A to Z - 23. Questions, Questions

Late July means swim camp. Every year, it’s held at a state university campus for a week. Every year for three years, my parents have sent me. This summer wasn’t any different. It was a break from lifeguarding, and a chance to get coaching from of the best people in the state. Also a chance to size up the competition for next winter. Also a chance to look at hot boys.

Whatever had stayed mostly quiet for almost two months was going to get woken up again.

The ‘rising Juniors and Seniors’ (that’s what they called us) got assigned to a floor in a dorm, and we got settled in. My roommate was tan and tall, like a lot of us. But we didn’t make much of a connection. We were OK, but nothing more than that.

It wasn’t long before Greg made his presence known to everyone. A tall African American, he was going to be a senior next fall, and he wanted the world to know that he was the best damn swimmer in the country, not just the state.

But Greg was hard to hate, even if he talked trash constantly. Brilliant smile, ready laugh, plenty of jokes. And he was definitely hot. More than once, my eyes tracked his perfect body moving across the pool deck. Could he feel my lifeguard's laser vision? I looked away whenever he turned in my direction.

In the pool, Greg was as good as his own advertising. Long, lean, super fit, he cut through the water like a speedboat. Greg caught the eye of the college coaches at camp right away. They were looking for him. Everyone seemed to want to talk with him after practice about something. One of the younger associate coaches from a college out east talked frequently with him – after almost every session. Would I get recruited that way next year? Anyway, they seemed to spend a lot of time together, but I didn’t think much about it.

A couple of us gave Greg a real run for his money. We came close to beating him a couple of times. I actually did better than he did in the distance free once. Once.

I stayed late in the pool one day, trying to perfect a stroke movement one of the coaches told me about. I must have worked a long time at it, because the place seemed deserted when I hauled myself out of the pool.

Tired, with a towel around my shoulders, I walked to the showers. Before I rounded the corner, I stopped. Noises echoing softly off the tiles made themselves heard.

Very subtle, wet kind of noises.

“Ah. Ahh.” Almost a whisper, high pitched.

“Mmmm.” A lower growl. Different voice.

The two voices sang an almost noiseless duet: deep, soft moans punctuated by higher pitched, muffled cries. For how long, it was hard to tell afterwards. I couldn’t help it. I had to peek around the corner.

Greg had the associate coach pinned against the wall, front to back. His dark chocolate groin was flush against the man’s ass. Greg’s huge hands ran up and down the coach’s sides, appreciating the taut, smooth body he was buried in. Black hands held white hips as he rotated his pelvis, screwing himself deeper in. His fingers played through the shorter man’s brown hair. I watched as he pulled back, and for a second or two, three or four inches of long, dark cock appeared out of the coach’s hole. Then, with a firm thrust, Greg put it all back in.

“Ah! Aaah!”

Greg pressed in hard again, then pulled back. Another thrust.

Coach reached down to his own cock and began stroking himself.

Greg pulled out and thrust again. You could hear his pelvis bottoming out on the coach.

Shit. I retreated back around the corner. This couldn’t be happening. Greg? Best swimmer in the camp screwing one of the coaches in the shower? Unbelievable.

But from the sounds coming from the shower area, it had to be believed. It was clear they weren’t amateurs: they’d done this more than once. They weren’t being as quiet anymore. There was a definite slap of flesh on flesh. Words could be made out, spoken in time to the rhythm of sex.

“Yes. Yes. Oh, Jesus, yes. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ahhhh, yes. More. Harder. Yes.”

Not daring to watch, but rooted in place, I listened.

“Oh. Yeah, baby. Take it. Take it. All of it. Oh. Yeah."

They weren’t at all quiet when Greg came. It was easy to tell it was him, almost yelling at his orgasm. But they weren’t done. The slapping of ass to pelvis had stopped, but the moist sound of the coach jacking himself furiously continued. He hadn’t come yet. I listened in the stillness, as I heard his high cry of pleasure when his own release arrived. I wondered if Greg was still inside him.

I couldn’t bring myself to stroll into the showers after that, hard and drooling as I was. I backed out and went around the long way into the lockers, reeking of chlorine. I showered in the dorm, seeking relief furiously with my right hand. And after supper, I tried to sleep.

I tossed and turned that night.

I felt haunted. I'd been confronted by my own desires. Did I want to be Greg? Did I want to be the coach? I hadn’t seen much. But I couldn’t forget what I’d heard. If I'd flirted with Greg, could it have been me up against the wall? I know shit about flirting with guys. In the darkness, as my roommate slumbered in the bunk above me, my body nearly throbbed with want. Again. And later, after I'd very, very quietly brought myself off, I tried to think.

Yes, I knew I wanted sex with other boys. That wasn't going to go away, and now I knew it with absolute certainty and clarity. But I also knew that I wanted more than quick sex. What I wanted was someone I could discover things with. Someone to be best friends with. Someone I could fall in love with, even. Not someone to use and discard. Someone who, someday, I could make love to. A boyfriend.

July 31

It’s been two weeks since the last entry. Not much new to write about, and the work just keeps coming. I’m usually exhausted by the time I lie down in the evening after supper. No visits from Toby, and I haven't made it back to New Salem again, either. If he's working as hard as I am, I'm not surprised I haven't seen him again. Good news. In the bottom of my backpack, there is just over $1,000 dollars that I’ve earned since working for Eustace. It’s not too hard to avoid spending money.

Once in a while, I’ll walk down to East Akron - maybe once in a week - for extra food and such. I’ve bought a little flashlight to use at night in the barn. That’s it. Oh, and I bought a dark blue hat with an oval ‘Ford’ logo on it. Dad always bought Chevy trucks, so a red hat with that logo wasn’t happening, and the green ‘John Deere’ hat reminded me too much of my encounter in Petersburg.

It keeps the sun off while I’m out. I’m outside all day, pretty much. I like it.

While he wasn’t watching, I borrowed a pair of scissors from Eustace and cut back my hair. It was getting really long, and the weather is just too warm for it. Now it just looks shaggy, and a little lopsided. That hat is good for hiding my crappy haircut.

Nights have been pretty hot. It’s really hard to sleep in my little hay-room hotel in the barn. I might have to give it up and find another place to stay. Maybe I’ll try the hunting camp for a night or two.

The other night, when it was really, really hot, I ventured out. Peeking out of the barn, I saw that the house was dark, and nobody was on the porch. Eustace must have been in bed or maybe watching TV in the back.

With my towel in hand, I stole out and up the lane, beyond the tractor shed. I climbed the steep grass bank, with only the moon and stars to show me the way up. There before me lay a sheet of shimmering water, reflecting the moonlight. The pond. Eustace told me that the pond is for keeping the sheep watered if the spring ever runs dry. More importantly, it’s a reservoir for the volunteer fire company if there is ever a fire in the house or barn.

It was cooler right by the water. Crickets sang in the grass, telling the world just how hot it was that night. Very, very quietly, I began stripping off my clothes. There was nobody around, and I wasn’t really afraid of being seen, but I knew sound carried a long way. If Eustace had his windows open – and I bet he did – he’d hear me in the pond if I made too much noise. So call me paranoid.

Naked under the stars, I felt self-conscious, even though no one could possibly see my body or my scars. I stepped gingerly into the water. It wasn’t just cool, it was downright cold. The pond must be fed by the same spring that goes to the house. The bottom felt fine and squishy under my toes.

I ventured a little farther in, and then, with as much courage – and silence – as I could muster, I slipped all the way down to the surface. Only my head showed above the little ripples I made, as I shivered and tried to control the noise I was making. I discovered that the bottom dropped away very quickly, and if I stepped too far toward the middle of the pond, I found myself in water over my head. Soon I adjusted to the cold water, and I tried to doggy-paddle for a bit. After the heat of the day, the cold felt so good.

I don’t swim well – I barely swim at all – but my midnight paddle was one of the best things I’ve ever experienced. Daring greatly, I ducked my head under and enjoyed the otherworldly soundlessness beneath the surface. I tried floating on my back, but I couldn’t manage it for long, and made too much noise splashing when I started to sink. While I stood in the shallower water, I tried washing off some the grime and sweat of the day before. I’d probably need to wash again with soap in the morning, but so what?

Eventually, I started to get really cold again. I’m too thin to stay too cold for too long, and I had to get out.

I toweled off as best I could and then lay down on my towel – naked – under the open sky to dry off and look at the stars. Within minutes, I was lost in the deep, deep darkness of the heavens. I can see why people believe in a God up there in the beautiful, endless night skies. If God exists, then God could surely have seen everything he needed to see about me that night. Maybe I should have been ashamed to be naked before the God of the universe, but as I saw it, God made me, so God should be able to take me as I was.

If I live to be a hundred – no, that’s too much to ask – If I live to be fifty, I’ll never forget that night.

No point writing too much about the work we’ve been doing – mowing, haying, brush-cutting, firewood, fences, keeping the sheep watered and healthy. We got the big Allis-Chalmers tractor going and that really helped with the latest project, building a shelter in the upper pasture. Eustace found a giant drill called an earth auger that can only be hitched up to the big orange A-C. He and I spent a rainy afternoon getting it working and all put together, and the next morning, we drove out and effortlessly drilled six deep holes for large support posts for the shelter.

Next, we went out and cut down six perfect, straight trees to use for the posts. Again, the A-C tractor was good at dragging the cut trunks back to the site. Finally, we used it to help us pull the posts into position and haul them upright with a solid thunk as they hit the bottoms of their holes. Of course, I got to fill in the holes with dirt and make sure they would stay straight, but that wasn’t so bad.

I’m not really worried about the kinds of projects Eustace is going to cook up for me. Yet.

My biggest worry right now is Ambrose Whitley, who comes down every two weeks to check up on Eustace, and help with larger projects. This weekend, he came down without his boys, so it was just Eustace, me and Ambrose yesterday, working together all day on the new shelter in the upper pasture. He quizzed me at nearly every moment he could.

I guess he doesn’t have enough police work to do, so I’m the next best mystery.

I find my best defense against Ambrose is a shrug or a nod – say as little as possible and let him make his own conclusions. Still, it meant this past Friday and Saturday were tense for me, and I had to work hard to hide it.

He tried to be more subtle about it this week.

“So what kind of TV you watching these days, Eric?”

Shrug. “Nothing much.”

“See the NCIS episode last week?” This was a kind of police program I'd overheard him talking about the last time he was here.

Shrug. Counterattack. “Bet you liked it. Think you could do better?”

This got Ambrose to smile and off he went for a while on how unrealistic most crime investigation shows really are. With some encouragement, this went on for a while, and kept the questions away. But as good as my tactics were, eventually Ambrose would go quiet for a bit, and then he’d be back.

“Hey Dad,” he started, this time angling to surprise me by getting his question in through Eustace, “I took the boys to see the Pirates play last week.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Eustace returned, grinning. “The pitching hasn’t improved any, has it?”

“Not really. But we had fun. Say, Eric,” he began turning to me, “You play baseball?”

I shrugged again, this time repressing a snort. Baseball means having friends to play with. A father who wants to spend time with you. Didn’t happen for me in Carlsberg. Not that I didn’t enjoy playing with that kid in – where was it? – Houghton – for an hour or so, but that kind of thing is too late for me.

Without a clear answer, Ambrose pressed.

“You try out for the Akron team last spring?”

“No. I’m not into that.”

It’s a negative kind of answer – I’m a non-baseball player, and that’s pretty obvious, anyhow.

“So, you don’t do any sports at all, then.”

Another shrug. Time to counterattack again.

“Hey, Eustace,” I say, reaching out for more nails, “how did Ambrose do on the Akron baseball team?”

Two can play at this game of indirect questioning. As it happens, this encouraged Eustace to talk about Ambrose and baseball and how the rest of the Whitley kids grew up. Ambrose and his dad started a lively give-and-take about the old days, the close games that were almost won or lost. This took the focus off of me all the way through lunchtime, and that’s the way I like it.

At lunch, I concentrated on eating. Eustace seems to appreciate that I like to eat what he sets in front of me. He doesn’t know that I see every meal as a precious opportunity. The food is better here than anything I’ve ever known, and I never walk away hungry – something that rarely happened when I lived with Dad.

Though he laid off the questions at lunch, I noticed that Ambrose made a face as I reached for another piece of bread and butter.

“He always eat like that?” he asked his father.

“Like what?” returned Eustace.

“Where do you put it all?” Ambrose asked me disbelievingly, turning in my direction.

Immediately, I dropped the bread on my plate and looked down, feeling ashamed of eating too much.

“Sorry.”

There was silence.

“Young Eric, eat,” Eustace gently commanded. And to Ambrose he chuckled, “Just you wait until your boys grow up to be teenagers.”

Later, while I washed the dishes, Ambrose stepped up beside me. He fidgeted with a dishtowel in his big hands.

“I didn’t mean to pick on you like that, Eric.”

I shrugged, nodded.

“It’s just – you’re so thin, Eric, and you eat everything in sight. Me, I really have to watch everything I eat carefully, and even then I might gain four or five pounds.”

He patted his solid-looking abdomen.

“Anyway, I’m sorry, OK?”

“’s OK. I’m not mad,” I assured him.

And I really wasn’t. He’d pointed out that I was eating too much, making a pig out of myself at Eustace’s expense. If nothing else, my eating was calling attention to the fact that I got pretty much one meal in the middle of each day, plus a small snack on either end. I’ll have to work on being much less obvious. That means maybe another trip to East Akron for extra food every week, so I can eat a smaller lunch every day.

By the end of yesterday afternoon, we’d got most of the shelter up – frame, walls and most of the roof – and I’d been thoroughly interrogated in the nicest possible way. School, relations, girls, holidays, movies, whatever. I shrugged most of the inquiries off. I don’t think I gave away too much information, so Ambrose will have to stew for two more weeks before he can think of something else to ask.

All his questions about school and home life got me thinking about what will happen at the end of the summer. It’s coming up soon. In just a little more than a month, it will be September, and time for school to start. Will Eustace let me keep working here? Will he expect me to go back to school? That sounds like Eustace. If I have to go back to school, if only for show, where would I go? That’s something to explore in East Akron. Ambrose keeps talking about there being a high school there, but it can’t be very big, going by the size of the town. I wonder if half the school was made up of Andersons. And another thing: if I stay for the fall and winter, where will I live? When it gets colder, will I be able to survive here in the barn, or will I need to move on?

Maybe I could somehow manage to hole up in the hunting camp for the winter. There’s a wood stove in there, so I could keep warm. I’d need some blankets. And what would I do for water? I can’t remember if the hand pump will work all winter or if it would freeze up.

In the meantime, I’ll get to put roofing shingles and paint on the shelter next week. Fall can wait.