That was the fantasy.

The night started well enough. When I walked into Mulligans at 6:15 the Weasel was waiting in a booth, nursing a beer. We greeted each other like we were old friends. I ordered a beer and we began talking like we really were old friends – perfectly normal conversation, revisiting our northwoods adventure together (those parts safe to talk about anywhere), laughed about funny shit that had happened (none involving sex), talked about vanilla shit we had been doing since. Eventually, he told me a little about his marital situation. I had known during the trip that he and his wife, Chloe (of all things; I guess I had  thought her name was “Mrs. Weasel”), were on “the outs”, probably I had heard that from James, but it had all been pretty vague. Basically, the best I could distill from what the Weasel said that night (and these were not his words), she just got sick of living with him. Perfectly understandable. According to the Weasel, there had been no single “event” which had precipitated the demise of his marriage – the only real event I heard in his tale of woe was that Mrs. Weasel had changed the locks while he was away. He didn’t seem sad or surprised, just matter-of-fact. If anything, I guessed he was relieved.

I do remember the Weasel telling me earnestly, during about third beer, that there had been “no other person.” I took that to mean, “male or female.” But by the third beer, truth be told, I was barely listening to him, just nodding occasionally and saying thought fully, “uh huh,” every couple of minutes – I was really thinking about the Weasel in my shower. I thought it a good idea to gently nudge the conversation toward sex, which was the only reason I was even with the Weasel, not that he had proven to be a poor companion. Not at all.  We were pretending to be just a couple of regular guys catching up, having a couple of beers after work. No big deal. But somebody had to get the ball rolling.

I considered what to say and rejected, “…about your text message…” and said, “Now that you’re single, are you going to date men or women?” Maybe that was too direct for the Weasel, who, despite his text messages (not to mention him pouncing on my cock in my tent or the airplane), probably still thought of himself as mostly straight. He looked embarrassed, and he plainly didn’t know what to say. “Look,” I said, “that was a dumb thing for me to ask.” “No it wasn’t. I just don’t know the answer.” “Fair enough,” I answered. We were both quiet, at a loss for words. Strangely, this wasn’t going too well…in retrospect, I imagine the Weasel had figured I would just hit on him. He didn’t know how to do this. After all, as far as I knew he had never been with any man, including me, in anything approaching a civilized manner. If I want to plant face or cock in his ass I was apparently going to have to seduce him. I decided to take a leak first.

I excused myself and went to the men’s room. The urinal was one of those long stainless steel troughs, maybe six feet long. I stood at one end, unzipped and took out my cock. It was swollen. Certainly not hard, and not what I would even call a semi, but it was bigger than its normal “at rest” status. It looked good, I thought. Just as my stream started to flow, the Weasel followed me in. He brushed against my butt and stood right beside me, unzipping and flopping out his unit. Without any pretense we both checked each other out, and we kept watching each other’s dick as we peed. As I zipped up, I said, “Let’s get out of here.” He zipped up and grabbed my crotch, feeling my cock getting hard. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said with a shit-eating grin.

We got into his car and before we left, to my surprise, he leaned over and kissed me. He kissed me…well. I had never been kissed by a weasel before, and this weasel kissed like he knew what he was doing. About the time our mouths opened and our tongues found each other, one of his hands found the bulge in my pants. He was fumbling for my zipper. “You do want me, don’t you?’ the Weasel asked. I said, “Sure. But not here.” I did want him and I would have done, against my better judgment, anything he’d let me do right there in the parking lot. But the Weasel just said, “OK,” and started driving. He asked how to get to my house and I told him.  I was rubbing his cock fat uncut cock through his pants while he drove, thinking about playing with his foreskin.

After we got on the highway, he unzipped, and pulled his thick dick out of his fly. It was bigger than it had been a few minutes before in the men’s room, but not fully erect. “What’s your position on blowing the driver of a moving vehicle?” he asked, laughing. “Face down,” I said, never wanting to be confused with anyone who would delay sucking a cock that could be sucked right then. True to my word, I buried my face in the Weasel’s lap and sucked his whole cock into my mouth. I’ve told you before, but it’s been awhile, that I love feeling a guy get hard in my mouth. The Weasel obliged by getting very hard, very fast. I peeled that lovely foreskin down and licked the head of his dick while he drove, my hand around his thick shaft. I pulled it back up and then tried pulling it down with my teeth. I’m going to have to practice that some more. I wanted to get to his balls, but really couldn’t, not while we were driving. I could hardly wait to peel the clothes off his body and feel my skin against his skin. I could almost hear the water running in the shower. I enjoyed his cock the whole way home.

When we pulled into the driveway and stopped, the Weasel turned off the car and lights, then hurriedly unfastened his pants, pulling them and his boxers down to his knees, or about to the steering wheel. I said, “Wait,” even as I found his balls with my mouth, “let’s go inside first.” I had the Weasel’s left nut all the way in my mouth and my hand under his ass, creeping toward his crack, when I heard him say, “No can do.” What?? I started to come up off his cock so I could ask him why not, but his hand was on the back of my head. He wasn’t forcing me (or I would have bitten his dick off), but the pressure was firm. “Don’t stop, Joe,” he sort of moaned. I realized he was about to cum so I kept sucking, knowing I’d still have him in my shower in a few minutes. “You swallow?” he asked breathlessly, and before I could signal ‘no problem’ his cum was flooding into my mouth. I squeezed his balls tightly as another rope hit the back of my throat. He relaxed against the back of his seat and said, “Holy fuck. That’s the best blowjob I’ve ever had.” I bet it was, because I was still sucking him.

I sat upright and said, “C’mon, there’s more where that came from.” He didn’t make a move as I opened my car door and started to get out. I bent back down and said, “You coming in?” The Weasel started his car. I said, “What the fuck? Goddamnit, what are you doing?” “Joe, sorry dude, I said I couldn’t stay. I gotta go.” I repeated, “What the fuck?” then added “what about me?” “Joe, man, I’m sorry, not this time. Got to go. You can jack off, right?” “Fuck you, Weasel, you fucking weasel.” As I slammed the car door, I think he said, “I’ll call you soon.” And then he drove away.

That driveway scene with the Weasel pissed me off but, honestly, when I thought about it, I didn’t really care. While most of my plans for the Weasel included his beautiful ass, had you asked me what I would usually most want to do with a guy, I’d tell you that I’m a cocksucker and that I’d choose sucking his cock every time over having my own knob polished. Though I might add, “and, oh yeah, he can blow me, too…after.” So except for my pride, and the lost opportunity to explore the Weasel’s wet ass, having him drive away like that was probably a good thing. I didn’t even have to let him into my house, much less wake up next to him the following morning.

I remember thinking, ‘yeah, I can jack off,’ and stripping butt naked, hard as Chinese arithmetic, then gathering up a big glass of bourbon and ice, some lube and a dildo, walking down to the dock, and edging forever in a lounge chair as the moon rose late over the lake. ‘Fuck them,’ I said to myself, ‘I don’t need a fucking weasel or a tentmate.’

The Very End.

Epilogue 3: Flight

 I did not meet the Weasel at the men’s room opposite Gate 16, nor had I ever intended to. Gate 16 was, in fact, on the opposite end of the concourse from where I sat enjoying my beer. I did receive a steady stream of text messages from the vicinity of the Gate 16 men’s room, imploring me, with an increasing sense of urgency, to show myself or, finally, failing that, not to forward the photo the Weasel had so providentially sent to me. I enjoyed and ignored each such message, finished my beer and then made my way to the departure gate. Unfortunately, a harried weasel was pacing back and forth in front of the gate. I ignored him as best I could and joined the line for boarding. I shook my head in wonder at how I could have complimented his hotness at MSP, at how I had been laying plans to fuck this sociopath. Then I remembered his package and the image of him I’ll never forget of his wet, dripping, hairy ass crack rising out of the lake right in front of my face. So what if he’s a sociopath? I thought. Sociopaths need fucking, too, don’t they?

As if on cue, the Weasel made a bee-line for me and immediately started babbling about the photo, accident, prank, mistake, joke, etc., etc., all too loudly for my comfort. I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the line and over against the wall where we could talk more privately. He was beside himself and, I’ll admit, I enjoyed, for a moment, acting the role of Dr. T’s surrogate.  “Shut the fuck up,” I told him. He did. “You stupid fuck,” I paused for emphasis, not that his stupidity required emphasizing. “I can—” I interrupted him, more gently than I had begun, “Mike, you stupid fucker. Strictly speaking, I’m obligated to tell Dr. T how you violated his privacy and broke your promise to him that you would never disturb his peace again, but —”

The Weasel couldn’t be quiet and listen. “I didn’t…I wouldn’t…” he began again. “You would and you did. Now, why I don’t fucking know, but I’m going to save your miserable life…again,” I said pointedly, as he and I both recalled the time Dr. T had caught him with my cock (against its will) in his mouth. “Now listen to me,” I snapped at him, as our flight began boarding. “Where’s your phone?” He dutifully pulled it out. “Show me your photos,” I said. He did. I was surprised to see five or six photos of Dr. T and me, all but one more or less identical to the pic he had just sent me. One was different - a close-up of Dr. T’s big fat sleeping cock. “Delete them all,” I instructed. He hesitated. “But…but…” he sputtered lamely.  ”Delete them all…now,” I said, “or you might as well send them to Doc yourself. Tell him yourself why you took them and what you’re doing with them.” As he started dumping the pics I suddenly told him to stop. “Wait,” I said, “send me that last one to me before you delete it,” pointing at the cockshot. He sent it to me and then deleted them all without saying another word.

“Now go to your Sent messages and delete all of those, too.” He did. “Now delete every message from me.” He hesitated, but did as I asked. He knew I had him by the balls. Finally, I told him to empty his trash, too. When I was satisfied that all photographic evidence of Dr. T and me had been wiped from the Weasel’s phone, I asked him, “What the fuck were you thinking, Mike? The men’s room, really?” The Weasel tried to force a smile but it didn’t work. He said, “I just…I thought…maybe…” “You thought maybe you would just blackmail me into sucking your dick in an airport restroom? Are you fucking nuts?” That was a rhetorical question; I knew the answer, even if he didn’t. The Weasel suddenly looked…I don’t know…shattered, maybe, as if he had suddenly understood the ramifications of what he had done only when I had labeled it so bluntly. Honestly, I thought he might cry.

“Aw, Mike,” I said as I put my hand firmly on the back of his neck and pulled his ear close to my lips. “Don’t you get it at all, Mike?” I whispered. “That’s not how it works. You don’t do that shit to people.” Even if the Weasel didn’t know how ironic (or hypocritical) that little speech was, coming from the guy who had tried to face-fuck him a few hours earlier while he was drugged, I did. I did, but that didn’t make me hesitate to try to shame him. I dropped my other hand to his crotch and gave him a good little squeeze. “Mike, all you had to do was ask. I fucking wanted you.” The key point there, I had thought at first, had been my use of the past tense. Turns out the real key point was my own cock stirring as I gave his packed package that little non-sexual squeeze. Probably I allowed my hand to linger on his bump just a little too long. Then, coming to myself, I let go of the Weasel’s junk and started to walk away. I felt kind of flushed, I’ll admit.

He had the balls to say, bless his heart, “OK, Joe, then YOU delete what I sent you…and I’ll let you…” I turned and laughed. No way would I ever let go of that ammunition. “No. Not ever. Never. You really are crazy. I’ve stored and sent your crap to four different mailboxes. If you ever threaten me again, if you ever think about threatening me…or tell a soul what you THINK you saw this morning, which you didn’t, or if I ever hear that you have a picture of me…or a pic of Doc…even if it’s a picture of me holding a big-ass fish…I’m sending Dr. T what you sent me, and I’m telling him how I came to have it. I’m not going to try to find out first if the rumor is true. I’m just hitting ‘send.’ Period. Understood?” He nodded very deliberately, then said, kind of sheepishly, I thought, for the Weasel, “You said in your text, ‘blow me, gate 16.’ Do you still want me to blow you? Because I will…” Seriously, he said that. I just shook my head…in fucking wonder at his total cluelessness. “Mike, just leave me the fuck alone. Forever, ok?” I guess my flush had subsided.

I’ll give the Weasel this, though - either he doesn’t know when he’s been thoroughly beaten, or he just doesn’t give a shit - because as I turned to board the plane, he said, “Joe, just tell me one thing…how sweet was his cock? Did he cum in your mouth? How did that big cock feel in your —” I didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying, and didn’t point out that he had just asked three questions and not one. I just turned in the middle of it and went to board the plane. I intentionally took a middle seat between two burly strangers so that I would be absolutely assured of not having the Weasel plop down next to me for the last leg of the flight home.

It didn’t work. The problem was that the flight just wasn’t very crowded, so for starters I pissed off both of the burly guys between whom I had chosen to sit. One of them got up to move and, while he was clearing out, the Weasel showed up and asked the other guy very politely if he could trade him his aisle seat closer to the front so that he (the Weasel) could sit next to “his cousin” (me). I protested that such an inconvenience to my new seatmate wasn’t necessary, but that dude was all too happy to move. That left the Weasel and me all “alone” on our row. “Cool, huh?” the Weasel said as he settled in next to me. Had we not had that conversation just five minutes before? When I didn’t respond the Weasel leaned over closer to me and whispered conspiratorially, “I want you, too, Joe.” Then he fucking winked at me. I sighed and said, “I just want you…to be quiet.”  I might as well have said ‘I want you to sprout wings and fly straight to hell,’ for all the good telling him to shut up did.

I wrote a few days ago that writing about the Weasel makes me hard. That’s true, but it’s more than that. Thinking about the Weasel usually makes me hard, unless I’m thinking about one of our many unpleasant encounters. Five months after our trip, and with a couple or three mostly unsatisfactory blowjobs (the first definitely was) thrown in in the meantime, I still have this intensely physical attraction to him. And I do not like him. I do not like him, Sam-I-am. What really puzzles me, though perhaps it shouldn’t, is how cannily aware of my attraction to him he always seems to be. Maybe it’s real simple, maybe it just shows. Maybe he misunderstands gestures like me squeezing his cock and whispering breathlessly into his ear that ‘I wanted him.’ Maybe he can’t hear past tense. Whatever it is, I want him, and don’t want him, whenever we’re thrown together, but somehow he only seems to receive the first part of that dual signal.  He always receives that part of the signal.

After that flight home – during, really – I realized how dangerously I could, apparently would, act in his presence, so I have purposefully tried not to be around him, much. I’ve discovered, and if you’ve been reading this account from its beginning, you probably knew before I did, that I’m not very good at resisting whatever it is about him that tempts me so. Basically, if I’m near the Weasel, it’s already too late. For the most part, I’ve been successful. Since disembarking at the end of that trip, I think I’ve only seen the Weasel three times. That’s probably right, because I’ve “only” blown him three times; he’s blown me twice, but who’s counting? If you’re wondering now if I somehow sucked his cock on that flight, or he mine, the answer is no. We only jacked each other off.

If you’ve never had some kind of sexual encounter on an airplane, it’s not as improbable or as difficult as you might think it would be, at least if the flight isn’t full. If the flight is full, your only recourse is for the two of you to cram into the bathroom together – one enters, the other waits in line, and as soon as the coast is clear, darts in to join his partner. I suppose on a cross-country flight you could do just about anything you could find the room to do in there; I don’t know for sure, but I did suck a guy’s cock at 30,000 feet once. That is my sole sexual experience (with another person) in an airplane restroom, so I don’t claim to be an expert. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was different. On two other occasions I’ve masturbated in the cabin – late night flights, rear of the plane, under a blanket.

My fourth and final in-flight sexual experience occurred with the Weasel, flying home from Chicago. It was incredibly stupid, and, at the time, hot as fuck. Maybe we would have had a problem if we both hadn’t gotten off within two minutes – but we did. Two minutes of pleasure is hardly worth the risk (I’m not quite sure what the risk is, but it’s bound to involve jail time). As soon as the pilot announced that we could “move around the cabin,” the Weasel took him up on the invitation. He announced that he was cold, rather loudly, I thought at the moment, and got up to get a blanket out of the overhead bin. He shook it out and spread it most of the way over him, and about half-way over me, too.

When I moved to throw the blanket off my lap, the Weasel’s hand shot under the blanket and clamped onto the natural rise in my pants. He looked at me and said, “Just wait…don’t move the blanket.” I could already feel my cock stiffening in my jeans. He encouraged that response with his hand. I felt that familiar flood of hormones that, for the life of me, never tells me while it is occurring that it has simultaneously shut down those parts of my brain responsible for rational thought. ‘Oh, ok,’ I thought as unzipped and allowed the Weasel to pull my very hard cock out of my fly, ‘this seems like a good idea.’ By then my own hand was on his hard cock – I hadn’t noticed him unzipping – and I felt a little pre-cum at its tip. He groaned as I smeared his juice over the head of his cock and slowly stoked him a couple of times. Fuck, he felt big, very thick. He removed his hand from under the blanket and spit into his palm, then rubbed it up and down my cock.

“Wait,” he whispered, and I stopped what I was doing in his lap. He pulled a pair of rolled up athletic socks – footies – out of a pocket (I guess) and handed me one, the other disappearing under his part of the blanket. “Put that on your cock –“ he began, and I started to obey immediately. “Joe,” he whispered, “not until just before –“  “It is just before,” I replied. “Close your eyes first,” he said as I massaged his cock, “and think of the hottest thing you can think of.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath while the Weasel slid the sock over my cock and squeezed it hard. I fumbled with the other sock, trying to get it over his dick, but he said, “I’ve got it. Now tell me your hot thought.” He worked my cock inside the sock – it was plush and felt good. I was clamped onto his own by-then covered cock.

“Tell me,” he whispered with a fierce urgency. I hesitated, then thought, ‘what the fuck.’ I was so close and I felt his own cock growing even thicker in my hand. “Doc is fucking me doggy-style with his huge cock and I’m straddled over your face…you’re deep-throating me while Doc pounds my ass…” “Oh God,” he moaned and I felt him convulse. I kept stroking his thick cock as the sock soaked through with his cum. He never stopped jacking me and I was shooting off into my sock as the Weasel’s orgasm ended. After just a few seconds, he said, “Now, quickly…clean up.” I wrung the last of my spooge into the sock as I pulled it off, wiping as it went. “Fuck,” I sighed. I handed the Weasel his used sock back. “One crusty snake,” I said. “Two crusty snakes,” he replied, as he removed his own and zipped up. “You zipped?” he whispered. I nodded and he announced, again rather loudly, I thought, “Now I’m fucking hot.” ‘Indeed you are,’ I thought, as the Weasel threw the blanket off. The whole exercise couldn’t have taken three minutes.

Not until the next day did I really begin to miss Dr. T. I don’t know what there is to say about that. I missed him terribly and started counting the days until we could talk. I wondered about what he was thinking constantly. I suppose that was my biggest concern. Being apart from T would have been much more bearable with some assurance from him that he was missing me just as much. The uncertainty on that front, however, was really the point. How would he react toward me in three or four weeks? Why the fuck had I said “three or four weeks” anyway? Why not “three weeks” or “four weeks,” one or the other?

Even the ambiguity as to when it would be OK to contact him created anxiety. At first, I never doubted that I would contact him on the 21^st day after our separation at MSP, but as those first two weeks ground on, I began to wonder if I shouldn’t wait to see if he would contact me. So maybe I wouldn’t call or text him at the three-week point…maybe I would wait. Surely I’d hear from him that day…or the next. I’d wait four weeks, then call him if I hadn’t heard from him. Or maybe I should wait four-and-a-half weeks? Fuck, I thought, if I haven’t heard from him by then, why bother to call him at all? But what if he were thinking the same thing? I felt like a helpless teenager again, and really had no idea what I would do when three weeks had finally rolled by. One thing I knew I wouldn’t do is sit by the phone…but that’s not very practical when we all keep smart phones at our sides 24/7.

That was my crazed, circular thinking throughout those first couple of weeks. I started writing this account of my adventures with Dr. T during that second week as a way of keeping my mind off the immediate future. I ran head-on into a brick wall pretty quickly when I realized I couldn’t write a breezy little story about getting laid in the woods without facing both the past and the future. I either had to quit writing or I had to be ruthlessly truthful. That’s about the time it hit me that to do the latter would mean telling, among other things, the story of our last night in Minnesota. I very nearly folded this whole project at that realization.

In those first ten days or so I had somehow lulled myself into believing, essentially, that the Weasel had forgiven me. After all, we had gotten each other off on an airplane and he texted me nearly every day after that, sometimes several times a day, suggesting that we get together. Of course, he hadn’t “forgiven” me - he didn’t even know that I had done anything that required his forgiveness. I didn’t ignore him, exactly, but I continued to put him off. What in the fuck could I say to him? I found myself thinking, half-humorously, ‘What Would Dr. T Do?’ But that line of thinking was really not very fruitful. And, as always, part of me never wanted to see or hear from the Weasel again. Another part of me wanted to bury itself deep in his beautiful hairy ass.

Epilogue 2: More Weasel than Tentmate

Less than an hour after Dr. Tentmate and I had parted company at the site of Senator Craig’s arrest – the place where Dr. T had said unequivocally, “I love you, Joe” – I had told the Weasel I thought he was “so fucking hot.” I had no idea how quickly I was going to regret flirting with the Weasel. With the guy I had just spent the last five or six hours alternating between hoping he had gotten left behind in Ely and hoping he hadn’t, but still dreading having to face him. The guy whom, less than twelve hours earlier, Dr. T had drugged and stripped, played with his cock, then passed him off to me to fuck his unconscious face and then jack off all over him while Dr. T plugged me from behind as I straddled the dude’s prone body. The same guy I had punched in the face about 24 hours earlier while he was crushing my balls. That guy.

Sure, I was relieved – in a way – to find out that the Weasel was still alive and had somehow managed to leave the motel room the three of us were sharing by walking right by the bed on which Dr. T and I lay naked (I presumed still in each other’s arms) without noticing anything amiss. Despite my still-growing feelings of remorse over the night before, I was tremendously relieved that the Weasel had mistaken my jizz on his belly, shirt and face for his own, and I had been all too happy for him to accept the blame. All of that was an immediate relief, to be sure…and yet…and yet…something didn’t fit.

I managed, mercifully, to avoid having to sit anywhere near the Weasel on the first leg of the flight home. I needed to think, not that thinking had done me much good in the past few hours. Something didn’t fit. In fact, the more I did think about the night before, the scene in the room, the Weasel’s explanation for his disappearance sometime between 1:00 a.m. and 4:30 a.m., pretty much none of it fit. On the flight to Chicago, I replayed the midnight scene and the presumed 4:00 a.m. scene over and over again, overlain with the Weasel’s airport explanation of his disappearance and shocking admission of…apparent masturbation. When did the Weasel start worrying that I might think he masturbated?

The guy had grabbed my bonerized balls underwater and sucked my cock without permission, for Christ’s sake; he had all but begged to join in a three-way with Dr. T and me; he had engaged in a mutual (and pretty fucking hot) grope-fest with me by the campfire…Fuck, just the night before he had unzipped his thick uncut cock and unabashedly started stroking it in front of me while Dr. T was in the shower! No, that guy wouldn’t have been embarrassed to wake up and discover that he had been discovered en flagrante post-jackoff by two guys with whom he desperately wanted to get off. Shit, if anything, that’s a scene he would have staged if he had thought of it – and, of course, if he hadn’t been drugged. I concluded, with a groan, that I had been had. There was, had to be, another shoe waiting to drop. I couldn’t figure out what he knew, but I knew he knew more and different than he had said. Either he knew something about the night before…no, that was fucking impossible…so he knew something about that morning.

I thought through the Weasel’s story again. Supposedly, the Weasel had awakened from a drug-induced stupor and concluded in the dark (without the aid of memory or light) that he had stripped, masturbated and ejaculated onto his face, then passed out and been discovered by his two chums. He had also concluded, again in the dark, that there was cum, dried or otherwise, on his face. Total bullshit, I concluded with another groan. I knew he was fucking comatose when we were fucking him over and fucking over him. No fucking way he knew about that. Possibly he questioned whether the cum on his face was from his own non-shooting dick – but he knew it was jizz and that his “condition” fit with a “jack off and pass out” story. That meant, at the very least, lights. Shit, he couldn’t have found his shorts and gotten dressed without lights. Which meant, at the very least, that he had seen Dr. T and me wrapped all around each other naked on the other bed.

Ok, I thought, so fucking what…he knows T and I are queer for each other…didn’t he fucking know that anyway? Seeing us like that, would he have figured out that the jizz was mine, that we had violated him in some way? Not likely. He might even have really thought he had jacked off and been seen by us…but not unless he had turned a light on and inspected himself. I calmed down a little bit. After all, the Weasel had heard Dr. T and me fucking in the tent twelve inches from his face, no matter how much we denied it. And I was pretty sure he had seen something at “the fucking boulder,” whether it was me fucking Doc or sucking him off…or whatever. He fucking knew already, and now he knew…again. So what?

After we landed in Chicago I bolted off the plane and down the concourse. I needed a few more minutes alone to figure out how to best face the Weasel. I sent a text message to James, telling him I’d meet the group at our departure gate. I heard a ‘ding’ from my phone a few minutes later and assumed it was a reply from James. I went into a bar and ordered a beer, then pulled out my phone. The message was from area code 601 but I didn’t recognize it. Not James’s, because I had his number saved by name. When I opened the message I was looking at a photograph of Dr. T and me sleeping naked on the bed together. I couldn’t get that message closed fast enough. I cased the joint like a bank robber, then took another look at the pic. Nice shot of the Doc’s flaccid, floppy cock. We weren’t entwined but we were close, and I was on my side facing Dr. T.

While I was checking out Dr. T another message arrived from the same number. “This is mike,” I read, “meet @ men’s opp gate 32.”  I considered the situation. Just another crisis to manage, no big deal. “No,” I replied, “I’m drinking a beer.” Then I added, “Fuck you.” “gate 32 now,” came the immediate response. “LMAO as I 4wd pic to Doc,” I texted, and I really was laughing my ass off at the thought of the Weasel reading my clever message. I imagined Dr. T receiving my text explaining that the attached photo had just been sent to me by the Weasel. Dr. T would have been in between flights at whatever layover airport he had been routed through – Pittsburgh? – and I saw him in my mind’s eye charging to the nearest ticket agent and re-routing his flight straight to the Weasel…best case, he’d arrive at our destination even before we did, and Dr. T would be there to greet the Weasel when he got off the plane.

Of course, I wasn’t really going to bring Doc’s particular problem-solving skills to bear on this little problem, at least not that quickly, but the thought of the Weasel’s probable reaction to my message cheered me immeasurably. I enjoyed my beer as I stored the photo of Dr. Floppycock on my phone. I was happy to have a picture of his dick. “STOP!” screamed the next Weasel text. “Fuck you,” I answered, “and you’re fucked.” I didn’t really think Dr. T would kill the Weasel, but I had no doubt he’d make good on his promise to drop whatever he was doing and catch the next available flight to whatever shithole in which the Weasel was hiding. “where r u?? need 2 talk.” “Fuck you,” I answered again.

The Weasel had just committed what, to Dr. T, would be seen as an unpardonable sin – threatening Dr. T’s relationship with his family. The Weasel wouldn’t even understand that he had threatened Dr. T, but it was crystal clear to me that Doc would immediately extrapolate the Weasel’s grubbly little attempt to blackmail a blowjob (or whatever he wanted in an airport restroom) out of me into a threat to the Tentmate family’s domestic bliss. Dr. T would probably seriously hurt the Weasel and he would certainly scare the shit out of him. “pls joe lets talk.”  I doubted that Dr. T would ever need to hear about this little misunderstanding. What the Weasel had really done when he hit “send” is to provide me with air-tight anti-Weasel blackmail insurance. Oddly, the photo of me and Dr. T that the Weasel took and sent to me was, and remains, a helluva lot more dangerous to the Weasel than it will ever be to me. It is my nuclear option. And I do like to look at it every now and then.

I finished my beer, ordered another and texted the Weasel again. “Blow me. Men’s opp gate 16.” My load of guilt over the previous night already felt lighter.

After the End: A Prologue to the Epilogue

This is Super Bowl weekend, February 2012. Why I’ve finally begun to write the long-requested and long-promised Epilogue to the Dr. Tentmate series now, this weekend of all weekends, is a mystery to me. A mystery because I am a huge New York Giants fan, and we are less than twenty-four hours from the kick-off of, for me, the single most anticipated NFL game of my lifetime. Even the anticipation I felt as Big Blue’s magical 2007-08 playoff run culminated in Super Bowl XLII pales in comparison to my feelings about tomorrow’s game. Let me be clear:  while I am a Giants fan, I am first and foremost an Eli Manning fan. To be sure, I am a fan of Osi, Ahmad, Cruz, Brandon, Pierre-Paul, et al, but I am a Giants fan because of Eli.

The reason for my heightened anticipation, the reason I am re-reading A Fan’s Notes? Because Eli has matured, come into his own…and is not yet at the top of his game, though he is much closer than he was. This Giants team is a better team than the ’07 team and its quarterback is a far better quarterback than its QB of four years ago. While the paths of these two Giants teams appear to be similar, those similarities are superficial. True, in both seasons the Giants barely made the playoffs and had to beat three division leaders on the road to advance to the Super Bowl; true, both playoff runs were preceded by a close, character-defining loss at home to the eventual one-seed in the playoffs; true, the Patriots are waiting as the favorite.

But at the beginning of the ‘07 season no sane Giants fan (which I am not – sane, that is) expected the Giants to be a Super Bowl contender. That was a good team, but not a great one, and it got hot and lucky when it most counted. This year’s team, however, is a much better team that got unlucky - and was decimated by injuries mid-season. It got healthy, hot and lucky when it mattered most, and ended up winning its division. The biggest difference, though, is the way this season’s Giants fought through adversity and came from behind in the 4^th quarter to win, I don’t know, six or seven games. While early on few predicted these Giants would end their season in Indianapolis, few ruled them out. They’re back - and they’re gritty and they’re good. They know how to finish, and they believe.

But what does any of that have to do with Dr. Tentmate? Not much, except that my anxiety about the game leads me, inexorably, to write. And because I’ve been watching the NFL Network 24/7 all week, and have virtually memorized the 2008 game by now, I need a diversion. Also, the simple fact that it is now February, more than five months since Dr. T and I parted in the Larry Craig Memorial Men’s Room at the Minneapolis airport, means that I’ve had a lot of time to process, mourn and heal. Whatever that means.

In some ways, a whole lot has happened. In other ways, not so much. Not so much that I can write 140 or pages punctuated with multiple orgasms at every turn. Enough has happened that I can look back and say that that one week in August was existentially different from anything I had experienced before, or expect to experience again. I am OK with that.  I am also still mourning, although the loss I mourn is “just” an ache these days. I told a friend recently that I still long for Dr. T. That’s true, but I’ve also discovered that I can live almost pain-free without him. And I’ve never regretted telling him that our fling was over.  I am still mourning even though I spent a weekend with Dr. T in November. That, I told myself (and meant it), was “just” to tell him goodbye the way that I had wanted to tell him, and should have told him, goodbye in August, instead of letting that last night get out of hand the way it did. And I expect to see Dr. Tentmate soon - that’s entirely my call.  In fact, I should say that unless I get very cold feet, or have an attack of very good sense, I WILL see him soon. [Note: that trip is now confirmed].

And seeing Dr. T has everything to do with the Super Bowl. You see, Dr. T is as big a Patriots fan, for reasons I do not understand, as I am a Giants fan. And we have a bet on the outcome of tomorrow’s game. I have business that will take me to Virginia in a couple of weeks, which makes seeing Dr. T near his alma mater possible. He lives across the state – I hinted once that he lives in Baltimore, but then I told you that was not true. I dropped enough other hints that some of you may have deduced that Dr. T, along with the Atlantic Fleet, lives in/near Norfolk. Anyway, I let Dr. T goad me into a bet that was designed to ensure that we would get together when I’m in Virginia.

The loser of our bet will owe the winner several very explicit favors. I am certain that however the game turns out, we will both “win”…but I’d much prefer that Dr. T blow me while wearing a #10 Giants jersey than that I have to don a #12 Pats jersey before chowing down on him.  Our situation is not like one of those in which you know you are going to meet an old flame but wonder whether you’re going to have sex or just shake hands. If we see each other, we’re going to have sex. I’m sure that will change one day. In fact, I want it to change, because I think that will mean that we’ve moved on to healthier pursuits. But if I can casually fuck my house guest (more on that below), I can damn sure casually fuck the love of my life.

Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, though, and start rooting for Dr. T and me to “somehow” end up together, let me say straight out that Dr. T and I are not a “couple” and, more importantly, we are not going to become one. I’ve had some other lovers since the end of August – none what I would term a serious thing. (In fact, the word “lover” does not seem apt, but “sexer” isn’t grammatically correct, and “guys with whom I occasionally have sex” is too clunky.) At least one of the guys was, and remains, a Weasel. More about him later, too. Another of those guys was, like Dr. T and the Weasel, also “straight,” a younger lawyer friend who needed a place to stay in between leases and who crashed at my place for almost two months. Fortuitously, Drew, a blond stud with whom I’ve flirted for years, moved in with me about ten days after Dr. T and I said our goodbyes to each other over a steamy November weekend in New Orleans. He moved into his new crib about two weeks ago.

You could say that Drew and I both provided a safety net of sorts to the other. And while there was nothing to our “relationship” except friendship and intermittent sex, and that is mostly over now, I fully expect to fuck him again. Unlike Dr. T, I really was the first guy to jack, suck, fuck and be jacked, sucked and fucked by, Drew. In between those explorations, Drew continued to bang his slutty girlfriend, though with decreasing frequency. The night after I first sucked Drew’s cock he brought Bambi or whatever her name was to my house and fucked her more loudly than I’ve ever heard two people fuck, I guess just to show me that he really is a heterosexual, and had only let me suck his cock to be polite. He fucked her for a long time, too. I showed him the next night that he really wasn’t/isn’t quite as straight as he thought. He’s going to be a bottom when he grows up – but I get ahead of myself. It took some to get there.

I’ll have more to say about Drew later, not because he has anything to do with Dr. T, except for having been my crutch after I broken-heartedly told Dr. T (also falsely, it would seem) that I would not see him again, but the story of how I first got Drew’s cock into my mouth is a good story and I think I can make it relate. For now, it’s enough to say that the nature of my “relationship” with Drew is such that I may not see or hear from him for weeks or he could walk unannounced into my house fifteen minutes (he still has a key) from now and want to play…or walk in and not want to play. That’s how it was (not missing for weeks then, but for days) while he was mostly living here, and that was mostly fine with me. Just so you know, Drew is younger, firmer and better looking than me, but I’m not going to tell you he has a huge dick, because he doesn’t. He’s one of those above-average “average” guys. Oddly, perhaps, part of me can see Drew and Dr. T “together” one day…if I were ever to introduce the two them. It was only after Drew moved out (so he could do his duty to his girlfriend without disturbing my peace) and Dr. T and I made our bet on the Super Bowl that I had the delicious thought of a threesome with Doc, Drew and me. A fleeting thought only. One day, maybe…

I suppose my experiences with Drew also helped me draw some conclusions about my experiences with Dr. Tentmate, so I might as well put this out there now. I had liked Drew for years, and of course I still do. I had semi-lusted after him for years, as well. The fact is we flirted with each other – and the fact that he flirted back with me made me think he might one day do more than flirt. After he moved into my house it took a few weeks before I realized he was a very real sexual opportunity. From the point of that realization, through an awkward and surprising beginning until well after our first sexual encounter, it probably would be fair to say that I was infatuated with him, or at least that I was hung up on him. But I never confused those feeling with love, and I always knew I wasn’t going to fall in love with him and that I didn’t want him as a roommate indefinitely. The threesome idea, however, is intriguing. 

What I feel for Dr. T is very different from my Drew feelings. In the five months since Dr. T walked out of that MSP restroom, I have never stopped loving him. If I was not certain during the heady days of our northwoods affair, nor in the early days of my writing about it, whether what I felt for Dr. T was “love,” “lust,” or “infatuation,” I have since grown certain that it was - is - love. I cannot tell you, anymore now than I could last fall, what exactly Dr. T felt or feels for me. Certainly, I was and am more than a passing fancy to him. I think he’d be happy if I moved to Virginia and carried on a torrid affair with him for a long time, though I might be giving myself too much credit. In any event, that’s not going to happen.

But one of us will blow the other while wearing enemy colors in a couple of weeks, and we’re going to do some other fun stuff to, and with, the other. I have little doubt that the days and nights we spend together will be passionate ones. After that, I don’t know whether we will see each other again - probably so, in a few months, if neither of us becomes seriously involved with another man in the meantime; probably not, if either of us does. I’ve told Dr. T twice (at least) that I am not going to see him again – not that I don’t want to, but that I won’t – and I haven’t been right yet. Sure, I have some concerns about ripping off what is now a mostly-healed scar, but what the fuck?

Yes, Dr. T is still married and, as far as I know, still intends to stay married. You will understand that when Dr. T and I do communicate, I stay far away from that subject. As far as I’m concerned, there is just not any point in discussing it with him. I am never going to encourage him to leave Mrs. Dr. T, and I am never going to be around him enough for him to think that I would urge him to leave her. I’m not going to be his regular lover on the side, either. Apparently, I will fuck him every few months if he asks. Whether it proves to be true or not, my intention is to tell him if and whenever I do see him next that it will be the last time, that I’m not going to see him again. Until the next time.

And I don’t know if or how Dr. T has been making out with the Atlantic Fleet. I’d rather talk to him about his wife and kids than ask him if he’s picked up any sailors for blowjobs lately. I don’t think I’d care so much if I knew he was doing that - and I suspect he’s blown or been blown by more than one sailor since August - but I don’t want to hear about it. What I really don’t think I could stand is hearing that he’s found a special sailor. That would hurt. Our policy on this subject is “Don’t ask/Don’t tell.” And since we’re not going to discuss his sex life since last summer, should the question ever arise as to whether we should use condoms or not, rest assured, condoms will be used.

No, the Weasel is NOT still married, and the Weasel is where this Epilogue should truly begin. I think what I’ve just written is the Prologue to the Epilogue – and that may be enough for you, just a quick update on who’s doing whom. I’ve managed to answer most of the main questions without providing any salacious details, but my intention is to tell some of those details in another two or three posts, at least to explain how Dr. T and I got to where we are with each other, and to tell you a bit more about the Weasel and Drew.

The one question, I suppose, that arguably remains unanswered has to do with the Weasel. The answer is, “it depends.”

·        Yes, I’ve sucked the Weasel’s fat uncut cock. More than once.

·        Yes, the first time that happened it was a fucking miserable experience, which I swore would never be repeated. And nearly wasn’t.

·        Yes, it’s true that before that miserable experience occurred he and I jacked each other off in a “public” place, and that was pretty hot. Which encouraged me to see him again, and which led to that miserable sexual experience I mentioned.

·        Yes, I’ve sucked the Weasel’s cock since that first blowjob and he’s sucked mine. More than once.

·        Yes, I’ve tried unsuccessfully to fuck him. More than once. He’s offered to fuck me instead, but I’m not interested.

·        Yes, I got hard as Chinese arithmetic a couple of weeks ago while telling a friend in California (via email) something about the Weasel and I said that I thought I’d call the Weasel up and suck his cock that night. And I did just that.

·        In fact, every single time I write anything about the Weasel I have a boner by the time I get to the end of the paragraph, if not the first sentence. Like right now. If not for that fact, I’d tell you unequivocally that I’m done with the Weasel.

The Weasel still makes me hard, and I don’t hate him…but I don’t like him much, either.

To Be Continued…

The End of the Beginning: Part 25B

We arrived at the take-out, where we had left our two vehicles, at about 4:00 p.m., much earlier than any of us had expected. The day was not any easier than we had thought it would be, though. For example, the last mile and a quarter was a lengthwise slog across a big lake in the teeth of a stout wind…on the heels of a three-quarter mile vertical portage. Then capped off by dragging our canoes through 500 yards of mud, muck and marsh. But we made it out and loaded the canoes and gear without any problem. Our plan was, it turned out, to go check in at the lodge, dump our personal gear, shower, change clothes, take the boats and other rented gear back to the outfitter and then go find the thickest steaks and coldest beer that existed in a single location in Ely, Minnesota.

Those were the group plans, as dictated by Somebody while we were loading the boats. My own plans included Dr. T sliding his nine-inch cock up my ass, repeatedly, for as long as he could keep sliding it in and sliding it out. I wasn’t clear, however, how my personal plans might mesh with those of the group.  Those personal plans took a huge hit, though I didn’t know it at the time, when Dr. T and I piled into what turned out to be the second vehicle and the Weasel got into what proved to be the lead SUV.  At the time we had purposefully avoided getting into the same car with the Weasel, none of the the three of us could have known which vehicle would pull out of the lot ahead of the other, nor thought that it might make a dime’s worth of difference…let alone determine whether or not I was to be impaled again (in Minnesota) by my favorite anesthesiologist.  Dr. T had been vague, more than once, when I had asked him, more than once, how he and I were going to get the one two-man hotel room – the other two rooms reserved by our group were slated to accommodate three per room. Finally, he had just said that if we were unlucky enough to draw one of the three-man rooms, he’d get us our own room, ‘whatever they think be damned.’ I was pretty sure I didn’t like Dr. T’s fallback plan. But it was better than the group plan.

My friend James had put this trip together and borne, initially, most of the trip expenses, to be reimbursed by the other participants. Along the way, though, he encouraged each of us to pick up additional group expenses – a rental car here, a meal there, a hotel room or three here – which would be credited to our “accounts” and thus reduce the amount we had to reimburse him later. For example, Phil had put the group’s three hotel rooms on the front end of the trip on his card, Dr. T had paid for one of the rental cars, I had covered the other, etc.  I’m sure you could give a rat’s ass about how we paid for our trip, but this is essential background for one salient fact:  When the lead vehicle pulled up at the lodge (before Dr. T and I could even SEE what was happening, let alone try to stop it) the Weasel jumped out and volunteered to put the three rooms on his credit card. While I wasn’t there, believe me, no one would have objected – getting money back or a credit against what we otherwise owed depended on James’s accounting, so it made sense for the Weasel to pick up some group expenses, too.

When our vehicle pulled into the hotel parking lot, just two or three minutes behind the lead car, I saw James, Phil and Brad milling around out front. I did not see the Weasel. For once, not seeing the Weasel gave me a bad feeling, though I couldn’t have said why. But as it turned out, my bad feeling was justified, and it didn’t take long to figure out why. The ‘power’ of making room assignments came with paying the tab and, consequently, distributing the room keys. The Weasel, as a near-rodent, was clever as always. He emerged from the lodge office as we occupants of the second vehicle were emerging. He gave two #21 keys to Phil and James; three #22 keys to Brad and the other two guys (who I’ve never named, because they have really small dicks and are older, are not obnoxious, etc.); and then he gave one #23 key to me, one to Dr. T and dangled the third in our faces.  “I thought I should try to make up with Joe for this morning,” he said as he swung the key in front of our faces, the numerals on it, matching those on our own keys, might as well have been lit with neon.

“The fuck you did,” Dr. T growled, “you’re not staying in our room.” “The fuck I am,” chirped the Weasel, pleased as punch, as he waggled his key in our faces again. By this point, everyone else was lugging their gear up to their assigned rooms; there would be no turning back that herd. Apparently sensing his victory and understanding that it could not be undone without making a really big scene, the Weasel turned and headed off to “our” room, saying over his shoulder, “See you guys whenever.” Then he was gone. “He knows,” I groaned. “He doesn’t know anything. He THINKS he knows. But what do we care if he knows? Or what he knows? I don’t care if he knows you fucked me all week…you already made him admit he’s a cocksucker, himself…fucking brilliant…and then he proved it in our tent…I caught him with your dick in his mouth…and you caught me in the face with an excellent cumshot, I might add…and I don’t know what all else happened between the two of you this week…” Dr. T sounded slightly peeved, the way one sounds when he is overly tired, overly hungry, exhausted, or infuriated but trying not to show it.

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed, “Nothing ‘all else happened between the two of us’ this week. What the fuck are you talking about?”  No doubt I sounded slightly peeved as well, as hungry and exhausted as I was. Then I was, spontaneously, also slightly honest. “Nothing else happened between the two of us…except a little groping,” I amended the record, “And every time I tried to tell you about it you shoved your cock in my mouth.” My amendment made me giggle. To my surprise, Dr. T burst out laughing, too, then said, “Tell me all about  your  struggles in a few weeks.” After we were through laughing, I said, “My real point – I just didn’t make it very well – is that regardless of what he knows, whether he knows anything or not, we’re not likely to engage in the kind of activities I had in mind with the Weasel lurking and watching us from his bed.” “No, we’re not,” Dr. T conceded, understanding the true nature of the problem, “I’m taking care of this shit.” With that, Dr. T stomped off to the lodge office. He returned, however, looking rather sheepish, in less than three minutes. “There’s not another room in the place. We’re stuck with the Weasel.” I groaned loudly. “No worries,” Dr. T assured me, “Plan B.” I had no fucking idea what ‘Plan B’ was and, of course, Dr. T refused to elaborate. “Trust me,” is all he said.

We joined the Weasel in our room, who was lying contentedly on his bed sipping a beer, in our room. He was wearing shorts, no shirt. He didn’t look that bad, I thought, focusing on the treasure trail leading up out of his shorts and spreading over his flat belly. I remember thinking then, ‘Yeah, sip your beer, you smug dipshit…I’m fucking you next week.’ Dr. T immediately dumped all of his gear out of his backpack onto the floor – and then stripped off all of his clothes. He turned and faced the Weasel and twirled his cock…just like I had imagined him doing Monday night when he had taken that fateful piss beside me. Maybe I hadn’t imagined it after all. Or was I imagining it now? The Weasel’s jaw fell open as Dr. T twirled his big floppy cock around a couple more times, turned to show off his sweet, honey-blond,  hairy ass, marched across the room and closed himself up in the corner bathroom. We heard the shower turn on through the closed door. 

The Weasel had not only maneuvered himself into the same room with Dr. T and me, he had strategically staked out his bed. There were two beds on one wall, one across the room next to the bathroom. He had taken one of the two beds grouped together. That way he was ensured of sleeping next to one of us and across the room from the other. There wasn’t a perfect set-up for him if he was bent on keeping Dr. T and me apart, but he had at least arranged it so that Dr. T and I would be across the room from one another and not sleeping side-by-side. It would be that much harder for one of us to slip unnoticed into the other’s bed. The Weasel set his beer down and then, to my surprise, unzipped his shorts, slowly, almost as if he were engaging in a strip-tease. Why the fuck was the Weasel in my room, with Dr. T washing his cock in my shower, all alone, the Weasel now fumbling with his dick?

The Weasel smiled insincerely at me as he at last freed and flopped out his cock, then started stretching his foreskin. That fucker knew I was a sucker for foreskin-stretching.  The Weasel kept playing with his dick and, as I recall, was hard in virtually no time. I think I was, too. Next thing I knew, the Weasel started stroking his cock like I wasn’t even in the room. I mean, that fucker even spit into his hand and twisted his cock all around. What the fuck? I swear to God I have lived X number of years [I know you want to know] and excepting this trip, and except by mutually pre-arranged agreement, I have never seen some guy flop out his cock and start stroking it. In my experience that just doesn’t happen. And yet on this trip that had now happened twice – the Weasel now in our room with Dr. T in the shower, and Dr. T on Monday night.

My thought at the time was that the two instances could not have been more different – but that was my non-objective instant analysis. Maybe I was rewriting history with that thought, because, as I’ve just said, I’ve had zero experience with exhibitionist masturbation.  I thought that’s what baboons did, and it certainly seemed to me, especially with the Weasel, to be more aggressive than sexual. it never occurred to me that some guy would just flop out his cock and start jacking off in front of another guy. In any event, it was perfectly clear to me that the Weasel was simply saying to me, ‘You don’t exist.’ Granted, when Dr. T had pulled the same stunt on Monday night, I had initially thought he was saying the same thing when he had really been saying, ‘I want you to do this, but I don’t know how to ask.’ Maybe the Weasel was just as confused as Dr. T had been eons – four days – ago.  Fortunately, as I watched the Weasel stroke his cock, Dr. T’s shower cut off. The Weasel pretty quickly zipped his hard cock back up, not even looking at me. ‘I AM going to grudge-fuck you after all,’ I thought, ‘but not tonight.’

As planned, we all took the canoes and rented gear – paddles, life jackets, backpacks, etc. – back to the outfitter and then found a likely restaurant for cold beer and good steaks.  The beer was as good as anticipated all week – I drank Moose Drool brown ale – and the steaks were good enough.  I am certain that we were obnoxious. What was more important, however, for the success of “Plan B”, I later learned, was the seating arrangement.  We had a table for eight, four on each side. Dr. T and I were at the end shoved against a wall, next each other and opposite the Weasel. At some point, the Weasel got up to go to the restroom. When he was gone, Dr. T asked me to pass him something that was at the opposite, open end of the table, ketchup maybe, I don’t recall. What I do recall is that when I turned around to hand him the ketchup or whatever, Dr. T suddenly jerked his hand back from the Weasel’s beer. It was an automatic response; as soon as he realized it was ‘just me’ he reached back over and picked up the Weasel’s beer, swirling it around a few times. “What—“ I started to ask, but Dr. T interrupted, “Just making sure he has a good head…on his beer…when he gets back from the john.”

After a good, long, too raucous dinner, we headed back to the lodge. We had decided that Phil, James and I would take the first car back to MSP with Dr. T in time for his early flight and that the Weasel and the three others would sleep a couple of hours longer and follow in the second vehicle. That meant that the first four of us would be waking at 4:30 a.m. and be on the road by 4.45.  With the Weasel as our self-appointed proctor, I had kissed goodbye any chance of a “last fuck” or any other physical connection with Dr. T that night. I would have to be contented with a four-and-a-half hour drive with him – and two other guys – to the airport on Saturday morning. Not at all what I had planned. But to tell the truth, while I longed for intimacy, I was also shot. I was a little drunk, too, having enjoyed a little too much the taste of a few ice cold beers and then the strange sensation of having ice cubes in my bourbon. I was ready for bed when we got back to the lodge, and Dr. T had had plenty to drink as well.

But I was not nearly as ready for bed as the Weasel was.  He rode back in the other car, but when we got back to the lodge everyone in the other car said the Weasel had been slurring his words and had then fallen asleep abruptly on the short drive back from the restaurant. When he spilled out into the parking lot he looked dazed and confused. Phil had to point him toward our room. By the time Dr. T and I collected some ice downstairs for a nightcap and made our way to the room, not more than a couple of  minutes later, the Weasel was already snoring on top of the covers on his bed, fully clothed.  Dr. T went over and checked the Weasel’s pulse – which I thought, but not too deeply, was a strange thing for him to do. Apparently satisfied, Dr. T then yanked on the Weasel’s leg. No response. He pulled harder. No response. Dr. T squeezed the Weasel’s package. No response. Dr. T unzipped his fly and dangled his long floppy cock over the Weasel’s face, brushing it against his nose, then his lips. No response…except for a deeper snore. “What luck!” Dr. T exclaimed.

“What…what…why”—I stammered, “what’s going on…what’s wrong with the Weasel?”  “Medical intervention. Mike is going to sleep, undisturbed by…anything…for at least four hours.”  I was having trouble focusing on what Dr. T was saying. “How…who…” Dr. T said matter-of-factly, “Blue bomb. For his trouble in arranging our 3-way sleep-fest, Mike has been administered 25 mg. of Halcion. I can assure you that he won’t trouble us for hours. We could fuck in his bed…we could fuck right on top of him…he’s not going to move…and on the off chance he did wake up, he’d think he was having a dream. He’s done.” “What the fuck! What did you do to him? Will he be OK? What if—“  “No what-ifs. He’s sleeping like the dead for the next three or four hours, maybe until Brad gets him up in the morning.” Dr. T paused but then said, “Relax. I take it all the time. I know what it does. He’s going to be fine, well-rested, in fact.”  “Fuck,” was all I could say. Dr. T said, “It’s ok, I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV….Say, would you like to see his cock?” 

I was too old for this shit, too far removed from the fraternity house. But I said, “Sure.” I could blame alcohol, but I won’t bother to make excuses for what happened. Dr. T bent over his patient and unzipped the Weasel’s fly, then pulled out his mostly-shrunken, previously-fat cock. “Hmm…” I said. “Care to suck it?” asked Dr. T. “I don’t guess it would hurt him…” I trailed off as I definitively moved toward the Weasel’s dick. Dr. T flipped the Weasel’s dick back and forth a few times as the Weasel snored, oblivious to his surroundings. Dr. T unsnapped and pulled the Weasel’s shorts all the way off. I stopped my auto-pilot forward progress toward the Weasel’s cock. “This is worse than what he did to me…at least I was awake.” “Correct,” Dr. T said, as he pulled his own t-shirt over his head, “except that you were awake to experience and…relive…the trauma. In his case, he’ll never know…whatever you do.”

The golden hairs on Dr. T’s pecs were highlighted against the bedside lamp. He dropped his pants. Commando. Dr. T was standing there stark naked. Big floppy cock beginning to awaken. “Well?” he asked. “I don’t know….” With my hesitation, Dr. T bent over and slurped the unconscious Weasel’s cock into his mouth. After a few sucks, he stood up and said matter-of-factly, “Salty.” He was almost fully erect by then. I stood there transfixed by this weirdness, weirdness which should have troubled me greatly…but did not. Instead, I took off my clothes, dropping them in a heap by the bed and bent over the Weasel, taking his fat, fleshy uncut cock in my mouth. It did taste salty. I like salty. The Weasel’s salty dick got a little fatter as I sucked on it, but he never came close to really getting hard. Dr. T and I, on the other hand, were both hard as Chinese arithmetic. “Fuck me, you quack,” I whispered breathlessly. “Where?” came his rasping reply. “On top of the Weasel, of course,” I said as I assumed the doggy position over the Weasel’s prone body.

“Are you sure he won’t wake up?” I asked Dr. T. “Positive,” he said as lubed my asshole and fitted a condom over his nine-incher, “but if he does, just shove your cock into his mouth.” “Oh,” I said, “I’m going to do that anyway.”

In fact, I shoved my cock into the Weasel’s mouth even before Dr. T shoved his cock up my ass. That was mostly a symbolic gesture because the Weasel’s mouth didn’t respond – and I did respond to having a pretty big dick pushed fairly abruptly into me. I pushed back against Dr. T’s thrust, but it did hurt. He was not especially gentle. I found pretty quickly that this wouldn’t work with my cock rasping unpleasantly against the Weasel’s rodent teeth. But I enjoyed the notion of being fucked on top of the Weasel, a lot, so I just scooted backwards to allow my cock to hang free. Where Dr. T found it with his hand as he thrust forward with his cock, whispering in my ear, “A gentlemen always reaches around.” I recognized the possibilities for further mischief immediately. As Dr. T fucked and jacked me, I said, thinking out loud, “I’m going to shoot all over his chest.” “Not yet, you’re not,” Dr. T said, clamping off my cock and burying his dick deep inside me.  I had this crazy, fleeting thought that, in abusing the artificially-sleeping Weasel, Dr. T and I were perverting something between us that otherwise had been beautiful, but I was too far gone to stop. 

I soon took charge of my own cock and when I did Dr. T leaned forward on my back, wrapping his arms around my chest. When he was all the way in and draped all over me, I whispered, “Stop now.” He pushed all the way in and stopped, while I jacked my load all over the Weasel’s t-shirt, rocking my ass back onto Dr. T’s cock. As I was ejaculating, Dr. T started pounding my ass again with his big sledgehammer. It didn’t take him long to catch up with me and he came inside me (and in his rubber). “Let’s go somewhere else,” I said after we caught our breath, “I’m through with him,” gesturing to the Weasel, whom we both still straddled. We left the Weasel with my sticky mess on his chest. His longed-for 3-way was over.

Real life events rarely turn out the way we picture they will in our minds, but you don’t need me to tell you that. I can’t say exactly how I had expected or hoped my last time with Dr. T would be, but it wasn’t like this. I had forecast some gauzy non-specific image of a tender, romantic evening alone, passionate farewells, promises for the future. Instead, we basically stumbled drunkenly into a stupid x-rated frat prank, over which I would brood guiltily far longer than I should have, and then almost instantly fell asleep in each other’s arms on my bed. When the alarm went off at 4:30 Saturday morning I hit the “snooze” button and, consequently, when the alarm went off the second time we had to hurry like hell just to get dressed and get our gear down to the parking lot, where Phil and James were already waiting, engine running. We were only fashionably late, but not only had we not had any time to talk again, we had a new problem our hands. I should say we had a new problem on our minds, because saying there was a problem on our “hands” implies there was something we could do about it. There wasn’t.  And it was a big fucking problem, at least from my perspective.

When the alarm had gone off again, I reached over and turned on a bedside lamp. I was across the room pulling on my pants when I looked up and realized there was something wrong with the picture of the room I was seeing. Dr. T was brushing his teeth at the sink in the corner of the room, just outside the bathroom door.  The Weasel was not lying on his bed. He was gone. I hurried over and pushed open the bathroom door. It was empty. “The Weasel’s gone,” I reported to Dr. T. He spit out his toothpaste and looked around. “So he is,” Dr. T said calmly. “What are we going to do?” I asked. “Do?” he responded, looking at me quizzically, “we’re going to get our shit down to the car and get the fuck out of here. We’re late as it is.”

“Don’t you get it?” I said, “the Weasel must have seen us in bed together…naked… when he got up—“ I stopped, remembering the night before, really just a few hours earlier. “When he got up and found my spoo all over him,” I finished. “Relax,” Dr. T said, “he doesn’t know whose jizz that is.” “Well, I’m pretty sure he can narrow it down to two people…especially since they were curled up naked together six feet away from him,” I reasoned. “That 50% doubt will probably be what keeps his lips zipped,” Dr. T said, “IF he even saw anything.” I was not reassured. “Joe,” Dr. T said, taking both my hands in his, “he either saw or he didn’t, he will either talk or he won’t. We can’t do a single thing about either. Except this, and he fucking well knows it – if he did see and he does talk, and I hear a fucking whisper of a hint that he talked, I WILL get on the next flight to whatever weasel-hole he’s hiding in and I will strangle him. Period. He does know that. Now, come on, let’s get outta here.”

So we got out of there. Downstairs we threw our bags into the open trunk and climbed into the back seat. “Have either of you guys seen Mike by any chance?” Dr. T asked James and Phil. Both said they had not, and James asked what was up. Dr. T explained, “When we came in last night he was already asleep on the bed. We both went straight to bed, too, but when we got up a few minutes ago he was gone.” “No worries,” James said, “I’m sure he’s probably just out for a walk or something. He keeps strange hours. Anyway, he knows what time the second car is leaving. We’ll see him in MSP after you catch your flight.” That was that. But for whatever part of the drive to MSP during which I was awake, I worried about what would happen, what the Weasel would say to me – or to the whole group – when I next saw him in the airport. Fortunately, I wasn’t awake for much of the drive, and better luck, I didn’t dream about the Weasel.  One time when I woke up my head was on Dr. T’s shoulder. I jumped up quickly. “Sorry,” I muttered. “That was cute,” Dr. T said, “so cute I just let you sleep.” Dr. T, Phil and James all had a good laugh at my expense. That I didn’t mind. “I think I drooled on your shoulder,” I said.

When we got to MSP James and Phil dropped Dr. T and me at the curbside check-in for Dr. T’s flight, then went to return the rental car. Because Dr. T was flying out of Lindbergh Terminal and the rest of us departed from Humphrey Terminal, Phil and James said their goodbyes to Dr. T then. The two terminals are not close to one another, at least not by airport standards. I had generously offered to keep Dr. T company, see him to his gate and then hop on the train to the other terminal, where I would meet the rest of our crew. When we entered Concourse G, I told Dr. T, “I have an ulterior motive for seeing you off.” “I know you do,” he winked. “No, more ulterior that that,” I said. “Well, what is it, mystery man?” he asked. “Not so fast. You think I’m that easy? Go check in first. I’ll wait here. Then I want to show you something.” “Your dick?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe,” I said. While Dr. T was checking his bags I went over to one of those ‘You Are Here’ maps of the terminal and got my bearings. This was going to be even easier than I had hoped. Looking around me, I located exactly where I wanted to take Dr. T.

Dr. T returned in a few minutes and looked at me expectantly. “Well?” he asked. “Over there,” I pointed, “follow me.” We walked across the terminal and I stopped in front of a men’s restroom. “So you are going to show me your dick?” he said and laughed. “I wouldn’t be the first one to do that here,” I said, “this is a world famous…or WAS a world famous hook-up spot. You remember that Neanderthal Senator from Idaho who got caught playing footsie in an airport restroom stall a few years ago?” “Larry Craig?” he asked. “The very same. Well, he got busted in this airport. In this terminal and concourse. In this bathroom,” I said, pointing at the restroom in front of us. “No shit?! How cool is that?” Dr. T exclaimed. “Come on, let’s check it out,” he added, “do you know which stall?” “Supposedly the second on the right,” I said, “or was it the second on the left?”  We walked into the Larry Craig Memorial Restroom and found it empty.

“Let’s say goodbye here,” I said. “This is what I love about you,” Dr. T answered, “you’re so romantic…you want to say goodbye in an airport restroom…you think of everything.” “Not just any airport restroom…the most famous airport restroom in America…even if nobody remembers the Senator got busted between flights at good old MSP,” I countered, “besides, do you think I’m going to show you my dick in the middle of the concourse?” “Show me your dick in there,” Dr. T said, nodding toward the second stall on the right. “No fucking way,” I said, “no fucking way am I going into that stall with you.”  “You’ve never done that before, have you?” Dr. T asked, “You forget I feasted on navy boys before…until this week I thought guys only had sex in public places.”

Dr. T kissed me then, lightly at first, then harder. I wrapped my arms around Dr. Tentmate and squeezed him tightly. “You will hear from me in three, four weeks…and not before,” Dr. T said, “Remember that when you’re moping around ten days from now…or blowing some motorcycle gang…wondering why I haven’t called…I CAN’T call for three weeks. You CAN’T call – or text or email – for three weeks. OK?” I nodded gamely. “Joe, I love you,” he said, hugging me. And then he let go and started to walk out of Larry Craig’s no-longer-favorite men’s room. At the door, Dr. T turned and said, “And thank you for…this,” capturing the whole bathroom with the sweep of his hand. We both laughed. And then he was gone.

********

I stood there in the middle of the restroom for a couple of seconds. When I heard the door start to open from the outside, I walked over to a urinal and did what I was supposed to do there. Then I hopped my train to the Humphrey terminal, dreading my eventual rendezvous with the Weasel. ‘What would be worse,’ I wondered, ‘seeing the Weasel…or not seeing him? What if he weren’t with the second group of guys when they walked in? What if he had wandered off in a stupor and collapsed in a ditch somewhere? What if he had gotten left behind? What if Dr. T had overdosed him? What if…’

No such luck. I met up with Phil and James at the other terminal and we had breakfast while we waited for the rest of our group to arrive.  All four of them. I guessed, without deciding definitively, that was for the best. I had made up my mind to face the Weasel immediately, or as soon as I possibly could, alone. I couldn’t stand the not knowing. I figured it would be better to get it over with, whatever ‘it’ was going to be. The Weasel obviously had the same idea, because as soon as we had all greeted one another, he came over to me and asked, “Joe, walk with me for a cup of coffee?” “Sure,” I said, “I wanted to talk to you, too.” He kind of grimaced, then said, “I bet you do…but me first.” So we walked. “Shoot,” I responded as soon as we were away from the group, and saying ‘shoot’ made me think of Dr. T. Would everything I ever said remind me of my now-former tentmate? I wondered.

“About last night—“ the Weasel started. “I know it looks bad—“ I interrupted. “Joe, shut the fuck up – for once – will you? This is hard enough. But we’ve shared some experiences this week, some near-experiences, anyway, so I think I can speak candidly with you,” the Weasel said. Yeah, we had shared a few near-experiences – my hard cock in the Weasel’s face and then in his hand underwater, my hard cock in the Weasel’s mouth in my tent, our hands all over each other’s junk by the campfire, my balls in the Weasel’s vice grip just the morning before, my fist mashed into the Weasel’s nose. “Indeed,” was all I said.

“As I was saying, about last night, I really don’t know what happened,” the Weasel started over. ‘Here it comes,’ I thought, ‘get ready for the sucker punch.’ “I’m embarrassed to death, really, and I was just hoping I could count on you not to say anything about it.” Huh?? I was quiet for a good while, while I tried to figure out what the fuck the Weasel was talking about – which might have given him the impression that I was considering whether or not I thought I could keep quiet to our straight friends about drugging him (or being an accessory to his being drugged), stripping his pants off, sucking his cock while he was incapacitated, being butt-fucked by everyone’s uber-straight friend while straddling the poor drugged friend, sticking my cock in the victim’s mouth while I was being butt-fucked by the uber-straight guy, jacking off on the victim’s chest, leaving him there in his drugged condition half-naked and covered in homosexual semen, then cuddling up naked with the equally naked Dr. T and, finally, being discovered asleep in that compromising position by the presumably outraged victim. “Well?” the Weasel asked at last, looking decidedly more nervous. I wondered what I was missing.

“Well, Mike,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I think I can keep my mouth shut if you can.”  The Weasel relaxed visibly. I took a chance, and said, “It’s no big deal, you know.” The Weasel smiled sheepishly. It was kind of cute. I wish he had done that more often. He said, “I know, but it’s still embarrassing. Everybody jacks off, but not everybody gets caught snoozing with their wiener still out and cum all over them.” “Ha!” I said, “we didn’t give that a second thought. Seriously.” “Thanks for saying that, I know I really don’t deserve to be treated so decently by you,” the Weasel replied. And then he asked, “You know the really terrible part?” “What’s that?” I asked. I had already imagined so much more than he could have ever realized.

“I don’t remember a bit of it…not jacking off, not cumming…nothing,” the Weasel told me in a confidential tone, “But I apparently had a helluva orgasm last night. TMI, I know, but I’m more of an oozer, not a shooter…but I had cum all the way up to my chin. I just wish I had enjoyed it more. Go figure.” I laughed with the Weasel. “I’m sure you enjoyed it plenty,” I reassured him, “you just don’t remember it today.” “Well, thanks for being so understanding…when I woke up and felt around…I mean, I thought I’d die, I couldn’t believe you and Doc walked in and found me that way. So I got out of there before I’d have to face you again. Then on the drive down I thought, ‘what the hell, everbody jacks off, I just got caught. Big deal,’ you know?” “I do,” I said, “no big deal…at all. Already forgotten.” The Weasel gave me that sheepish grin again, “Thanks, Joe.”

As the Weasel started to turn back to the gate, I said, “Mike – you are so fucking hot.”

THE END

The End of the Beginning: Part 25A

When I came in Dr. Tentmate’s mouth early Friday morning, he swallowed it all…and then did something a little strange in the context of our “routine”. Dr. T stayed down below with my cock in his mouth until I was completely soft again. That took a few minutes, considering that every so often he sucked hard on me. I couldn’t help but think that, despite his assurances that we would have one more night together, he wasn’t altogether certain of that fact himself.

••••••

Our last day in the woods had dawned, and as Dr. T and I lingered in the tent, squeezing that last bit of juice out of the orange, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of our fellow campers breaking camp and packing gear. Dr. T and I had turned the daily rotational system for matching up canoeing partners on its head. He and I had paddled together every day since Tuesday morning, although I had been “forced” to paddle with the Weasel (by Dr. T!) for the first half of Wednesday. While it is true that I had not paid close attention to who was paddling with whom on a daily basis, it appeared to me that most of the guys had simply followed our lead and were paddling each day with their tent partners. That was certainly the case on the last day of paddling. And all of them, not surprisingly, were loaded and ready to go when Dr. T and I lugged the last of our gear down to our canoe.

There were some navigational logistics to work out, rendezvous points along the way, pointing out that a couple of the lakes had two portage trails going off in different directions, the necessity of choosing the correct trail, and the like - none of which held the least interest for me. While Dr. T huddled and synchronized with three or four other navigators, I stripped off all my clothes and dove in the lake, my bottle of Dr. Bronner’s tingly peppermint soap clutched in one hand. I am happy to report that the forthright manner in which I shed my clothes, if not my cock, occasioned a couple of wolf whistles. My intention had been to bathe first thing so that I wouldn’t have to worry about the now-dried cum in my hair while we packed up. That hadnt worked out, but I would be damned if I was going to paddle all day while wearing Dr. T’s badge of honor on my head.

When I surfaced after my dive and turned back to the shore I saw that the Weasel, a non-navigational type if ever there was one, apparently planned to join me in the lake. I paddled closer to the bank so that I could stand in shallower water while I lathered my hair…and to get a better look at the Weasel’s junk as he stripped. I soaped my head (carefully) with my eyes wide open while the Weasel dropped his shorts (commando, again, I noted) and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He was wiry, compact, well-muscled, hairy and pleasing to the eye, especially with his shirt pulled over and covering his face. I recall thinking that if I were looking at a photo of the naked Weasel with his head cropped out, I would think, ‘what a fucking stud.’ I would even post that picture as one of the ‘Guys I’d like to blow right now.’ But he wasn’t cropped. It’s not that the Weasel’s face was unattractive, but it was so average when he was being quiet, and usually so ugly in some metaphysical way when he was talking, that it detracted from his overall appearance. When the Weasel spoke his personality usually became a visual experience. He also looked better naked than clothed, which is not the case with about 98% of guys his age.

After rinsing my hair I waded up into shallow water, closer to the Weasel, who was wading in, so that I could soap the rest of my body. We met. I was not worried that he would misbehave with six of our friends just a few yards away on shore. The Weasel asked to borrow my soap and I handed it to him. As he took it he lunged at me grabbing my head and dunking me in deeper water. My first thought as I went under was that this was just some childish horseplay from the Weasel- and I suppose that’s true enough - but I quickly learned he had an ulterior motive in driving me farther into the lake and under water when I felt one of his hands grab my junk. I came up spluttering in chest deep water with one of the Weasel’s paws holding my cock and balls firmly - with his other hand he splashed water into my face and open mouth, making it look, I suppose, as if he were just playing some childish game.

Gripping my cock tightly he said quietly, through his clinched Weasel teeth, “You fucking tease. You owe me a blow job. “Could be,” I said, thinking he probably had a point there, considering my behavior around the camp fire the night before, “but if you don’t let go of me now, when I blow you - and I will - I’m going to bite your cock off.” The Weasel laughed - he fucking laughed in my face - and squeezed my junk harder. I felt a blinding pain in my groin and…next I felt my fist connecting with his nose. I didn’t think, or even have time to think, I just reflexively punched the motherfucker in the nose. Looking back on that, I think I did the right thing. He had a height advantage because he was in shallower water, he was between me and the bank, he had my nuts in a vice grip and was inflicting pain, and he was a malevolent little fucker.

The Weasel yelled (naturally) when I punched him and he let go of my jewels to grab his nose, which was pouring blood down his face and  into the lake. I waded right past the howling Weasel without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ securing the high ground and grabbing my floating bottle of soap. I turned back to the Weasel then and said something pithy like, “Fuck you, cocksucker.” I left him bleeding in the lake and quickly got dressed. We - I - had certainly atteacted the attention of all of our friends, who rushed over to me, asking stupid questions like, “What the fuck happened?” I told them to ask the bloody cocksucker in the lake if they wanted to know.

I turned to Dr. Tentmate and said, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”  Dr. T barely shook his head ‘No,’ and as I drew closer to him he whispered, “Can’t leave him here alone to tell the story of what happened…no matter what the fuck it was.” He was right. I turned around and walked back into the lake, so that the Weasel had to pass me to get to the shore and start lying. “Tell ‘em what happened, Weasel,” I said loudly as he approached. To my surprise, the Weasel said to everyone, “Nothing happened. It was just…a misunderstanding. I fucking deserved that. Joe, I apologize…I can’t blame you a bit.” Huh? Someone else – someone with judgment – was suddenly masquerading as the Weasel.

I hoped the Weasel (or the person impersonating him) also didn’t blame me for checking out his fat intact cock and well-defined treasure trail as he walked out of the lake right by me, then turning and scoping out his wet hairy ass, silver rivulets of water dripping off him, after he passed me. I was locked in on his sweet crack as he bent over to pick up his shorts and, sadly, pull them on. I thought I’d probably fuck him in a week or two. Actually, what I thought was that I would HAVE to fuck him in a week or two…or go fucking crazy. For a second, I mused about the efficacy of tying him up - and gagging him - first, maybe slipping a burlap bag over his head for good measure. No doubt it would make the fucking of the Weasel both easier and more pleasurable.  As with most of my thoughts about the Weasel, the one that had me banging him within two weeks proved to be dead wrong, but that wouldn’t be because I didn’t try.

Dr. T had climbed into the canoe and was ready to go. “Let’s blow this popstand,” I said as I hopped in. He greeted me with an appreciative look – as if to say, ‘Now why didn’t I think of that.’ Of course, I hadn’t thought of punching the Weasel either. I had just done it, and now I was embarrassed by that fact. Forget that he had nearly wrenched my junk off; forget, too, that I had been in mortal fear (for a moment) of being drowned by him while everyone else consulted their maps and GPS gizmos; forget all that – I still felt guilty and ashamed at having actually punched the guy in the nose…and 30 seconds later had started plotting anew how I was going to crack his ass. Maybe Dr. T’s expression wasn’t ‘appreciative’ at all…maybe he was just being forced to look at me in a different way yet again. If that were the case, I figured, there was nothing like keeping them guessing. 

And so began the death march we had all expected. Strictly speaking, it was not the death march we had expected - it was worse.  We had known that because of the quirky permitting rules that prevented us from camping closer to our take-out, the last day would be the longest paddle of the trip. We also knew from our topo maps that several of the portages were both long and steep. What we hadn’t counted on was the unseasonably hot weather – it was 80 fucking degrees, for Chrissakes! Nor had we counted on the low water levels in some of the passages that required us to slog through mud pulling our canoes or to drag our boats over rocks. We all had stowed our fishing rods before we set out that morning, understanding that we simply wouldn’t have the time to fish on the way in. What that meant, in retrospect, was that we had harnessed ourselves to an unrelieved day of hard work without any prospect of recreation.

There were two saving graces to our last day of paddling, and neither was inconsiderable. The first was the spectacular scenery - rocky cliffs, waterfalls, marshes, sloughs, bald eagles everywhere, big water, islands, beaver dams and ponds - and very few people, though the closer we got our destination, the more folks we saw. The second grace was having a full day in the boat with Dr. Tentmate, mostly to myself, though at least some of the other canoes in our party were always in sight. The proximity of our mates, together with the need to make time, foreclosed the option of carnal pleasure which had punctuated so many of our outings that week. That wasn’t a “problem” - we had both had plenty of sex (if there is such a thing) - but it was, I’ll admit, an annoyance. I have no doubt that if Dr. T and I had gotten lost that day and weren’t facing the prospect of getting to our lodge after 10:00 p.m., at least one of us would have received a blowjob while lying back watching eagles soar overhead. But that didn’t happen.  We didn’t get lost and we had every incentive to get to base earlier rather than later. Consequently, there were no stop-gap blowjobs to relieve the death march.  I don’t think I’ll say anything else about the paddling or the portaging, except this – Dr. T probably carried 75% of our load. He did it cheerfully, and he did it for me.

Somewhat to my surprise, Dr. T was the first to broach the subject (while we were paddling) of the impending end of our special relationship…the eight hundred pound gorilla in our boat. For conversation topics, we had already exhausted the Weasel’s punch in the nose and what had led to it, my resort to physical violence (for the first time since middle school), what each of craved most (or wanted to do first) after a week in the wilderness, and the relative merits of SEC vs. ACC football. The fact is we both not only expected this conversation, we had planned it, deliberately set it aside until the death march. “Look, Joe, I’m just going to say this,” Dr. T said,  seemingly out of the blue, “Your ‘deal’…the deal we made…is crap, it’s history, I wipe my ass with it.” “I think I knew that,” I said, “although I wasn’t sure you’d wipe your ass with it.” “You can be dead certain about that,” Dr. T replied, “So we’re back to square one. The question is what do you want to happen NEXT, Joe?”

“Booga, Booga?” I responded.  Dr. T literally guffawed, but when he recovered he was all business again. “Funny man,” he said, “Go ahead and joke all you want, we’ve probably only got about six more hours to thrash this out.” “Thrashing will not be required,” I said. I surprised myself that I was the one avoiding “the conversation” now that it had finally arrived. But my clever quips wouldn’t get us anywhere, and they wouldn’t delay the inevitable more than five minutes. “What if I said what I want next is to reinstate the deal?” I asked. You might think I was quipping again, but I wasn’t, and Dr. T knew I wasn’t. He said, “That would be different. I wouldn’t like it any better, but at least time you would’ve made that choice based on a week’s worth of experience and knowledge. Is that what you want? No Christmas cards?”  “Just don’t send me the enclosure, telling me about how GREAT the kids are doing in pre-pre-K, how much you’re enjoying the fucking GREAT new Land Rover, all about your GREAT camping trip to the north woods, etc.,” I quipped back. Even I detected a note of harshness in my last response. Shit, Dr. T was wiping his ass with my stupid agreement and here I was picking over its bones? What was up with that?

“Fine,” Dr. T said, “maybe we should cover Maryland’s chances as a dark horse this season, a friend of a friend has a son who is friends with the trainer’s girlfriend, and he thinks they’re really going to be improved….” “I’m sorry,” I said, “I know you’re trying…a little. But you haven’t really put yourself out there, you know. You know what I want, or as close to it as I know, but you’re the one who has decisions to make. I’m thinking…I’m thinking…that as wonderful as this week has been maybe it WOULD be better for it to end here…That’s not what I want…but I also know this is not going to end well, wherever and whenever it ends.” I couldn’t believe I had just said that. For good measure, though, I added, “And it will end unhappily…you do know that, don’t you?”  He was a “straight” married man with two little girls who wanted to have a boyfriend on the side…these things don’t usually end unhappily for them, at least not as unhappily as they do for the moonstruck gay man…they end when it becomes too complicated, too serious, too threatening, too boring, when a new boytoy arrives on the scene…whatever, they mostly end whenever “straight” guy says it ends. Dr. T was quiet, so I continued, “Maybe we should just say we played with fire, and nobody got burned too badly.”

“And you might be right, Joe,” Dr. T said at last, “but you could be wrong…just this once.”  “What?” I said, “Are you going to leave your wife and kids, chuck your medical practice and move to MY hometown? Or better yet, just send a couple of text messages from MSP and fly back with me? Get real.” “No, of course I’m not doing that, and you know it,” Dr. T shot back, “and you also know the question isn’t whether we say farewell here and now or run off to Rhode Island…or wherever…and get married.” “What is the question then?” I interjected, before Dr. T could continue. “The question, Joe,” Dr. T said quietly, “is whether you will consent to see me again, knowing that I’m married and intend to stay that way. Maybe it’s only, ‘will you consent to see me again one more time?’ I don’t know, you’re thinking too far ahead.” “I have to,” I shot back, “I’ve already fucked this up bad enough.”

“No, you haven’t….if anybody fucked this up it was both of us, together,” Dr. T said. We paddled in silence a couple of minutes. Then I said, “Doc, the answer is ‘maybe.’ Maybe I’ll agree to see you again…because I’ve never been with anyone I ever wanted to see more…but, fuck, aren’t we just postponing the inevitable? Maybe it’ll be even harder next time?” “Maybe it will be…who the fuck knows? I’m just asking you to give it a chance…a little chance.” “And what if I do?

What if we have a grand old time with me as your boy on the side? And then you decide to leave Mrs. Dr. T? How do I cope with THAT guilt?” I asked.  “Joe, I don’t honestly know. You say…you said you love me…Do you? Do you know?” he responded. “Doc, I don’t fucking know. I THINK I love you…but I can’t figure that out…it still baffles me…how can this be love? We fuck in the woods for a few days…and fall in love? Real honest-to-God love? Yeah, it SEEMS like love, but what the fuck do I know about love?”

After a long pause, Dr. T said, “Probably a fuckload more than me…but, Joe, it feels like love to me, too…how will we ever know if we just stop, no Christmas cards…no nothing?’ “Oh, we’ll know,” I answered, believing, of course, that I already knew the answer. I continued, “And it won’t feel any better…or any different, when somewhere else down the road you say ‘Joe, I just can’t do this anymore.’” “Maybe that will happen…I don’t have your crystal ball…all I know, for me, for now…is I don’t want you to think it’s over. Not just for now, for as far as I can see ahead…don’t say the answer is ‘no.’”  “IF I say this answer is yes, or just maybe, will you stop whoring yourself out to the Atlantic Fleet?” I asked. I had decided this conversation had become entirely too serious. Really, that meant that I couldn’t say that day, at that moment, ‘No, I’ll never see you again,’ when what I wanted more than anything else was to keep the conversation alive. For a while, at least. Didn’t I owe myself that much?

“I dunno,” Dr. T said, “would the WHOLE fleet be off limits to me?” I turned around and splashed him with my paddle. Then, despite my poor track record, I proposed another ‘deal’ with Dr. T. “Let’s do this,” I said, “let’s enjoy each other for whatever we are to each other until your plane takes off tomorrow morning. Then let’s leave each other alone for three or four weeks…no Christmas cards, no calls, no emails, etc., let’s see how we feel in three or four weeks from now. No contact, and then in three or four weeks, if either of us even wants to then, we can talk. Or write, whatever.” I figured I’d be counting down twenty-one days, but who really knew? “Is the Fleet off limits until then?” Dr. T asked jokingly. “By no means,” I answered, “sample the fleet, compare, maybe some sailor will completely sweep you off your feet in the meantime…if that happens, we’ll know this was a flash in the pan.”  I couldn’t bear the thought of Dr. T “sampling the Fleet” but I knew it was the right thing to say, so I said it.

“We have an understanding then?” Dr. T was in effect committing me to ‘writing’:  “After tomorrow, a three or four week break, with no contact, during which we…reflect—“  he said before I interrupted with, “Or whatever.” “Or whatever,” Dr. T repeated, “A three or four week break with no contact, after which either of us is free to contact the other and propose ‘whatever’ and the other is free to accept or decline – no strings, but no prohibitions. Agreed?”  “Fuck,” I said, “aren’t you the fucking lawyer?” “Survival,” he replied. “Agreed,” I agreed. “You wipe your ass with your old deal?” Dr. T asked. “I wipe my ass with it,” I agreed. “Good, now that that’s settled,” Dr. T said, “be very clear that I want to see you again, and soon.” 

I thought of and discarded a couple of clever responses and went with my heart instead. “I know you do, and understand that I want to be with you, too. I just don’t want to get dumped in a couple of months or have to live with being the cause of your divorce…. You’d never forgive me, you know that, don’t you?” Dr. T said, “I’ll answer that in three or four weeks, maybe.” “Oh, and one other thing I don’t want,” I added, “I don’t want to be the pin cushion to your pin, on the side, in limbo, while you live happily ever after with your wife…as you promised to God, clergy, family and friends to do.” “You don’t want much do you?” Dr. T said. He wasn’t really asking. “Just the sun and moon…and the stars. I want the stars, too,” I answered. ‘And I’m going to have the stars, too, goddammit, whether his or someone else’s,’ I thought.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END: PART 24

Dr. T gave me the “reverse cowgirl” treatment – me lying on my back, him squatting down onto my hard cock, facing toward my feet. Just as he lowered himself onto my cock and as I began to penetrate him, we heard a voice calling from not far outside the tent. “Joe! You said maybe the three of us could pray together tonight!” It was the Weasel. And my dick was halfway up Dr. T’s ass.

••••••

Dr. Tentmate did not seem to be phased in the least by the Weasel’s very much unexpected appearance on our doorstep. “Mi—” I started to answer, but Dr. T cut in as he lowered himself further, driving my cock deeper into his sweet, blond hairy ass. “Let me handle this, Joe,” he said softly to me. “Mike,” he said more loudly as he rose up along my shaft, “I have splitting headache—” Dr. T grunted then as he thrust down and I rose up to meet him. I was getting the hang of this - we would just continue fucking while Dr. T talked to the Weasel. Simple.

Dr. T moaned softly when his ass met my pubic bone, then continued, “Do not take another fucking step closer, Mike…My head is killing me…ohhh…I want you to recall our conversation when you…offered to suck my dick in the Salt Lake airport four years ago…” We had a nice, very slow rhythm working by then. I had one hand on Dr. T’s broad back and, being a gentleman, I reached around and found Dr. T’s semi-engorged cock. I took my hand back and spit into it, then started (literally) polishing his knob. “Ohh fuck,” Dr. T said, “You with me, Mike?” Dr. T rode up and down my bone a couple of times and I continued my exclusive work on the head of his by-then very hard cock, as we awaited the Weasel’s reply. When it came the Weasel sounded farther away. As I drove my pelvis up into Dr. T’s ass and began jacking him in earnest, I thought I detected a querulous note in the Weasel’s voice. “I remember, Doc,” he said quietly.

With that Dr. T pushed all the way down onto my dick and then stayed put. I could feel my cock throbbing in Dr. T’s rectum as it tightened around me. I spit into my hand again and began stroking him faster. “Good, Mike. Then I want you to know…that I consider your request for a three-way…prayer—” At that, Dr. T stayed my hand with his. I pushed my cock deeper into him. “—to be a ‘solicitation’ of ME…within the terms of our agreement…” he continued. Then he leaned down and whispered to me, “Do that thing with the head of my dick again.” Spit. Polish. Thrust. “Ahhh…Are you clear on what that means?” Dr. T asked the Weasel. Polish. Polish. The Weasel at last said that he knew. Spit. Polish. Thrust.

“Oh fuck!” Dr. T suddenly exclaimed, “Fuck, Mike…my head is about to…explode!” I could feel Dr. T’s body stiffen and I thought by the way he sounded that he had clenched his teeth. I squeezed his shaft tightly and held my grip. After a moment, Dr. T seemed to relax a bit, and he said, “So Mike, don’t make me come out there and…strangle you tonight…with my head about to explode…you don’t want that, do you?” I could feel my cock pressing against Doc’s prostate. I wiggled my dick as much as I could, while resuming my polishing of Dr. T’s knob. “No, Doc,” came the Weasel’s timid voice from even farther away. “Then get the fuck out of here and you can live until morning.” With that, the Weasel was presumably gone. “Pest control,” Dr. T whispered to me. I suggested to him that it was time he turned around.

Dr. T climbed off and remounted, grinding slowly down to the base of my dick, then he leaned forward and stuck his tongue down my throat. He rode up and down my pole for as long as I could take it - which is to say not long at all. He was ready for his own head to explode but I made him hold off until my own head exploded deep inside him. As soon as I came, Dr. T was massaging my nuts - he knew very well how to drive me wild. For about a minute or two after I cum a good nut squeeze will send me over the edge. Then he raised up and I withdrew, temporarily disposing of my rubber. Then I pulled Dr. T forward on my chest so I could swallow his cock.

As I took him in my mouth I had the thought that it was very likely that I would suck that big beautiful cock of his only one more time - the next morning, Friday, our last day in the woods. But I didn’t dwell on that then. There would be time enough for that on the paddle/portage from hell the next day. I banished the unhappy thought and concentrated on sucking Dr. T’s balls out through the end of his dick. I was rewarded with a mouthful of his sweet cum as several hot spurts exploded from his balls. I returned the favor of squeezing his nuts, which were so sensitive that he writhed to get out of my grasp, finally rolling off of me onto his own sleeping bag. He lay there for a minute and then reached over and ran a finger down my chin, wiping off some of his spooge that I hadn’t managed to swallow. Dr. T stuck his finger in his mouth, tasting his cum. “Hey,” he said, “I DO have good taste.” “The very best,” I said.

Dr. T snuggled back in next to me and we lay quietly for a few minutes, his head on my chest, my fingers running idly through his hair. Not only was I perfectly content, but I recognized that fact - so long as I didn’t think about what happened next. I had thought at the beginning of the week that my “best case” scenario was that Dr. T and I would both get off a couple of times, maybe a few times, then go our separate ways. As wrong as this one was (and as short-lived as it promised to be), I had not been involved before in another relationship that had given me such feelings of both pleasure and well-being. Oddly, I also felt a sense of real security, but simultaneously (and understandably) accompanied by an impending sense of doom or dread. I wondered then quite seriously if this - this week, maybe just this very moment - was actually the happiest time of my life. Naturally, then, I worried that years hence I would look back and say, ‘This was my finest hour.’ Being with Dr. T felt so right to me that the thought of not being with him felt equally as wrong. I knew that was a big problem, one that I would have to deal with somehow. I pushed the darker side of those feelings out of my mind for the present.  I wanted to squeeze the rest of the juice out of the orange before I faced the bitter fact of the empty rind.

I broke the silence first, maybe waking Dr. T up or, if not, just keeping him from drifting off. “Doc,” I said, “just so you know, whatever happens…with us…next, I’m…right this minute, I’m happy, as happy as I’ve ever been. I’m loving this moment…for the moment.”

“You fucking think too much,” Dr. T said almost languidly, “I bust my ass for a whole week to sweep you off your fucking feet…and you’re happy for a MINUTE?” He laughed, and I knew, of course, that he was fucking with me.  “A moment, just a fleeting moment, not a minute,” I responded in kind. “I’ll be goddamned,” Dr. T said, “me, I’ve been happy as hell, nonstop, since you first snuck your hand up my ass Monday night.” “You fucking KNEW?” I asked, “Uh huh,” he said, “that’s when I knew I had you.” “Dead giveaway, I guess,” I sighed, “and here I thought I was risking my life across enemy lines.” He looked up and met my eyes then, saying, “Hell yeah, it was a risk. Ballsy. I liked that even more about you. Was all I could do to make you suffer…what? another ten minutes? …before I let you have your wicked way with me.”

As he said that, I rolled over on my side with my back to Dr. T. He shifted into the “spoon” position behind me and began kissing my neck. Immediately afterwards, I felt his hand in my ass crack, in just the same way that I had stolen my feel on Monday night. Yeah, he had known alright. He was just making sure I knew he had known. “Wasted ten minutes, more like,” I said. “My, my, but you ARE a greedy little fucker, after all,” Dr. T replied as he began nibbling my ear. Which I love, by the way. “Kiss me,” I suggested, twisting around to him. Dr. T complied as his hand played with my ass…more deliberately. After his tongue withdrew, I suggested, “Fuck me?” Dr. T paused, seemed to consider the possibility of fucking me, before answering, “No way, man…no can do…too fucking tired…too fucking late.”

I knew Dr. T was right. We were waking early the next morning, would have to pack up and make a grueling all-day paddle with seven or eight portages, a couple of which were both long and steep. Friday was going to be a challenging day. After we returned home, a friend had asked me, “Now, what river were y’all on?” I had replied, “Not a river, a series of lakes.” He asked, “Oh…what were they connected by?” “Mountains,” I had said, with the memory of that Friday still fresh in memory. Of course, I didn’t know THAT on Thursday night, but I did know it was going to be a tough slog. “This could be our last night together for…a long time,” I said to Dr. T, persisting. “No fucking way,” Dr. T repeated, “for sure there’s…tomorrow night at the lodge.” He did sound sleepy.

“For sure?” I asked, “I’m not at all sure…I don’t know how you and I are going to draw the one room with only two guys in it…except through blind luck.” By then I had reached behind me and taken hold of Dr. T’s big floppy cock. “Ha,” Dr. T said matter-of-factly, as I massaged his balls, “Trust me.” I had more or less done that all week, with more or less mixed results. “You’re really not going to fuck me?” I asked, almost in disbelief, yanking his cock playfully. Had Dr. T EVER demurred from sex? He stifled a yawn and said, “Not tonight…I told you this morning I wasn’t going to….Look, I haven’t slept in two days…I took some…medicine…earlier.” What I had had on my mind was the worry that we would not, despite Dr. T’s eternal optimism, have a room to ourselves the following night…which, in my mind (and in truth), meant that I might never again feel Dr. T’s thick nine-inch cock inside me. Mentally, I added another small worry – with what was Dr. T self-medicating himself?

I let that last thought pass and turned around to face him, wrapped him in my arms and kissed him. “Tomorrow night?” I asked. Dr. T kissed me back. He answered, “I promise, no matter what.” As I drifted off to sleep, I heard Dr. T whisper sleepily, “I love you, Joe.”  Or did I dream that? He was snoring lightly in no time after that. I suppose I must have been, too.

If I dreamed anything else that night I didn’t remember it when I woke up Friday morning. I slept like a stone. I awakened about dawn, with the sky just beginning to lighten. It took me a minute to get my bearings. I knew where I was but the fact that this was our last morning in the woods didn’t immediately register. When it did, I did exactly what I always do when I wake up next to some guy I like but know I might never sleep with again - I started sucking Sleeping Beauty’s dick. In truth, it’s not just the idea that this could be my ‘last chance’ that motivates me in such situations. I like a fat, soft dick in my mouth. Really, who doesn’t? I like to feel a big, spongy, floppy cock stiffen in my mouth. I love the pleasant surprise with which my partner awakens. I’m an early bird. I get the worm. Mostly, I’m a cocksucker and I don’t take a pass on an opportunity to blow a defenseless naked man sleeping peacefully next to me. Especially not a defenseless naked man with a big, floppy cock…who might have told me the night before that he “loved” me. Not only that, Dr. T had grown accustomed to waking with his morning wood fully sprouted in my mouth. I didn’t want to - and did not - disappoint him.

I nuzzled Dr. T’s fat balls and cock, licked at the head of his dick, took just his big mushroom head into my mouth, felt his cock begin to swell, ran my tongue up and down the underside of his shaft - all before I felt him stir, then heard him grunt with pleasure as he awakened to the reality of a very fine blowjob in progress. His fingers found my head, massaged my scalp, then traced the outline of my face, as they had our first night together (as sexual partners). I “worked” slowly, methodically, unpredictably on his nuts and swollen cock. Occasionally, I heard the sounds of others waking up and moving about the camp, but mostly I was focused intently on delivering the maximum amount of oral pleasure I could give for as long as I could get away with giving it.

When I heard someone crunch by on the gravel path next to our tent on the way to the latrine, and then yell out in our direction, “Rise and shine, sleepyheads!,” I knew the game was just about up. I started massaging Dr. T’s balls and running my hand up and down his wet cock as my mouth rose and fell on it with increasing speed. As Dr. T’s body began to tense I squeezed his cock hard at its base and swallowed as much of him as I could. When I released my hold on his dick I felt, then tasted, a hot jet of his sweet cum shoot into the back of my throat. And another. And then another. I squeezed his nuts, which made Dr. T jerk away involuntarily as another spurt landed mostly in my hair. Memo to self:  ‘Wear a cap when you go bathe, which should be the very first thing you do when you leave the tent.’

After a couple of minutes, I started to get up, intent on washing the cum out of my hair and then packing up.  Dr. T growled and tackled me, landing on top of me on my sleeping bag. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. Before I could answer, his mouth was on my cock, my cock was in his mouth, so I only said, “Mmm…nowhere?” He looked up at me over my dick as his tongue lapped my balls. “Nowhere is right…I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you leave…unattended. My tentmate, who had been blown by half the Atlantic Fleet and had blown at least a few of them himself, tended to me like any first-class seaman away on a long cruise would have done.

When I came in his mouth, he swallowed it all…and then did something a little strange, strange at least in the context of what our “routine” had become on this trip. Dr. T stayed down below with my cock in his mouth until I was completely soft again. That took a few minutes, considering that every so often he sucked hard on me. I couldn’t help but think that, despite his assurances that we would have one more night together, he wasn’t altogether certain of that fact himself.

A Plethora of Cock: Part 23C

The other thing I learned that afternoon, demonstrated by the second largest penis in our group, is the “proper” way to piss out of a canoe…in the middle of the lake, when pulling over to the bank is impractical or not helpful. The real problem in a canoe, even in perfectly placid water, is to ensure that your stream enters the larger stream and does not splash in the boat, without tipping the canoe over by leaning toward the side. To understand the value of this technique, you have to know that the first rule of canoeing is that you never, ever let go of your paddle. This is really a carryover rule from whitewater paddling - canoes or kayaks - where to let go of your paddle when your boat flips could mean losing it forever (I once walked more than a mile down a stream in flood to find and collect my paddle after a wipeout). But the principle is the same in a lake - when you stand in a canoe to piss, your boat is at least as much at risk for flipping as when running good-sized whitewater.

So with Rule No. 1 in mind, how to stand up in a flexible, tippy Kevlar canoe, take out your johnson out and pee…all without letting go of your paddle…and without pissing on yourself? Simple…the best part is that I was invited to watch my big-dicked friend perform this super-human feat, so I didn’t even have to feign disinterest and try to steal a glance. The fact of the invitation also underscores what I like so much about James - if you can put aside any prejudice you might have against watching another guy take a leak (not a problem of mine - I love it because it reminds me of my early adolescence when my cock-love was awakening and pissing next to a bud might be my best chance to see his dick), you ought to appreciate a straight guy with a premium cock actually asking that his known-to-be-a-cocksucker friend  watch him pull out his unit and whiz. Seriously, I wished that happened more often.

The trick is this: 1. Unzip your pants (optional: and pull out your package) while still seated. 2. Brace the paddle across the thwarts and stand - slowly.  3. If not accomplished in Step 1, with paddle secured in one hand, pull your cock out of your fly with your other hand. 4. Push the paddle blade up under your junk, directing its handle down, over the side of the canoe and toward the lake. [If the blade is white and your cock is large, this makes for an exceptionally pleasing display]. 5. Pee.  6. Watch your stream shoot straight down the paddle, over the gunwales and into the lake…without having to lean toward the edge of the boat (which you cannot do in a canoe and remain upright). 7. Rinse paddle thoroughly, leaving your junk flopping in the breeze and on display for as long as possible, only repacking and zipping back up when there is nothing left to do. 8. Sit down, resume fishing and ostentatiously adjust your package a couple of times.

I can tell you that when James did all of this on the way back to camp, he not only imparted valuable information, he entertained me immensely.  I complimented James both on his dexterity and on his unit, reminding him that I was always available if he should need an extra hand…or a blowjob.  He thanked me graciously but did not take me up on my offer.

•••••

At our fish dinner that night around the camp fire I saw the Weasel for the first time since the Reverend Dr. T had banished him from our sight, immediately after he had blown me without my permission that morning. He sat apart, picking at his fish, looking generally morose. Because of my inordinate sense of guilt, I felt sorry for the poor fucker, looking at him there all alone. I took my plate and sat down beside the Weasel. I tried to make small talk with him, but to no avail.

Unlike the previous day, when I enticed the Weasel into skinny-dipping with the rest of us, I was not motivated by a desire to see his fat uncut cock again (though I would not have objected), nor to keep him in “reserve” for a sexual emergency once we returned home. Dr. T’s unhappy Weasel tale (and the Weasel’s almost-rape of me!) had pretty much scotched such thoughts. Even so, while I was no longer secretly planning an accidental encounter with the Weasel’s hairy ass crack, candor requires me to admit that I had not entirely ruled out a private post-trip reunion with him. [As I write this a couple of months after the events described, I have more information than you do about the Weasel in his natural habitat, but it would skew the narrative to inject that here].

The Weasel responded to none of my kindly attempts to strike up a conversation. Since we were sitting away from the group, on the other side of the fire and partially in the shadows, to get his attention I simply spread my legs more widely apart, which had the inadvertent benefit of pressing my thigh against his. You might have done something similar to that at some time, innocently feeling the warmth of the flesh of someone you wanted to fuck pressed against your own, completely by accident. It never lasts long, and certainly not long enough, but rarely occasions a negative reaction. In this case, however, the Weasel was all negativity. “That’s right, slut, spread your legs,” he hissed at me. But he did not pull his thigh away from mine. “I may be a slut,” I answered, “but I’m still accustomed to having a choice about whether, when and where somebody sucks my dick…and who that somebody is.” As I said that, I pressed my thigh against his a little harder, just for emphasis. He didn’t recoil this time either. Hmm.

“You act like you want some more of that action,” the Weasel said. ‘No gray area,’ I thought. I retracted my leg immediately, breaking the electric connection that had fleetingly existed between us, and said, “Fuck you, Weasel, I had the crazy thought that, in spite of everything, I’d try to be your friend.” The Weasel pressed his thigh back against mine. Oh fuck! He might as well have grabbed my cock. With the Weasel aggressively pressing his flesh against mine, I felt my cock stir. “You don’t give a shit about making friends,” he said, “You just want to see what you can get.” OK, he wasn’t always as stupid as I had thought he was. But what I heard next surprised me even more - it was my own voice whispering, “What CAN I get?” I looked across the fire and saw that Dr. T was fully engaged in telling more of his fishing lies. I had out-fished Dr. T that afternoon, just as I had most of the week. But I wasn’t standing around bragging about it.

The Weasel’s hand dropped into my lap, cupped around my nuts, squeezing lightly. As the pressure of the Weasel’s grip steadily increased, I remember thinking - as if I were some disinterested observer - ‘This is just like Doc described…you either pull away or you’re sporting a boner PDQ…then your dick takes over the thinking.’ I didn’t pull away. I was sporting a boner PDQ. My dick took over the thinking. “With a dick like yours, you can get pretty much whatever you want,” the Weasel purred, as he continued to work on my cock through my shorts. I shifted my legs so that he could get a better, unobstructed, grip. He did. “Unzip me,” I whispered hoarsely. “Are you fucking crazy?” he asked. “I don’t know, but they can’t see shit…Unzip me,” I suggested again. “C’mon,” the Weasel offered, “let’s go behind that tent—” “Fucking take my cock out NOW or I’m going to cum in my pants,” I insisted. The Weasel had no fucking idea how crazy he was making me, nor of how I hot I found the “the idea” of being with the Weasel - as opposed to actually being with the Weasel.

‘I really am going to cum in my pants,’ I thought. Then I remembered a lesson I had supposedly learned about missed opportunities the day before in the lake with the Weasel…and I reached down and planted my hand firmly in the Weasel’s generously bulging crotch, squeezing him in the same manner the Weasel had just taught me.   I thought about the bulge in his maroon gym shorts from that morning that I had so nearly grabbed, about the perfect, well-defined trail running up out of those shorts, fanning out across his belly, flowing up to and around his nipples…I could feel his hard cock straining beneath the fabric and began fumbling for the zipper on his shorts. “Mike,” I said urgently, “Stop…or I’m gonna cum.” I pressed my hand down on top of his to make the point. “Stop,” I repeated, looking around - seeing Dr. T still telling fish tales - for a place we could go, and quickly.

The Weasel did stop then, whether he cared that I might cum in my shorts, or he followed my gaze to Dr. T, which reminded him his life was forfeit, I do not know. The Weasel let go of my cock and unzipped his own fly instead. His intact unit fairly sprang out of his fly. I reached over and did something I had never done before: I rolled the foreskin down off the head of an uncut cock. Then I rolled it back up. ‘Cool,’ I thought. But I didn’t get to repeat that very interesting process. 

Just then, Dr. T called out, “Hey, Joe!” and started walking toward us. The Weasel hastily took his cap off his head and dropped it over his cock, then put his hand on his cap. “Come tell that joke you told me this morning…I just fucked it up…I’m terrible with jokes,” Dr. T said. “Joke?” I asked. I had no idea what joke I had told. “You know, the ‘booga booga’ joke?” Dr. T replied. “Aw, Doc, that joke is so old, everybody’s heard it,” I answered. I did not feel like performing then. Brad and Phil then piped up from across the fire, “Get your ass over here and tell your lame-ass joke!”  James chimed in as well. “OK, OK…let me get a drink first,” I finally agreed, then added, “C’mon, Mike…you like ‘booga booga,’ don’t you?” “I don’t know what ‘booga booga’ is,” Mike answered. I hoped the Weasel was zipping back up while I made my drink. Bourbon, no ice, a splash of filtered lake water. And then I told this lame joke, which most of you probably know [but if I don’t put it in here, somebody is going to ask for it].

“OK, so there were these two missionaries,” I began, “down in the deepest, most isolated part of the Amazon jungle. They were stumbling around lost, trying to find a particular peaceful stone-age tribe to convert…when they were instead captured by a hostile band of headhunters. They were trussed up and taken back to the village, where the missionaries were presented to the chief. The chief, who apparently spoke some English, tells the two of them that they have trespassed on sacred tribal ground, for which they must be punished according to tribal law. ‘What’s the punishment?’ the first missionary reasonably asked. The chief replied, ‘It fair, you choose.” ‘What’s the choice?’ asks the second missionary. ‘Can be death…or booga booga,’ says the chief. Now the first missionary asks, ‘But what is booga booga?’

“The chief is growing impatient, as are all the tribesmen. He says angrily, ‘No more questions! Time to choose!’ Then he points at the first missionary and says, ‘You choose…death or booga booga!’  The first missionary says to his friend, “May God be with us…I don’t want to die…there can’t be anything worse than death.” So he tells the chief, ‘I choose booga booga.’  The tribesmen go wild, chanting, ‘Boo-ga! Boo-ga! Boo-ga!’ Some of them grab the first missionary and strip off his clothes off while the others are dancing around them in a circle. The first missionary is bent over a great big log and his hands and feet are staked down, spread-eagle. Then the tribesmen line up behind him and all of them take turns fucking him in the ass, while the second missionary watches in growing horror. There are a lot of tribesmen and this takes quite a while.

“Finally, all of the warriors had fucked the first missionary and they cut him free. He crawls back over to his friend. He can barely speak, but he says, ‘I was wrong…nothing could be worse than booga booga.’  The chief then points to the second missionary and says, ‘Your turn choose…death or booga booga!’  The second missionary gathers up all his courage and declares, ‘I choose death!’  Now the tribesmen are in a frenzy, hooping and yelling all the louder. The chief pronounces sentence, ‘Death…by booga booga!’”

Amid groans and some laughter, I said, “And with that, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, all.” I didn’t even look the Weasel’s way. That had been a close call – I had nearly succumbed to temptation, but fortunately my dick was no longer in charge of my brain. Or more precisely, my dick had refocused its attention where it belonged, on Dr. T. Who, I am happy to report, followed me up the trail to our tent within a couple of minutes of my departure.

I was naked and hard when Dr. T entered the tent. “Goddamn, Joe, got something on your mind?” Dr. T asked. “Get fucking down here!” I demanded. As ever, Dr. T was obedient, and I was stripping his clothes off of him as fast as I could. “Booga booga?” I asked. Between kisses, “you booga me or me booga you?” I answered with a song: “I_Am_Going_To_Fuck_You_Tonight_Oh…” and then said, “After that, it’s up to you.” There was very little foreplay. Dr. T gave me the “reverse cowgirl” treatment – me lying on my back, him squatting down onto my hard cock, facing toward my feet. Just as he lowered himself onto my cock and as I began to penetrate him, we heard a voice calling from outside the tent. “Joe! You said maybe the three of us could pray together tonight!” It was the Weasel. And my dick was halfway up Dr. T’s ass.