Queer Utopias: Supple and Turbulent

Here begins the third of my novellas imagining a world where we might be more truly and completely at home.

Supple and Turbulent

1

“This should hold if the wind comes up,” I told Jake, testing the tension on the cords as I tied them to an eye-hook I’d just screwed into the siding at the back of the deck. Converging in lines of yellow, green, red, white, and blue, nine sets of prayer flags floated in the breeze, stretching from points all along a branch of the big oak that rose above the slope below. Prayers printed in a language none of us could read flowed off the cloth into the wind, for the benefit of all sentient beings. Jake practically broke his neck tying them to that branch, but we couldn’t resist the surprise and delight they’d give the others when they arrived.  

“Looks good,” he said, and ticked down his memorized list. “Cabin swept, lunch made, playlists ready, two gallons of sun tea brewing on the deck. I’m sweating like a pig, and. that creek’s calling. Come on.” He nodded down the slope. A stream plunged over the rocks to the left of the cabin into a pool wide enough to hold four or five men up to their chests, and tranquil enough to float in till you’d had enough of the chill and craved the mid-summer sun again. From there the bright water flashed and babbled over rocks along a creek-bed that divided the bottom of the lawn from the top of the woods. 

“Nothing to do till the others get here, at least for an hour,” I said, “even if they get the van right away and the traffic’s light near the airport. I’m right behind you.”

 
He was already down the steps, stripping off his T-shirt and dropping it in the grass as he padded toward the pool. Slabs of loose, aging-farm-boy muscle gleamed across his shoulders in the mid-morning sun. Stopping on the rocks at the edge, he pulled down his cargo shorts and boxers and kicked them aside to sit bare-ass on the cool stone. I just love Jake’s boxers. The pair I traded with him the first weekend we ever had sex still get me hard as soon as I pull them out of the drawer and step into them. 
 
He dangled his feet in the water, leaning over to splash it with his big hand onto his face and into his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. By the time I caught up to him and peeled off my own sweaty clothes, his dick was pointing skywards along the solid, relaxed curve of his belly.

“You here to cool off or get hot?” I grinned. My own cock started to swell as I sat down next to him and pressed my thigh against his. Prodding his foot with my toes and jumping in, I turned around to play at pulling him in by his ankles. “You know we don't want you shooting that thang till tonight. I’m here to keep an eye on you. You better pace yourself, big guy.”  

“That’s real colloquial, dude,” he said. 

I’m not the one with a Ph.D. in macroeconomics. Dude,” I teased him back. He slid off the rock into my arms. Our pricks collided, then settled up against each other’s bellies as we fell into a tight hug. My tongue darted out to take a swipe at the salty sweat that trickled under his jaw-line toward his collarbone.

Then we floated apart to let the water bear us up. A school of minnows came over to investigate our toes. Opposite us, under the shade of a yellowwood, a crawfish scuttled across a shallow ledge of rock just under the surface, its olive body rippled by the play of sun-dappled water just above its back. We leaned back further, floating up to our necks. Above us, sunlight glinted between leaves that still wore the emerald freshness of late spring and plenty of rainfall in the hills of eastern Tennessee.

 
Sometimes, when the stars line up, Jake becomes my perfect daddy, the father I spent my own boyhood dreaming of. I melt every time I hear his voice grow warm with love and pride, speaking of his two grown sons. Somehow, he’s even more that perfect daddy on a massage table with his ass in the air, begging one of us to work fingers a little further into the blossoming rosebud tucked between his big, muscular glutes. I’m only five years younger, but I suspect sometimes I become for him the son he’ll allow himself to get it on with. He’s confessed to me how he’d quietly longed for his own boys as they were becoming men, behind the firewall he put up between them and his desire.
 
Joking with Jake was the only way to negotiate the rising tide of horniness all eight of us had suffered for weeks. We teased each other about perpetual erections by e-mail, on the phone, in person, egging each other on and trying to hold back, both at the same time. Now, at summer solstice, by some miracle, we’d saved up three full months of lust for each other. Eight flaky faerie fuck-monks, Kurt had called us in an e-mail he sent out one night announcing he was so cranked up he couldn’t sleep. Instead of trying, he’d sent us all a dozen digital photos of his fat, perfect perfect, shiny with lube and clenched in his hand, a chain linked up between the oversized Prince Albert protruding through its tip and a studded dog collar buckled firmly around his neck.)

Jake was standing beside me now, scooping my feet off the bottom of the pool, a hand behind my tailbone, another supporting my neck and shoulders, swirling me gently around the deepest part near the centre. Below the flat of his palm supporting my sacrum, his middle finger burrowed gently, a friendly river creature nuzzling easily down the crack of my ass. He shifted his forearm so that it could take over the support of my back, and the pads of his fingers found their bull’s-eye. I took a deep, contented breath into the slow circles massaging me open to the cool water. They felt even more delicious because I knew he wasn’t trying to go any further just now.

 
There was nowhere to go, no goal to get to. Not till the feast at sunset. Just two men in a pool of cool water, along with the fish, under a canopy of leaves, waiting for their tribe to gather.  All I felt was gratitude for my life, and for these men with whom, against all odds, I’d become lovers. Somewhere up in the branches, a dove began its soft, gently mournful five-note song.  As I arched back a little further, my erection bobbed in and out of the water. Jake bent forward to give it a gentle lick, tickled it deliberately with a couple strokes of his moustache, then stood back up, grinning and making a show of smacking his lips.

 
Up the slope, beyond the cabin, car doors slammed and voices drifted down the hill and around the house, just audible over the noise of the waterfall. I started to rise from the pool, but then Jake said, “They’ll make themselves at home and come looking for us if they want. I bet they’ll show up soon enough in the heat.” 

So I lay back into the strength of his arms bearing me up, and into the comfort of his fingertips subtly caressing me, coaxing me to open up. The moans I let out surely encouraged him. He floated me back over to the side. I felt his wide thigh lift beneath my hip to roll me over on my side away from him, and then I was sprawled across a smooth patch of grass, my legs still dangling in the water, my chest pressed into the turf. I felt his hands flatten against my asscheeks, pulling them apart, and again the tickle of his moustache just before the tip of his tongue found my hole, then slid down my perineum, and I felt one of my nuts and then the other roll into the warmth of his mouth.