About Carl - 3. Kawartha Lakes

I was parked on a side street near the entrance gate to the giant auto-parts factory watching the line of tired workers trudging out through the turnstile. Loud sounds from clanking machinery filled the air, and through the big sliding doors, left open to relieve the intense heat, I could see the red glow of enormous furnaces inside. The building, a relic of the early days of the town, looked straight out of Dickens' Hard Times. The enormous, sooty, brick walls crowded up against the street, and huge smokestacks loomed over the neighbourhood. The noise was deafening.

I was waiting for Carl to finish his shift at the plant where he had spent eight hours placing pieces of red-hot metal into a stamping machine. The work was hot, dirty, and monotonous, but the pay was ridiculously high for a summer job, and he needed the money to pay for another year at school. He hated working there. He had once recited a few lines from a William Blake poem when I dropped him off: And was Jerusalem builded here/ Among these dark Satanic Mills? After that, we always referred to the place as “Dark Satanic Mills, Inc.”

Carl appeared at the gate, and I honked the horn to get his attention. He looked tired and grimy, but his face lit up when he saw me. He ran to the car and hopped in the passenger seat, tossing his lunch box in the back seat.

“My God, am I glad to see you!” he said. “Get me out of this place.”

He was sweaty and dishevelled but he still looked handsome in a rugged sort of way, like one of those Soviet propaganda posters exhorting muscular workers to come to the aid of the Motherland. He sniffed at his armpit and wrinkled his nose. “Jesus, I smell like road kill. I can't wait to take a swim,” he said. He kicked off his work boots and stuck his arm out the open window. “Let's rock and roll.”

It was late August, and we were leaving for Carl's family cottage in the Kawartha Lakes area east of Toronto where lots of city folk have vacation properties. We were both home from university again for the summer and had a few days off to spend together. The car was packed with food and beer. We grinned at each other in anticipation of three carefree days on the lake.

Two years had passed since the summer when we had become friends, and although we weren't in each other's company constantly as we had been that year, we remained very close. We talked on the phone regularly when we were away at school and made a point to meet up at the Chestnut Inn when we were home on holidays visiting our families. We no longer worked together. Carl's night shifts and my day job as a lab technician at a big food-processing plant meant that it was difficult for us to spend time with each other. Our days off rarely coincided, so we jumped at this unusual chance to get away together.

Carl had split up with his girlfriend Julie the previous winter. For months I'd endured his stories about various women who had passed through his life; with each he was briefly infatuated. Each one eventually revealed some fatal personality flaw: too clingy, too controlling, too talkative, too emotional. He hadn't mentioned any female companions in a while, though; he must have been experiencing a dry spell.

“I've got big news,” I said as I steered the car towards the highway. “I was accepted into the Faculty of Education at Queen's. I got the letter today.”

I had completed my degree in Physics in April. At loose ends and without a job lined up at graduation, I had applied to the teaching program at Queen's University in Kingston. Jobs were scarce so the prospect of staying in school for another year appealed to me. I was relieved to have been accepted.

“That's fantastic, man,” Carl said. “I'm happy for you.”

“Thanks. To be honest, though, the thought of standing in front of a classroom and teaching a bunch of teenagers like the ones we went to school with scares the shit out of me.”

“No doubt. Remember Mr. Wilson? He was always one day away from a complete nervous breakdown. But I'm sure you'll be different. Maybe you won't have assholes like me in your class.”

“You're not helping.”

“I have two things to tell you, while we're on the subject of life stories,” said Carl.

“Oh yeah? What's up?”

“I've decided to apply for law school after I graduate. My academic advisor seems to think I have a pretty good chance of getting in provided I do well on the LSATs next year.”

“Really? That's fantastic,” I said enthusiastically. I remembered that Queen's had a law school. If Carl went there we could live together in Kingston while I looked for a teaching job. “Where are you planning to apply?”

He hesitated a bit. “UBC,” he said quietly.

Shit. The University of British Columbia. In Vancouver. Three thousand miles away.

Buck up. Don't show your disappointment. “That's great, Carl. I'm sure you'll get in,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said.

There was silence for a few moments. We were both aware that a move to British Columbia would mean that we would likely be permanently separated for several years. My concern went unspoken. It was what he wanted, and I tried to be happy for him.

In an attempt to relieve the awkwardness, I said, “You'll be a natural lawyer. You can bullshit better than anyone I know. That'll come in handy in a courtroom.” He didn't laugh. I tried to change the subject. “What was the second thing you were going to tell me?”

“Nothing. I'll tell you at the cottage.”

Late that night we pulled into the driveway of the cabin which was on a remote lake at the end of a long gravel road. It had been built by his grandfather in the 1920s and was a ramshackle affair made of logs and lumber salvaged from a house demolition. The windows were mismatched, and the floor tilted slightly.“For drainage,” Carl joked. The swayback roof was covered in moss and pine needles. It had electricity and plumbing, added by his father in a recent upgrade, but not many other modern amenities.

Exhausted after the long drive, we quickly unloaded the car, stowed away the groceries, and headed for bed. Carl offered me the largest bedroom which contained a double bed on an old iron frame with an ancient, musty mattress that sagged in the middle. There was a braided rag rug on the floor and a wooden chest of drawers that had been painted bright pink at some time in the distant past. Attached to the wall was a single wooden snowshoe and an ancient road map of Peterborough County. Carl took the spare room, a sort of small barracks with two sets of bunk beds and a couple of steamer trunks. Two framed paint-by-number paintings of ducks hung on the wall. The accommodations were spartan, but in our tired state they looked like the Ritz Carlton. We went off to our separate rooms for some much-needed sleep.

The next two days were wonderful. We slept in late, and swam off the end of the dock or took a canoe out to explore the lake in the afternoons. In the evenings, we grilled steaks on the barbecue and sat around a campfire drinking beer and talking. We argued about politics like we always did, and shared stories about our lives at school, our apprehensions about graduating, and what the future held in store. We would swim naked under the stars late at night, talking quietly to each other until the alcohol and tiredness overtook us and we wandered up to the cabin to bed.

On the last night of our trip, we drank a little more than usual. Carl had packed the ingredients for margaritas and we sat side-by-side on the end of the dock in the dark drinking them by the pitcher. Carl reached his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer to him.

“I'm really going to miss you when the summer's over,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said, the knowledge that he might be moving to Vancouver in a year weighing heavily on me. We didn't say anything for a while. Neither of us felt much like talking.

“Let's call it a night,” he said. We stood up and walked back to the cabin. There was a late-summer chill in the night air, and we were both shivering.

“Do you mind if I sleep with you tonight?” Carl said. “The bunk bed is really uncomfortable, and it's going to get cold.”

“I don't mind,” I said. My heart was pounding. Carl went off to the bathroom while I changed into boxer shorts and climbed into the double bed. There were no artificial lights on anywhere, and the darkness in the room was so complete that it was a little disorienting.

A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and climbed into the bed. The sag in the mattress made it difficult to share without touching each other. He curled up against me, his chest pressed up against my back. I could feel him breathing against my neck.

“Are you alright with this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

His breathing got deeper and more rhythmic, and he pulled me close to him, his arms encircling me. My heart was racing.

“I have a hard-on,” he whispered.

“So do I,” I said. I could feel his dick pressing against me.

He sighed deeply and shifted in the bed. I reached behind me and cupped his cock in my hand through the fabric of his sweat pants.

“Is this OK?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. He moaned a little as I rubbed him cautiously. I turned around to face him.

I undid the drawstring of his pants and slipped my hand inside, holding his hard cock gently. I began to stroke him, whispering, “Is this OK?”

“Yes,” he said.

It didn't take him long to climax. A few more strokes and he was there. “Jesus, Mark ... FUCK,” he yelled as he came, coating my hand in a sticky mess. He lay there beside me, gasping for breath. I wiped my hand on the bed sheet.

I grasped his hand in mine and guided it down between my legs, placing his fingers on my own stiff cock. “Please, Carl,” I whispered.

There was a long silence. “No,” he said. “I – I can't. I'm not ready for that.” He pulled his hand away.

“It's all right,” I answered. I reached into my boxers, grabbed my hard dick, and began to jerk myself off. It only took a few seconds of frantic movement before I unloaded in my shorts.

I was confused. I was sure from his obvious arousal that he wanted this as much as I did, but I had obviously crossed some threshold that made him very uncomfortable. I lay on my back in the dark next to him, trying to make sense of what we had just done.

“Come here,” he said quietly, reaching out and pulling me towards him. I turned around and spooned against his body, my back to him. He wrapped his arms around me and whispered in my ear, “I'm sorry. Let's just get some sleep.” I was in no condition to discuss what had happened. The combination of alcohol and sexual release made me drowsy, and in no time I was drifting off to sleep in Carl's arms.

I awoke the next morning in an empty bed. Sun was streaming through the window, birds were singing in the pine trees outside, and I could smell coffee perking and bacon cooking. I felt the dried cum in my boxer shorts making the fabric stick to my skin. I changed into fresh clothes and headed into the kitchen. It was time to face Carl.

“Good morning,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” I replied.

We sipped our coffee in silence. I thought we should talk about the previous night, and I was searching for a way to broach the subject. Before I could speak, Carl said, “Remember when I said that there were two things I wanted to talk to you about?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I've met someone. A girl. She goes to my school, and we met at a party last semester and really hit it off. I wanted you to know.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. Obviously now was not a good time to bring up last night's hand-job. “Tell me about her.”

“Her name is Lisa. She's a biology major, heading into final year. She's from Vancouver Island and wants to go back to British Columbia to study medicine at UBC. That's the reason I'm applying to law school out there.”

I didn't know what to say. He was moving to the other side of the country? For a woman? This didn't make sense.

“Really?" I finally said. "You must be into her if you're planning to follow her all the way to the West Coast.”

“I am. She's cute, smart, and funny.”

I tried to make a joke. “How unlike the chicks you usually date. What does she see in you?”

“Very funny, asshole. All kidding aside, I think she's the one. I really want this.”

There was an awkward pause. “I'm happy for you, Carl. You deserve this,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. This wasn't how I had hoped the weekend would end. The reason for Carl's reluctance to reciprocate my advances last night was now obvious. I felt tired and sad.

“Thanks,” he said. “I hope you'll meet her soon. It's really a big deal to me that you like her; you're the two most important people in my life.”

“I'm sure I will, Carl. Don't worry.” I was eager to change the subject. “Meanwhile, how about breakfast?” Relieved, he laughed and got up from the table. Soon he was busy over a skillet of scrambled eggs.

We finished our meal and then spent the rest of the morning packing up our gear and cleaning the cabin. We were too busy to talk much. We had a long drive ahead of us and we wanted to get through Toronto ahead of rush-hour traffic.

We made small talk on the long ride home, but I didn't have the heart to bring up the subject that was really on my mind. Obviously a life with Carl was not in the cards; we had to put all that behind us. It was best just to ignore what we had done. I was depressed and unsure about the future.

So much was left unsaid.