Lake Champlain, Summer 2012 - 1. Chapter 1 out of 3

Lake Champlain, VT, Summer 2012

Benjamin Ashton

 

Part 1.

 

It was only later that evening that I would notice some sparse grey hair salting his otherwise jet-black beard. When he appeared on his driveway, walking around his house from the front garden, all I saw was his open shirt, his bare feet and his warm, tentative smile. I did immediately look for signs of his ageing, the signs I had pondered and speculated about in the three and half hours it took me to drive from Boston to his house, nested in a small Vermont bay on Lake Champlain. I was too self-conscious and rattled, however, to take in anything else than the quaint beauty of the house, of the orange sun low behind the pine trees, the beauty of Joshua himself. As he made his final steps towards me, I remembered in a flash the joke I had silently made as I was filling the tank somewhere on the I-89: this is the longest I've driven for a booty call.

The joke, the picturing of the physical manifestations of his reaching his late thirties, the loud singing-along to the Franz Ferdinand CD I had brought for the drive in the rented car, had all been conscious attempts to alternately damp the oddity of the forthcoming weekend and to gear up my resolve to take it in stride. I hadn't seen Joshua in fifteen years and we hadn't parted on the most cordial terms. He had found me on LinkedIn, of all places, and had dropped me a casual message, punctuated by a couple of exclamation points as if to stress an innocuous cheerfulness in his enquiring of my well-being and whereabouts. I had responded in kind and, a few laidback dispatches later, an open invitation had been extended to come and visit him in Vermont, where he now lived and worked.

The logistics had seemed daunting, as I lived in DC and my job afforded me little free time, and the concrete implications of spending a weekend with a man most likely a stranger to his former young self were murky. It would have been disingenuous and futile to discard the likelihood of the invitation involving sex, yet our written exchange had been outwardly chummy and platonic. This would mean, I forecasted and pictured, an awkwardness in the first few hours of my stay, a slow and clumsy climb to mandated intimacy, before a perfunctory round of intercourse with hidden crossed fingers to conjure up the physical sparks necessary to avoid a two-day long disaster.

Then a late July, pre-vacation professional trip to Boston fell on my lap, an omen I found myself quite willing to seize upon. My local friends Charlie and Chuck would be out of town for the summer, depriving me of any good reasons to extend my stay in the city I briefly lived in. I was still drawn to the general idea of escaping from the crumbling moist heat of July in DC however. Fresh air, nature, a lake, an old friend. New England. I messaged Joshua and booked a rental car as one holds his breath and steps swiftly to the end of the high diving board. Click here to confirm your reservation. I did. Quickly.

As Joshua hugged me briefly and patted me on the shoulders, I came to think, with some relief, that we would neither instantly jump on each other nor limp awkwardly through banalities and discomfort. Joshua was graceful in his greetings and genuine in his polite affection.

"I'm so glad you could make it, Ben", he said simply and warmly.

"Yes, it worked out well".

"Let me show you around," he said with a spark in his eyes, as if that idea had suddenly come to him.

 

When he dropped my bag in the entryway and said we'd settle me later (leaving the question of which room I would stay in for a later time when it could more comfortably be answered), I felt the last pang of apprehension leave me. Everything indeed can be decided later, when the moment comes, when the moment is right.

"I'm sorry it's a bit of a mess. I've been working a lot these last few weeks. Spring and the first part of the summer are always damn busy in my business. I just got home a half hour ago and just had the time to take a shower." He was walking fairly fast across his living room and dining room, opening doors which led to the kitchen, to a bathroom, to a study. The tone of his voice and the set-up of the house indicated he wasn't much invested in interior design and furniture. The rooms were airy and sunny, thanks to large windows and French doors, but the house was otherwise rustic and plain in style, functional even if cluttered in appearance.

"No worries," I said. "This looks great."

"It's alright. Just wait till we get outdoors. That's where this place is truly wonderful."

 

And it was, as I instantly found out when he led me out to the deck behind the French doors, overlooking a garden sliding down to some rocks and a few wooden stairs, themselves trickling to a long dock on the Lake.

"This is fucking amazing," I couldn't help but grin.

"Yes. The mountains on the other side is Upstate New York."

"Do you have a boat on that dock?"

"I do. It's just not here now. A friend of mine wanted to borrow it for the weekend. His wife's family is visiting and he wanted to entertain them. Sorry".

"No, that's fine. This is perfect."

"Yeah."

"I understand why you moved here," I added, a little disingenuously since I couldn't quite fathom not living in a city.

"Well, I didn't move here for this house. I moved here a while ago to help with the family business."

"Right. The hardware store."

"The biggest independent hardware stores chains in Northern Vermont, thank you very much," he smiled willfully.

"Of course. So how long have you been in this house?"

"I bought it about seven years ago, but did a lot of work on it for over two years. I mean, everything needed fixing: structure, roof, garden, patio. Working almost every weekend."

"Wow. Well, it looks great."

"I know where to buy the right instruments."

 

We both leaned on the railing of the deck, staring at the view pensively. He turned towards me and I met his gaze. He still had the same dark small eyes, thick black eyebrows, long straight nose and square jaw. His beard was distracting, however, as if painted over the face I remembered; it was morphing him, costuming the young athletic suburbanite soccer player I knew into a rugged, outdoorsy man. The elegance of his fine features had mixed well with the t-shirts, sweatpants, sneakers and tortured fratboy antics when he was 22; it still complimented the plaid shirt, cargo shorts, various work boots scattered in the entryway, and the solid and warm presence of the 39 year-old man he had become. He used to seemingly take great pains to look like a jock; he now effortlessly and organically had the appearance my hipster friends try to emulate. I wondered if he had any tattoos.

 

"Are you hungry, Ben?" he said, breaking softly the silence.

"I am, actually, I'm famished."

"I didn't have time to shop or cook much, as I warned you. But I can grill some hamburgers and fix a salad if that works for you."

"Yes, that's great."

"And beers."

"And beers, indeed."

"Listen, make yourself at home. Walk around, go see the water. I'll start the barbecue and set things up here."

"Sounds good," I said, starting to walk down the stairs. As I reached the lawn, I felt the urge to feel my naked feet on the ground. I was hot and sweaty, the drive had been long and the July heat was barely tamed by the light breeze from the lake. I turned to Joshua, as if needing permission, but he was already inside. I removed my sneakers and socks and pressed firmly my bare soles on the dry, brittle grass. It felt wonderful.

 

I walked down to the dock; it was sturdy and looked recently made. I figured it was one of those transformations Joshua had worked on, during these weekends of what seemed like impossibly hard labor to me. I scanned the breathtaking surroundings. The early evening sun was already low but I knew that at this time of the year, we probably had an hour or two still left of fading daylight. I could make out other, similar docks further up and down the lake, even if the privacy of the properties were lushly secured by trees, bushes, rocks, and the gracious small curvatures and indentations of the bay. I felt a sort of high from the silence, from the sun's starry projectile reflections on the wavelets of the water, from the uncertainties of the weekend. I also felt an urge to dive in the water, to wash off the sweat of the drive, the grime of office work, and the clutter of an overactive mind. I glimpsed back to the house and saw the patio empty. I undressed quickly, keeping on my boxer briefs. I was about to dive when I realized a straight horizontal dash in the water would make me lose my underwear. I jumped with the ungraceful keenness of a child.

The petrifying coldness of the water made me rush to the surface and crawl furiously to the ladder. I lifted myself as quickly out as I had darted in. I started laughing, from the shock, from pure happiness. I lay down on the dock, dripping, panting, still hiccupping with occasional giggles. I let the comfortably warm sun dry my skin and I closed my eyes.

*     *          *

I met Joshua when we were both working at a summer camp, in a small liberal arts college in Central Pennsylvania. I had turned 18 and was eagerly about to enter university; he was 22 and had just finished his lackluster studies at La Roche in Pittsburgh. Our three-week long dalliance started in awkward circumstances and ended sourly.

The camp offered various athletic and artistic activities: most kids came to practice sports, but some had joined the music or drama programs. They all dined together and slept in the same dorms, but cliques formed and solidified quickly: the baseball kids didn't mingle with the soccer group, nor with the theater bunch. Coaches, instructors and their assistants were all spread out on the various floors on the two residential halls the camp occupied. Most of us college kids employees shared a suite of two separate bedrooms with someone from a different program. I had attended the camp when I was myself an eleven-year old soccer enthusiast and had decided that being paid to assist a coach, getting some exercise, and meeting new people would be a nice way to partly fill the unending summer that lay ahead.

I arrived late on the day of orientation. My mother had flown from California to Philly to spend some time with me before I headed to camp, but had ended up being too busy socializing to actually share more than a dinner with me. She thus decided to borrow the car of a friend and drive me to the camp. We left very late, drove slowly, got lost. I was too weary of her to get upset. I let her talk the whole drive and accepted hurriedly her apologies when we finally arrived, way past dinner time.

One of the counselors welcomed me and led me to my room. Everything was eerily quiet and dark. "The kids only arrive tomorrow," she said, "and it seems I was the only one interested in going out. They all retired to their room. Well, big day tomorrow, right?"

"Yes," I said as we reached my door, distracted by the mild anxiety about the kind of roommate I had been assigned.

"Well, this is you, Ben. Settle down, relax. We'll see you tomorrow, 7:30am sharp, rise and shine!" she said in a probably average pitch, but which sounded like loud shrieking in the empty, silent corridor.

The door opened to a tiny square hall, the door to the right leading to the toilet, the one on the left to a kitchenette. Ahead were two doors, each for one bedroom. The left one was ajar and dark. The other was closed, with a ray of light licking the carpet. My roommate, who I would later find out was named Aaron and was working in the volleyball program, had already shut himself in his room. If he heard me (which he must have), he didn't give any sign of it. I decided to postpone the introduction till the morning and dropped my bag on my bed.

I needed a shower before going to sleep, so I stripped to my boxers and t-shirt, grabbed a towel and a bar of soap, and set out to find the communal bathroom. I quickly did, helped by the sound of running water. Someone was taking a shower in one of the four stalls. As soon I started to undress, the water got turned off and the shower curtain was briskly pulled open. A young man emerged, naked, dripping wet and wearing Adidas flip-flops. He was startled to see me and looked briefly alarmed. I was just slipping out of my boxers; his surprise caught me off guard and I nearly fell. But I noticed his cock. I did because it seemed at first freakishly large; within a second, however, I realized it was swollen and slightly reddened. It wasn't growing, it was throbbing but deflating, as a dick does after ejaculation.

I looked away and mumbled my name, casually. He did the same ('Sup. I'm Joshua), while quickly reaching for his towel and covering himself. I entered the stall next to the one he had just left - next to the one where he had just cum, I couldn't help but thinking. I jerked off.

 

The next morning, I quickly found out Joshua was one of the other two assistants to the soccer coach. I wasn't thrilled initially with the idea of spending some much time with him. Our encounter the previous night had made us somewhat distant with each other, despite the efforts and enthusiasm of our middle-age coach to rally us around the prospect of "the best summer of all time!" But as the day progressed, as we welcomed our group of kids, as we got our bearings of our field, material and duties, we slowly warmed to each other. By the end of the afternoon, he called me "dude".

It was Joshua's third year at the camp and he was close to two guys who had been working in the football program for the last four summers. Mike and Rob were in the same fraternity at one of the lesser known campuses of Penn State; they were somewhat predictably brash, loud and cocky. They were also a little obnoxious. When Joshua and I ran into them at the end of the afternoon, on the way to our dorm, they greeted me with a mixture of friendliness and conceit, with which they apparently treated every "newbie". It immediately struck me as pathetic that their greatest claim of superiority, infused with macho assertiveness, was to having spent their last four summers teaching football to kids, for a mediocre salary in Central Pennsylvania. I felt snobbish, briefly.

It irritated me most to witness Joshua's change of behavior when Mike and Rob mingled with us, a pattern I would notice with increasing annoyance over the following three weeks. Throughout the day, he had been displaying a rather endearing combination of reserve and intensity, punctuated by awkward jokes, abrupt outbursts of anger and frustration, and furtive, flustered glances at me. He had alternated clumsily between assertions of his superiority in age and experience, and uncomfortable gauges of my approval.

After a round of crude remarks on this year's coaches, kids and various female members of the staff, Rob nodded towards me and asked Joshua: "And how's your newbie?". "Ben's fucking good," Joshua answered, without looking at me.

 

Joshua seemed a little dismayed and upset later, when we reached our floor and I told him I'd try to hang out with Aaron, my roommate. "I've barely seen him so far. I should try to get to know him."

"Don't bother," he said dismissively. "He was here last year. He only hangs out with the other volleyball guys. And goes home for the weekend, he lives in Harrisburg or something. You'll never see him. Come hang with us, dude."

"Nah. I'll try anyway. But thanks. I'm gonna hit the showers now." I think I may have startle myself a small second at the mention of showers. If Joshua shared the same flash image of me facing his post-jacking off semi-limp dick, he didn't show it.

"Cool. I'll see you at dinner," he just waved.

"Yeah, probably," I answered, non-committal. I had hit it off over lunch with Erin, a beautiful, vivacious, sexy brunette from the theater program. We had been flirting innocuously, and she had struck me as the kind of witty, fun and slightly subversive friend I always enjoy making. It had seemed to me we had parted with a tacit understanding that we would have dinner at the same table, that we would be spending a lot of time together afterwards, and that we will probably have sex together at one point or another.

 

The evening ended up running its expected course. Aaron civilly declined my offer to hang out; we seemingly sealed a deal of courteous yet distant suite-sharing. I joined Erin for dinner and shared the table with the group of friends she had already made: a few people from the theater and arts program and the strikingly handsome young baseball coach. We all ended up in her room, doing some tequila shots and having a sort of collective flirtatious moment. I loved it. I went back to my room and decided to take a shower. I wasn't dirty or sweaty; I was horny and was hoping, somehow, to repeat the previous night experience, daring myself to find a way to exhibit my semi-hardon casually to Joshua, to test him and challenge him. The showers were empty, however, and stayed so until I got back to my room.

 

The next few days were spent on the soccer field solidifying my friendship with Joshua and in the dining hall and various rooms expanding and deepening my social circle (Erin was terrific, Mike and Rob were not that bad, Joshua seemed complex but charming). Erin kissed me one night, after an hour alone talking about books, politics and sex; Joshua patted me awkwardly but intensely one evening after two hours of talking about sports, school, our families. "We have so much in common," he said feebly, with a cracked voice. I couldn't see any of the strongly bonding similarities that had seemed to draw him close to me, but I was clearly enthralled by his husky voice and his undetermined longing, by the frailty of his dreams and the strength of his legs.

My two social groups at camp didn't really mingle but, as is usual, gossip travelled fast and wide. The furtive kiss Erin and I had exchanged, the few confessions or anecdotes about our respective love and sex lives made in confidence to our various friends, circulated briskly and somehow made of us both figures of sexual boldness and candid promiscuity. It amused me, probably flattered me too, even if I felt a slight unease at the misrepresentation: I had been sexually active since I was sixteen (an age which appeared to have been average in my high school, but which apparently wasn't among the more sociologically diverse camp assistants group) and had had indeed my share of experiences. But I didn't feel I had bragged about it and I was uncomfortably aware I had left out any mentions of my recent familiarity with gay sex. Erin was more visibly upset than I was: "You'll see, within a few days of this, I'll be the slut, you'll be the last international playboy." When we did have sex on Thursday night, she made me comically yet solemnly swear that I would not tell anyone about it.

 

The first week kids left at the end of the afternoon on Friday. The new batch would be arriving on Monday morning. Sunday was supposed to be dedicated to debriefing and preparation, Saturday was our day off. Some of the assistants went back home for the weekend, as was the case with Aaron. But for the majority of us, the departure of the last kid meant that, as Rob screamed when we were waving goodbye to a station wagon, "It's party time!"

Mike and Rob were heading out to Harrisburg for a loudly promised "wild night out". The prospect seemed exhausting, however much I wanted to spend time with Joshua. I declined, coolly and casually, but Joshua insisted I tag along.

"I don't have a fake ID with me," I argued.

"I'm sure we can find a way."

"It's gonna be a drag. Plus it looks like the two cars are already way full. Go ahead and have fun."

"What will you be up to, Ben?"

"I don't know. Hang out with Erin and her friends, I guess. You're welcome to join us," I said tentatively. I saw him hesitate. "What?" I pushed.

"I don't know… I'm not sure about her friends…"

"Why? You don't know them."

"I know. It's just, I don't know. They're, like, theater people. I don't think we have much to say to each other."

"Man, you don't have to be uncomfortable, you just –"

"--I'm not uncomfortable."

"You just… Fine. I'll tell you what, why don't we spend the evening you, me and Erin? Something quiet but fun. She's awesome, you know."

"Dude, you're sick. I don't want to be in the middle of your little love fest," he chuckled.

"It's nothing like that," I said, firmly but invitingly.

 

We did end up spending the evening together, the three of us. Erin was actually thrilled by the idea: "That should stop the rumors about us. That is, if you behave, Ben. You will behave, right? Plus, I do dig the idea of finding a way to loosen up an uptight frat boy. It feels a little subversive."

"He's not uptight," I smiled.

"Fine. He is not. But promise me we won't be talking about football and chicks all night, ok?"

"I promise. If you get us tequila."

 

The three of us went to my room after dinner, as I was the only one to have a suite all to myself. Dinner had been fun. I was pretty sure I caught Erin being flirtatious to one of the girls, which thrilled me a bit; Joshua was relaxed but spent most of the time talking to the baseball coach.

Erin theatrically pulled out a full bottle of tequila from her bag, as we all sat down on the floor. Joshua pushed the bed against the wall, to make the little space available a bit more comfortable. We sat cross-legged in a triangle and Joshua avidly unscrewed the cap of the bottle.

"How do we drink?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do we, like, just drink, or do we play a drinking game?"

"First," Erin said, "I want to know everything you gleaned about Mister Baseball Heartthrob over at dinner."

Joshua laughed. "He's married, Erin."

"Well, I know that. How happily married are we talking about?"

"Pretty happily, I guess. I don't know, we talked mostly about, well, baseball."

"It figures," Erin said, mockingly dismissive. "He has a cute butt."

I couldn't help but laughing at Erin's transparent attempt to shock Joshua, who mumbled, struggling hard to appear casual, "If you say so."

"As cute as the butt of the girl you've been drooling over this evening?" I asked Erin with tender mischief.

"I'm not into girls' butts. I'm only after girls' intellect and, well, their boobs."

"Wow," Joshua interjected.

"I'll drink to that," I said, raising the bottle more in Joshua's direction than Erin's. I handed him the bottle after I took a big gulp.

"Let's play 'I never', guys," Erin suggested. "This seems like the perfect moment. And you'll have your drinking game, Joshua."

"Ok," we both said, rather cautiously.

 

Erin looked luminous, beautiful, and playful. Her red flowery dress, the thin straps over her bare shoulders, her black little combat boots. I glimpsed at Joshua to check whether he too was a little beguiled by Erin's flirtatious and vibrant energy. I caught him looking at me. He turned away and, nervously, pulled up his white tennis socks, as if gearing up for a game of 'I never' necessitated his full attention and a straightened outfit. My eyes lingered on his hairy legs, then on his loose navy nylon shorts, on his grey Gap t-shirt, on his arms, on his neck.

"Alright, who starts?" clamored Erin, whirling us into attention.

Erin seemed to be a pro at the game, asking easy questions to make sure all of us got to drink profusely and quickly, loosening our reserve and smashing any hints of prudishness. She was almost systematically drinking after saying an 'I never': she was obviously one of those players of the game who have done much, are eager to publicize it and find allies and fellow libertines. Most of the traditional topics, situations and positions were duly combed through ("I never had sex in an elevator", "I never had sex with a foreign person, "I never had anal sex"…). The rules forbade anyone to ask for explanations or details about anyone's answers, a rule Erin repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to break ("Come on Joshua, if you have jacked off in a public place, you have to tell us how and where!").

Joshua wasn't actually drinking much, which Erin didn't have qualms to affectionately point out: "For a frat boy, you seem awfully tame."

"I am not a frat boy," Joshua said, inebriated enough to respond gently and genuinely. "I just come from a very conservative family, I guess. And I had a girlfriend for most of my time in college, so that limits the fucking around thing."

"Yet, you never fucked her in the butt," Erin quipped.

I burst out laughing and, thankfully, so did Joshua, who jokingly punched Erin in the arm while saying "Not that I didn't try." Which made us laugh even more, stupidly.

"I love you guys," Erin said when the giggles subsided. She put one hand on Joshua's knee, delicately, then the other on mine. I saw her caress Joshua's tan skin, I felt her play with the hair on my lower thigh. The moment didn't last, it wasn't intended to, but it was electrifying.

 

"So, it's my turn," Erin resumed abruptly. And she came up with another question, then another, then another. At some point, she was indeed the only one to submit any, avowedly looking for ways to get Joshua to drink more. She managed a few times. "I've never slept with someone at least ten years older than I was" – we all drank. "I've never had sex in a kitchen" – Erin and Joshua both jumped on the bottle before I had even have time to conclude that, no, I didn't think I had.

The rules also loosened, as the bottle was scarily nearing its end. We did part with some stories and personal details prompted by our answers. Joshua and I share a few anecdotes about our past girlfriends, which made Erin judge that we were both "closeted romantics and almost true gentlemen". The room was hot, the air was stuffy. It could feel some sweat on my back sticking on my black t-shirt. I opened the window for some air - Erin hated air-conditioning.

As I was kneeling back down, Erin said "I've never had a same-sex experience" and she drank. I froze, then clumsily folded my legs. I was flustered and couldn't look at Joshua, though a part of me was screamingly begging him to take the bottle, to make it easier for me to take it myself - something that, oddly, I never doubted I would do. He just uttered one of the many wow he had greeted Erin's swigs with. I grabbed the bottle and drank.

"Niiiice," Erin said, her eyes lightening up. And she bent forward to kiss me loudly on the lips. "You are the last of the international playboys."

The silence that followed was excruciating, even if it probably didn't last as long as it felt. Erin may have sensed it, for she adroitly swerved back the conversation to safer, more neutral grounds, asking questions that she actually had already asked earlier. Neither Joshua nor I corrected her. Erin also rapidly placed her hands back on our legs, though she placed them a bit higher and often ventured up, inside our shorts. But these hands seemed to be acting on their own: all three of us were laughing and talking as if our bodies were doing their own thing in another room, as if no one noticed Joshua's tenting bulge in his shorts (I did), as if our minds weren't bursting with overexcitement, uncertainty and lust (mine was).

I felt so drunk I couldn't quite properly concentrate any longer on anything that was being said. I also felt a form of suffocating horniness that was pushing me uncontrollably to act, to do something, to lift myself out of the drowning waters of sexual tension. So I interrupted Erin's monologue by grabbing and squeezing Joshua's hand and leaning towards Erin to kiss her. She welcomed my kiss hungrily, if not sloppily. I felt Joshua tense up as the kiss lasted, so I placed my other hand on Erin's shoulders, nudging her gently towards Joshua. She took my obvious hint, disengaged herself from my mouth and started kissing Joshua. He made an attempt to remove his hand from mine but I held it firm. I moved closer to both of them and Erin moved from Joshua's lips to mine, then back again, then back once more. I glimpsed down at Joshua's crotch and shivered at the sight of his now very hard cock. I realized that my erection was equally obvious to anyone who'd be watching, even though my dick looked a long tube pushed sideways by the tightness of my green khaki shorts while Joshua displayed an erect tentpole sharply drawn by the loose fabric of his shorts.

Erin suddenly stopped, catching her breath. "We have to stop this," she said, eyes wide open towards the ceiling. "If we do this, we shouldn't be this drunk. I'm really close to passing out." She then started laughing, tenderly and soothingly. Joshua and I did too, some relief taking precedence over frustration.

"Let's call it a night," she said decisively, standing up. "This was lovely and fun."

Joshua looked briefly lost and hesitant, then stood up too. I followed them both to the hallway, relieved at the quick subsiding of my erection. Erin planted a quick peck on Joshua's lips, then on mine. "Good night, boys," she said, before walking unsteadily to the stairs. "Well, good night Ben," Joshua said, awkwardly patting me on the shoulder before turning around and heading to his room at the far end of our floor.

I closed the door and went to splash my face with cold water in the kitchenette sink. I undressed to my boxers and lay on the bed, oddly out of breath. I lay thinking about Erin, about Joshua, about Joshua's erection. I went back to splash more water. I tried to smoke a cigarette at the opened window, convinced that any tobacco smell would have disappeared before Aaron came back. The cigarette made me feel sick, however, and I quickly stubbed it out. I used some mouthwash in the kitchen and felt slightly better. I was too wired to go to bed, too feeble and hesitant to go and knock at Joshua's door. I needed a shower. I grabbed a towel, headed for the bathroom and, as every night since my arrival here, I hoped that Joshua would be there.

 

This time, he was. He was naked, with his flip-flops on, sitting on the tiled floor, his head drooped down. I didn't startle him this time, he had probably heard me arriving. But he didn't move, didn't cover himself, didn't speak. I kneeled down next to him and asked softly: "Hey, Joshua, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, yeah. Sorry," he mumbled.

I only had boxers and a t-shirt on, but the contrast with his completely naked body, curled up inches away from me was disturbing. "Do you want me to help you get in the shower?"

He lifted his head up and chuckled softly but cheerfully: "No, I'm fine, I'm not sick or anything, I'm just really drunk. Just give me a minute or something."

"Okay," I said and undressed casually, before hopping in the shower. I didn't close the curtain, however, ostensibly to make sure I could keep an eye on him and provide help if needed. I started showering, letting the water invigoratingly hit my face, my hair, my back, my stomach. When I opened my eyes again, I saw Joshua staring at me. I summoned all the strength I had left to hold his gaze. He didn't blink, and neither did I.

He then stood, with some difficulty, then walked slowly towards me. He entered the shower stall and I took him in my arms. I tried to kiss him, but he turned his face away. I just held him for a while, letting the water run over both our bodies.

I felt him grab my dick, which had hardened enough to caress his thigh, to sword against his own half-erection. He started to jerk me off, slowly, his head buried in my neck. I took a step back and reached for his cock. We were now facing each other, staring at each other intently, jacking each other off. His rhythm began to increase and I followed his example. I watched him, scanning every part of his body as the movement of his hand around my cock began to feel more assured, skilled, and comfortable. We were about the same height, I was thinner but with slightly broader shoulders. His fleshy and defined muscles were clearly those of a young man, mine still had the wiriness of those of an old teenager. He had wide and powerful wrists and ankles, wide and powerful hands and feet - the former wonderfully pumping my dick, the latter hitting the tiles and water whenever he felt edging.

Just before he started to cum, he quickly replaced my hand with his, to finish himself off in a grunting and grimacing orgasm that sprayed semen on my stomach and thighs. I came too, aiming at the shower wall, unsure about his welcoming of a guy's spunk on his body once his orgasm would subside.

We rinsed ourselves off silently. I stepped out of the shower, grabbed my towel and handed him his. His "Thank you" was quiet, sweet and lovely.

I didn't know what came next and walked slowly and apprehensively to the bathroom door. "Can I sleep with you tonight?" I heard him whisper, so softly that I made him repeat. When it was obvious that he wouldn't, I said "Of course" and walked ahead to my room.

We crammed on the small single bed, which suddenly seemed smaller than it had been for a week. I let him spoon me, because, however much I wanted to spoon him, I wasn't sure he would let me.

*       *      *

"How was the water?"

"Freezing cold, Joshua, you could have warned me," I smiled.

"It's not that bad. Or you get used to it. I have a swim every morning".

"How's the grill going?"

"Looks good. I should get started with the meat soon. You should get changed. Your t-shirt is all wet and you don't want to catch a cold. Not in the middle of summer."

"I know. I feel like wearing an old sweat shirt. Isn't that odd?"

"Not really. Brought any?"

"Nope. I have a bunch of shirts and t-shirts. And one sweater. You got one I could borrow for the evening?"

"Sure. Just get to the master bedroom. It's straight ahead when you reach the landing. Rummage through the big pine wardrobe. You'll find something."

 

Joshua's room was huge and flooded with the orange sun. The king size bed was in the middle, just below large windows opening to an astounding lake view. There were a few clothes bunched on the floor in a corner, otherwise the bedroom was less cluttered than downstairs. I noticed that there were no books in the room, as there hadn't been any in the living room either. I thought briefly about an ex-boyfriend who had repeatedly complained that my apartment looked like a "fucking second-hand bookstore".

Next to the wardrobe stood a few pairs of shoes. More boots, a couple of sandals and sneakers, and, I noticed with amusement, the kind of Adidas flip-flops Joshua used to wear to the shower. They looked old and worn and I wondered if they were still the same pair. My eyes also caught one pair of Nike high-top sneakers in the middle of the bunch. They looked humongous, probably size 15.

I opened the wardrobe and quickly spotted a pile of sweat-shirts. I lifted out the one on top and unfolded it. It had the Patriots' logo printed on the front and looked tattered and snugly comfortable, even if a little large and baggy. I changed into some jeans I had brought and decided to stay barefoot – something which, for me, had always embodied summertime. Joshua's sweat-shirt smelled like laundry. It was perfect.

 

"Good, you found one," Joshua said appreciatively while turning over the sizzling hamburgers.

"Yes, it's perfect, thanks. Whose is it? It feels big."

"It's mine," he answered, puzzled. "It's old, like late nineties. We wore things looser back then, didn't we?"

"I guess, yes."

"Plus, who else's could it be?"

"I don't know. It could belong to the guy who also owns the Nike sneakers and has the feet of a fucking giant," I smiled.

"Oh, those. No, those are Corey's." Joshua subtly looked down before adding "My ex-boyfriend Corey."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry, actually."

"No, it's okay."

"When did you guys break up?"

"Em, about four months, I guess. Maybe five now."

"Wow. That sucks," I said, tuning it slightly as a question.

"Yeah. You'd think hanging out in the house all day, playing video games and jerking off would have been enough for a 26-year old," he joked. "But no, he decided he needed the excitement of the big city."

"He's in New York now?"

"Albany."

 

Joshua dropped a fat hamburger on each of our plates and added the salad he had quickly made. He hesitated before leading us to the table on the corner of the patio.

"Listen, it's still early and the sun is setting, which, you'll see, is gorgeous. I often just sit down on the floor against the windows there, with some pillows to make it cozy. It's the best way to enjoy the view. You want to do that?"

"Yes, that sounds lovely. I'll fetch the beers in the fridge while you set us up."

"Sorry, I still haven't offered you anything to drink. Fucking rude. I just don't drink all that much."

"Well, I do, and I'll be right back".

 

We both sat down, our legs stretched out ahead of us, our plates resting on our laps, trying to eat without making a mess. The view was indeed beautiful and the peacefulness a little intoxicating. Joshua's bare legs were still strikingly beautiful. Our knees were lightly touching at first; at some point, one of us, I wasn't sure who, firmly set them together. I regretted my decision to wear jeans; I wished I could have felt his hairy knuckle rest on mine. I noticed too that Joshua still had the habit of wiggling his toes when he talked excitedly – as he did now when he listed all the renovations he'd made on his own.

"I wasn't completely on my own, though," he added as way of conclusion, "Corey helped me a lot.

"You were together already when you bought the house?"

"Not when I got the house, no, but soon after. I didn't buy the house, by the way, it was my grandparents'."

"So you guys were together for like, what, seven years?"

"Something like that. A little less, but close."

"How did you guys meet? Is there like a hotbed of gay nightlife in Burlington, Vermont?"

"Ha, no. Burlington has many qualities, but not that one, I'm afraid. No, we met at work, in a way. He worked in one of the stores."

"Okay," I said, unsure to stress the obvious and rather trite notion that mixing work and romance is never a good idea. Joshua cut me before I said anything:

"It's even worse, actually. I hired him," he said, smiling, turning towards me. "He came to my office after we'd posted an ad, he obviously wasn't qualified, he had a record –"

"— a record?"

"Nothing serious. Petty thefts. Corey was… troubled, I guess. He was lost. He seemed desperate to get a grip on his life, that's the sense I got, that's what made me want to give him a chance."

"How was he troubled?"

"You know, horrible and abusing family, high school dropout, hanging out with the wrong crowd. That sort of thing. But he was sweet and naïve and blunt. He was hurt. I guess I wanted to help him. I thought I could make a difference."

"And you did, it seems."

"I think so, yes. It didn't work out at the store, though. That was quickly obvious."

"Why?"

"He arrived late all the time, couldn't deal with rude or obnoxious customers, he never glued with the rest of the staff."

"So you had to let him go?"

"Yes."

"Was that before or after you started seeing each other?"

"Before, thank God." Joshua laughed at the thought.

A pensive silence followed, which I broke by saying: "Again, I didn't mean to be intrusive. We don't have to talk about this. I don't want to make you sad or anything."

"No, it really is fine," Joshua said graciously. "I tried to motivate him, you know, when I had to fire him. I encouraged him to go to a community college or to take some evening classes somewhere. He had skills. He just needed structure and discipline."

"But he didn't?"

"Nope. I checked in on him a month later and got a sense he was still headed nowhere. So I suggested he helped me with the work here."

"That's nice."

"Yes. I'd like to think it was purely out of the goodness of my heart and it surely was, for the most part. But there might have been a part of me that was a little lonely. And another part that was a bit daunted by the extent of the work needed."

"Did you know he was gay?"

"No, absolutely not. And there had never been any ambiguity or flirtation on either part. Until one day."

"Until one day," I smiled teasingly.

"We were working on the bannister and, out of the blue, he unzipped my fly and took my cock in his mouth."

"That sounds like porn."

"It does, doesn't it?" Joshua said, with a satisfied smirk. "Well, I was little taken aback. Plus, Corey was very tall, is very tall. About 6'5'' or something, so he looked both uncomfortable and a little bit ridiculous as he crouched down to blow me. So I told him to stop."

"Why?"

"It just didn't feel right. I told him he didn't have to do this."

"You felt he didn't actually want to?"

"Something like that. He spent so much time thanking me for taking him on, it was a bit much. So it felt like he was blowing me as a way to repay me for the work and wage I gave him. I don't know, it just made me uncomfortable."

"How did he react?"

"He was confused. He looked hurt too. So I lifted him up and, when our eyes met, well, I saw something completely different in them."

"What?"

"Pleading. Hunger. So I kissed him. And kissed him some more. We went to the dining room, which was empty and dusty, except for an old sofa I had stored there for napping when needed. We lay there and we kissed, I think, for a whole afternoon."

"That's lovely."

"It was," Joshua said, looking straight ahead, squinting at the sun which was almost set. "Two months later, he moved in with me. A few months later, we both moved in the not quite finished house."

"And did he get any work?"

"He did at first. I gave him good recommendations and word of mouth worked reasonably well. But, it's strange, as soon as we moved in here, he seemed to have lost all interest in working, in making his own money. His workload dwindled until he did nothing at all and barely ever left the house."

"And you were okay with that?"

"Yes, of course. All I wanted was for him to be happy and, well, for us both to be happy together. And we were, very much so."

"What did you guys do? What did you guys talk about?"

Joshua looked at me, genuinely puzzled. "I don't know. Stuff, you know. We did a lot of swimming, hiking, running. We took the boat out, went fishing. We watched sports. Movies, video games. Plus there was always something to do with the house."

"Okay," I said, retreating.

"You need another beer," he said, bringing the subject to a close.

"I do. I'll fetch a few. The night is young."

*     *          *

When a screeching hangover woke me the next morning, it took me a few seconds to make sense of my surroundings. My bed had moved in a room that was still unfamiliar to me, my aching naked body was perched on the edge on the mattress, the sheets were ruffled and mostly drooping down to the floor. The air in the dorm room was stuffy and musky. Joshua's light snoring was the only sound.

I got up to stretch my legs, to splash some water on my face, to make some coffee. Beyond these cleansing and sobering tasks I couldn't quite see what to do next. I realized that the sound and smell of the coffee machine would wake Joshua up. We'd have to talk, we'd have to interact. I decided to forego being passive and reactive. Whatever his attitude may be, my infatuation for him wasn't intense or solid enough to actually be hurt. I wanted to kiss him good morning, so I did.

His reaction didn't give much away. "'Sup, man?" was all he mumbled. I pushed him a bit to give me the space for me to sit on the bed. He slowly raised himself to sit next to me and accepted the mug of coffee with his first smile of the day.

Our ensuing conversation was slow, frequently interrupted by silences, sips and yawns. We dispensed with the expected "How did you sleep?" and "Are you hung over too?". Then I kissed him again and he seemed to relax, to welcome my affection, to be eager and relieved to reciprocate it. I didn't mention his refusal to kiss the previous night, when we stood naked and hard on the shower.

He didn't want to leave the room, not right then, not for a while. He wasn't ready to go through "the whole sneaking out and covering up". I told him we'd have to get out eventually. "I know," he said. "We'll wait for lunchtime, okay?"

 

He asked me how experienced I was with "all this". I told him about jerking off with a buddy, about my first real experience with a married man in his late twenties in a resort abroad, about the other, more recent attempts to replicate the sexual intensity I had then felt – attempts that almost all proved unsatisfactory.

He was much more elusive about his own past, to the extent that it was actually difficult to gauge the amount and nature of the experiences he'd had. It sounded more than mine, which was to be expected since he was almost four years older. Through the elliptic maze of his narrative, I could deduce, however, that all his previous forays into gay sex had been secretive and tormenting – one may even have been not entirely consensual.

He was very eager to know about the girls I'd had sex with, how good the sex was, whether I still considered myself straight or "you know, bi". My own questions about his long-term girlfriend in college was received with great discomfort and a mix of sadness and fear in his eyes. "It was hard," he said searchingly. "I loved her, I still do, but it never felt right. I never felt right."

I tried to lighten the mood by asking if he had ever hooked up with a guy at this camp. The thought made him snigger. "I wish," he said, giving me the second smile of the day. So I kissed him again. His breath was foul and I assume mine was too, but the intensity of our embrace seemed to supersede all my hang-ups. We had sex for the first time, real sex: hugs and grips, blow jobs and hand jobs, kisses on the neck and licks in the arm pits. It was intense and aggressive for most of it, intense and tender the last few minutes. We wiped ourselves off with his t-shirt and planned a strategy to head for the showers.

 

Lunch was an altogether less pleasant affair. We sat with Mike and Rob, who also looked terrible from their own excesses of the previous night but who, contrary to Joshua and me, endlessly and smugly enumerated all the grimy, boorish, drunken details of their expedition. Joshua was grating on me too: his mimetic bursts of crude keenness and sexist bravado seemed lame to the point of being pathetic. Even his posture changed: his shoulders dropped, his elbows spread wide on the table, and he chewed loudly with his mouth open.

I caught up with Erin at the desserts section of the dreary buffet and begged her to save me from the Neanderthals and take me away somewhere. "You are an awful snob," she jokingly chided me. "I shouldn't do you any favors, but I need an arm candy for the afternoon. So you're in luck. We're going to catch a movie. We're leaving soon, actually, because there's only one car and there's like six of us already. So I'm taking the bus. Come with me."

Joshua frowned when I told him I'd rush out to catch a bus. As I was pushing open the door of the dining hall, I felt his strong hand grip my arm.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

"Yes, of course," I said, as I couldn't fathom any reason for his concern.

"I'm not suddenly on your shit list or anything?"

"No," I laughed. "Not at all. I think I need to get out of here for a bit. But I want to see you. I want to see you tonight. Should we try to sneak out from everybody and spend the evening just the two of us?"

"Awesome," he mouthed, sexily.

 

I don't remember the movie. I do remember thinking about Joshua through most of it, feeling a little guilt and a tremendous excitement about the forthcoming evening. I remember Erin holding my hand at times and eating most of my popcorn.

As we walked towards the bus stop afterwards, Erin hooked her arm in mine.

"Are you gay, Ben?" she asked airily.

I froze for a second and frowned. "Why do you ask that?"

"Last night."

"What about last night?"

"I don't know, I felt something. Between you and Joshua. In Joshua, certainly. In you, I thought too."

I refrained from asking what she had "certainly" seen in Joshua, even if my self-discipline was piercingly frustrating. I couldn't fathom what she could possibly have sensed in him, since he had been so sexually opaque to me. "You were there, too," I simply said. "We were this close to a threesome, don't you think?"

"That we were. But I felt like a proxy."

"A proxy?"

"Is that the word? I felt like the conduit, the mediator, the safe third party, to sort of allow you guys to safely rip each other's clothes off."

"I'm sorry you felt that way."

"It's fine. It's cute, in a way."

"Ugh, don't say that."

"Okay, it wasn't cute. It was kind of hot."

"It was hot, yes. How did we get there?"

"The tequila helped," Erin winked. "But you could cut the sexual tension between you two with a knife."

"I think you're rewriting history."

"Perhaps I am. But, anyway, are you gay? It's okay if you are, you know that, right?"

"Yes, I know that. I'm not sure. Yes, I guess. Probably a little," I said casually.

"Can anyone be a little gay?"

"Aren't you?"

"Ah. Yes. I hate to say this, and I know I shouldn't, but I feel it's different for boys."

"If you hate to say it, don't. Saying it does make it different."

"Very profound."

"You know me."

She kissed me on the cheek, with a loud cheek, before asking wistfully: "Do I? Do I know you?"

"Well," I replied, "within a week, you've kissed me, fucked with me, almost had a threesome with me, and witnessed me with a raging boner next to another guy. I'd say we became pretty close."

"Yes. I was your lover. I love saying that. I was Ben's lover."

 

Her words and her joyful spirit were enchanting. I felt relaxed and happy, so much so that I suddenly dreaded going back to campus, to the possible awkwardness waiting for me there, to the loutish rants of Mike and Rob, to the silence of my roommate. "Do we really have to go back?" I asked.

"I think we should. If we just hang out together any longer, I'll just want to have sex with you again. And I'll never get a clear answer on my question."

"Would it be so bad to have sex again?"

"It would be lovely. You are an attentive and acrobatic lover, two precious qualities, especially when combined. But I think, and I don't often say this, that sex would make things a bit complicated."

"Between us?"

"Between you and Joshua."

"There is no me and Joshua."

"Well, until I'm convinced about that, I don't think we should have sex."

"That's ridiculous. Are you jealous or something?"

"Oh, Ben. No, I'm not jealous. I like you and he is growing on me. I don't know what's going to happen between you two, but it might become a little, I don't know, volatile. Trust me, I've been there. So, if the shit hits the fan, I'd rather be there on the sidelines as friend for you or him, rather than right in the middle as the sex-crazed mistress. Does that make any sense?"

"Kind of."

"It should."

 

Joshua and I managed to slip out of the group after dinner, unnoticed within the complex and loud negotiations taking place to decide where and what they should all be doing on a Saturday night before work starts again the following day. We spent three hours all over the campus fields and small parks, hiding behind trees and cars whenever we heard someone coming over. It wasn't exactly joyful, but it was playfully dangerous and darkly erotic. We tried to talk on few occasions, but we mostly kissed and fondled each other. We lay among the bushes when we got tired of moving around and kissed some more. We pulled down our pants and blew each other. Then Joshua wanted us to go jerk off somewhere on or by the soccer field, which I thought was creepy. We settled on relocating to the football field, under the bleachers. As soon as we arrived, Joshua kneeled down and opened my jeans. He gave me a blow job while jerking himself off, insisted I came in his mouth. I did, quite violently, and the yelps of his own simultaneous orgasm were muffled by my throbbing dick in his mouth.

We lay down next to each other, holding hands, our pants down to our knees. The ground felt actually cold on my naked ass, but I didn't want to move.

 

For the following two weeks and until the last two ugly days, Joshua and I essentially repeated, adjusted, expanded or amended the essence of that night. Our relationship was to be clandestine and thrilling, our intimacy cagey but liberating, our attraction raw and visceral. We would choreograph our encounters and organize our interactions with our other friends seamlessly.

We made sure not to share more than a meal together every day and we alternated these meals at the tables of our two quite distinct cliques. I made every effort to try and appreciate Mike and Rob a little better and Joshua was increasingly comfortable with Erin's gang, even if he did spend most of the meals talking sports with Baseball Heartthrob – as we all had nicknamed the coach.

We stole every moment possible to be alone, even for a few minutes, but were always careful not to be conspicuous. We only spent entire nights (and mornings) together during the two weekends, thanks to my roommate's closeness to his local family, but we met up, somewhere, somehow, every end of the evening. We kissed a lot too.