Gordy Comes Home - 2. Chapter 2

John opened his eyes, momentarily confused. He didn't have the pounding headache which, of late, came with awakening. He felt 'lighter, too. Wary of inviting the headache, he slowly raised his head from his crossed forearms, and released his death-grip on the steering wheel.

His throat was sore, his body ached and tears had left a brackish taste on his tongue. His hands weren’t trembling, but they were sore – bruised with a couple of scraped knuckles. At least they weren’t trembling. Somehow he had managed to warp the steering wheel and crack a plastic shielding on the instrument panel. He was exhausted, physically weak and emotionally drained.

He knew where he was, but had no idea how long he had been there. Obviously, some time had passed since the sun was now overhead. He took a moment to gather himself and took a deep breath which exhausted itself in a sigh. Then, shifting the still running Tahoe into drive, he merged once again into traffic.

On the winding drive leading to the boathouse, John realized he could not remember having a single conscious thought since pulling back onto the interstate. It bothered him a moment, but then the boathouse came into view. He was home.

It had been Linda's idea to buy the place. John had intended to sell it after the divorce, but Gordy changed that. The boathouse was now his home. His connection to the boathouse had developed subtlety. They had spent their time together here. Gordy had all but erased John's lifetime connection to the ranch where he seldom went anymore. There, he was "the boss”. Here, he loved and was loved in a way he never could have imagined. John had not turned his back on the ranch where he had grown up. It was simply that here he had come to know his greatest joy, his greatest passion, his greatest love and now his greatest pain. The boathouse was his home.

Once inside, he retrieved a glass, a bottle and a bucket of ice. He took his prize and headed out to the deck. The deck stretched along the backside of the boathouse. Sliding glass doors connected it to the great room, and at the far end to John's bedroom. There was a walkway that led past the side entrance of the boathouse where one could enter the kitchen area of the great room or continue to the deck. That walkway was the vantage point that had given him his first view of Gordy's naked flesh.

The size of the deck was Linda's idea. In her defense, she had been a highly successful Hollywood wedding planner but like most of her idea's, it was over the top. There was heavy metal framing, wrapped around the outside of the hand railing. With the push of two buttons, a screen, along with the canopy, would make the entire deck a screened in porch.

They had comfortably entertained forty people, plus caterer's food tables, a bar and wait staff. That had been Linda's first and last attempt to glean the local elite for "the best people." She never made any friends here.

He pushed the first button and the canopy extended, shading the deck. He noted that the deck had been cleaned since last night. Conchatta, his housekeeper cum surrogate mother, had driven out from the ranch. The empty bottle of Jack Daniel's, a filled ashtray and maybe some trash, had all been cleared away. He knew he would find dinner in the fridge or the oven. The thought of food, even Conchatta's, was not appealing. Conchatta was efficient, unobtrusive, and predictable. He would try to remember to ask her not to bother with the boathouse. Even as the thought solidified, John admitted that Conchatta would do pretty much what she wanted. He snickered, Conchatta was one of the many friends that Linda didn't make here.

He sat in a lounge chair within easy reach of the bottle. He lit a cigarette and as the smoke rode away on the afternoon breeze, he filled his glass with ice and whiskey. Whiskey would numb the pain that he was half certain would return, but somehow he knew he would not see any of the images he had been forced to view while stopped alongside the interstate. That incident had resolved something that he would have to consider later.

The first sip burned his throat. He should get some water. Instead he took a gulp, swished it around his mouth, letting the alcohol wash away the brackish taste. He braced himself and swallowed. The burning was tolerable. The water could wait.

He refused to let his mind wander. Instead he tried to focus on something real. He found himself looking at the Jack Daniel's label. He could remember the first time he got drunk with his high school buddies. He could remember putting a bottle on a rickety shelf, in his college dorm room. That image grew clearer. His focus now on college life, life before Gordy. A safe memory.

John refilled his glass and relaxed into the lounge chair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

College freshman John Rutledge Grant set the sealed bottle of Jack Daniels on the rickety shelf and waited, his hand poised to rescue the bottle if the shelf collapsed. The shelf steadied under the weight and John relaxed. He was as unsure of the shelf as he was about the cramped room and the ancient building itself. The facade spoke of strength, yet the interior begged to be refurbished or demolished. John had yet to decide which would be the wiser choice.

The bottle was the first item he had pulled from his luggage. He was pleased to see his new roommate smile appreciatively. Eying the bottle, his roommate's first words were, "If you're good at sharing, we're gonna get along just fine." That action and subsequent exchange was the beginning of a new life for John. Yeah, he could easily calculate the number of years, months, weeks and days since his life was altered forever.

No it wasn't when he first met Gordy. The stage for Gordy had been set years before, in that cramped, antiquated dorm room the day he met Wylie.

Strange how a seemingly innocuous event can lead to such profound changes. Who would have thought that a ‘luck of the draw’ roommate assignment, would change his life and alter his fate.

Wiley Keyes was on a swimming scholarship. Slightly shorter than John, at six feet, he had broad shoulders, a slim waist and well defined muscles. His dishwater blonde hair and killer smile, framed his sky blue eyes. When they shook hands, their grips equally firm and friendly, John saw Wylie's smile fade and his eyes grow dark, then almost in the same instant his dazzling smile and bright blue eyes were back. The shift occurred so quickly that John almost doubted it had happened – almost.

They got better acquainted as they unloaded John's Cherokee. Wylie had arrived and unpacked, sometime before John. The side of the room he chose was a mirror image of John's side. The doorway was the apparent dividing line. After getting squared away, they had burgers and beer for lunch. While John had brought "bottle and bond" Wylie had stocked several cases of Lone Star. John made a mental note to upgrade Wylie's taste in beer.

That afternoon they explored the campus. John had been visited several times before, but Wylie seemed wide eyed the whole time. Before the day was over they both had fake IDs from a computer major. They agreed that was probably more important than learning their way around.

They had dinner and then headed back to the dorm. John found it easy to totally relax with Wylie. He had a lot of ‘acquaintances, but few friends – no one he would miss, except his father.

With his charm, good looks and enthusiasm, John was sure Wylie had lots of close friends and brokenhearted girls in his blue collar part of Dallas.

In for the night, they both stripped to boxers and took care of ablutions.

John learned that Wylie’s blue eyes were truly the window to his soul. They lit up his smile when he talked about swimming. Wylie's eyes would glow with love and sadness when he reverently spoke of his grandmother’s sacrifices. His eyes moistened when he told John that she was the only family he had known, and that she had died earlier that summer. His eyes darkened when he spoke of growing up in a rough Dallas neighborhood. John guessed his eyes would appear almost black if Wylie got angry. He hoped his own brown eyes didn’t reveal as much as Wylies.

They were both business majors. Neither was interested in fraternities; neither had a girl “back home.” They were both casual about nudity. Not overly modest, neither did more than make the initial comparative glance. John had run track and played baseball, so the male form was nothing new, nor particularly interesting. His body was well toned and tanned from work on the ranch. His chest was covered in wiry reddish brown hair.

Wylie had a thick carpet of soft looking, light brown, hair above his pecs that thinned to a light dusting just under them. All this hair connected to his naval by a treasure trail that surrounded and richly bordered an innie then continued toward his nether regions. John blushed at the thought of what lay at the end of that hairy trail. Still red faced, he asked why Wylie didn’t shave, like other swimmers.

Wylie laughed, "Yeah, everybody asks that. I'll do it in a couple of days. Certainly before the first meet. I'll go through six or eight disposable razors and a couple of cans of menthol shave cream. This, he tugged a fist full of hair between his pecs, is just summer growth. John winced at the pain he would have felt, had Wylie pulled his chest hair like that. He considered the image of Wylie's hand on his chest, but his reverie was short-lived because Wylie pulled up both sides of his boxers to form a ’V’, and said, "I have to shave everything that shows. I'm gonna need help. Think you could give me a hand?"

John's eyes were drawn to Wylie's cock and one low hanging testicle that had escaped through his fly. "Wylie, some of the parts you're showing, ah, you're gonna have to shave yourself," John stated flatly, as he pointed to Wylie's exposed genitalia.

Wylie looked down to where John was pointing. His dangling cock pulsed and swelled noticeably before he could drop his drawers and re-capture his errant manhood. He grinned guiltily and winked at John, saying, "Yeah, I guess some of it I’d better do myself."

By the end of the second week, John and Wylie were getting very comfortable with their life at college – a routine of classes, studying, and swimming for Wylie, then boxers, beer and bed.

It was a Sunday night. They were both in boxers. John had been sipping a beer and reading. He stopped to watch as Wylie stripped off his boxers and put on his speedos. He then spread a couple of towels on the floor and pulled a small bag from a dresser drawer, reached into it and took out a barber’s electric clipper . Fascinated, he watched as Wylie plugged it in and began metodically removing the hair from his legs. John was surprised at the amount of hair piling onto the towels; Wylie had only done his legs.

He wondered if Wylie planned to continue with his bottom to top approach, shaving everything. This would mean he’d have to remove his speedos. Intent on watching, John was disappointed when Wylie pulled the waist band down and trim just below his tan line. He continued up his torso, until he was just above his naval. At that point Wylie sheepishly asked John for help.

John leaped from his chair so quickly he had to catch it to keep it from toppling over. He also caught himself. Moving hesitantly toward Wylie, he asked, "I don't know, are you gonna shave all the parts you showed before?

Wylie looked up, winked and smiled. Over the hum of the clippers, he said ,"That was the part I needed your help with. It gets too big for one man to handle." John stopped in mid-stride. His face blank as he searched Wylie's face to see if he was even half-serious. Still unsure, he mumbled, "Smart ass".

Taking the clippers, he cleaned the remainder of the treasure trail, then moved up Wylie's torso using his left hand to "smooth" the already taut skin.

Wylie’s mouth was suddenly dry as he started to speak. His voice slightly cracked as he whispered, "John, the vibration from the clippers usually gives me,,, uh,,, uh,,, a hardon. Just so you know."

John didn’t reply, but wished he were the one being clipped so he would have an excuse for his own hardon.

Wylie's skin felt hot under his caress… uh… touch. In a daze, John moved his harvester toward the fruit. His left hand rested on Wylie's right pectoral as the clippers plowed through the valley between. He marveled as he felt Wylie's nipple harden under his fingertips. John was careful to remain in a somewhat stooped position so Wylie couldn’t see his unexplainable hardon that was fighting for freedom in his boxers. He made a mental note to find a girlfriend – soon!

When he let go the nipple, John sought a position and stance that allowed him to handle Wylie's left pectoral as he had the right. He smiled to himself noticing that as the right nipple hardened under his fingertips and the left was still hard, too. John knew that next time he introduced Widow Thumb and her four daughters to Mr. Shaft, they would also be exploring his own nipples.

John's reverie was rudely interrupted by Wylie suddenly turning away from John a second later he was back. Wylie had obviously readjusted his cramped manhood.

When he moved the clippers above Wylie's pecs, he stepped in nearer, ostensibly to get a closer look and do a better job,but in reality he didn’t want Wylie to see the effect this was having on his own manhood.

John's breath moved some of the newly clipped hairs around Wylie's sensitive neckline giving Wylie chill bumps. When the last of Wylie's chest hair had fallen to the towels, John was almost saddened at the thought he would not feel his fingers dragging through the silken softness while it was attached to the chiseled chest.

He rubbed his left hand freely across Wylie's chest which showed only stubble. Wylie's eyes were closed tightly and his jaw clinched as John's hand ever so lightly caressed the newly mowed chest, No doubt, ensuring there was only stubble remaining.

Wylie extended his arms to John who worked quickly to remove the hair. Once satisfied, he said, "Reach for the sky, Big Guy."

Wylie widened his stance and raised his arms. John was close enough to smell Wylie's armpit. It was a heady combination of lightly applied deodorant and Wylie. He inhaled deeply, actually considering saving some of this hair, but reluctantly he let it fall to the towels. Once the hair was gone John spent more time than necessary to assure the pit was hairless, stroking the skin a little more firmly than he had Wylie's chest.

John stepped behind Wylie to get to get to his right armpit. As he did he sniffed the fingers that he’d had just rubbed over Wylie's armpit and regretted having let the hair fall. The right pit was the last to be shorn. He forced himself to again let this musky smelling hair fall to the floor, and grabbed a dry washcloth to brush loose hair off Wylie's skin.

Neither young man had spoken. The experience was so extraordinary, so intimate it could not be framed in a "normal" context.

John tried to remember the last girl he had fucked. She too, had blonde hair and blue eyes. Damn! That didn't help this situation.

He was pleased when Wylie asked him to join him in the shower to use the razors. He readily agreed, but said he needed a pit stop along the way.

John wasted no time, once he was in a locked stall he slipped the waistband of his boxers below his balls. freeing his painfull throbbing erection. He marveled that it looked larger than ever. Rubbing his nipples, it took only a few vigorous strokes to come harder and more than ever before. The climax left him weak. He collapsed on the commode to regain his composure.

John found Wylie under a cold shower. Wylie explained that the cold water would help prevent razor rash. John noted that the cold water had little effect on Wylie's still straining manhood.

Wylie stepped out of the flow and began applying shave cream to his legs. In better control of himself, John took charge. He stroked the area the razor had cleared. Checking for a close shave.

As the blade neared Wylie's groin, John watched as the monster, caged within spandex, pulsed angrily. He glanced up to see his new friend again clinching his eyes and jaw.

Once the left leg was finished, John held the razor handle between his teeth and used both hands to feel for stubble. When his left hand accidentally came in contact with Wylie's spandex covered balls he heard a muted groan. At that, Wylie turned away quickly and stepped under the cold shower.

With his back to John, Wylie vigorously rubbed his torso and then his legs. After a moment John could tell Wylie had pulled the front of his trunks open as if washing away beach sand… or cum!

Having taken longer than necessary to remove the traces of shave cream, Wylie turned back to where John was still kneeling. Without looking at him, he once again assumed the stance that told John, he could continue.

John resumed the task at hand, determined to give Wylie a proper shave. Caressing… er… feeling Wylie's body… er skin for stubble. It took over an hour and three beers each, which John happily fetched.

That night, in the dark, both young men clearly heard the other take matters in hand.

Was it any wonder that John began to have dreams – wet dreams – something he hadn't experienced in years.

In these dreams, John would be fucking or getting a blow job from a blonde, whose face would be turned away. At the moment of climax, their eyes would meet and he would see it was Wylie and in his eyes were love and lust. At the instant that eye contact was made in the dream John would erupt so hard that he’d awaken with the first shot… too late to react; he could only ride the waves of ecstasy. The dreams were disturbing. He had never even thought of having “gay” sex. John had sex only with girls and only thought of girls when he jerked off except when he simply concentrated on the pleasure his cock provided.

As far as getting hard and jerking off when he shaved Wylie, John convinced himself it was the just physical contact after not having had sex in a long time. It was not a "gay" thing. He was definitely not Gay!

He was a logical man. He’d never had gay dreams nor desires before. So,,, since he was in a strange environment, where everyone was new and Wylie had been the first person he gotten to know, combined with not enough masturbating, he deduced that it would most likely mix up any guy’s dreams. He’d never had gay dreams nor desires.

John decided to take action. He started jerking off twice a day in any available bathroom stall. He fought to keep Wylie from invading his imagination. That plan worked some of the time, but the dreams continued.

So the the next step was to minimize his time with Wylie, figuring less time with Wylie should lead to less Wylie in his dreams. He would have to break the routine they had established, a routine they’d both had come to enjoy. From day one they had been almost inseparable since they had nearly identical schedules, so it was challenging to stay away from him. It would take some effort, but he had to .

John started disappearing early in the morning before Wylie woke up. Last minute arrival to classes kept him from having to sit next to him. Rushing out of class meant he didn't have to talk to him. To anyone else this behavior might appear extreme. John thought it made sense. Lunch was a no-brainer. He simply avoided the cafe/bistro where they had always eaten.

Evenings were spent away from the dorm until John was sure that Wylie was in bed. Failing that, he would enter the room, disrobe and drop into bed. These times were the most difficult. Wylie would want to talk,but John would feign exhaustion and face the wall pretending to sleep. When he’d finally fall asleep the dreams would come.

He expanded his list of acquaintances; potential friends, sometimes having lunch or dinner with one of them. He started talking to girls, as long as they weren't blonde with blue eyes. He even checked out a study group, thinking to join.

One guy even followed John back to his room to borrow a book. That garnered a strange look from Wylie, who greeted the guy with less than his normal enthusiasm.

All this; according to John’s logic, should have eliminated the dreams; the dreams continued. John thought it made sense and was frustrated that it was not a complete success. According to John’s logic, all this should have eliminated the dreams, but the dreams continued. Sometimes they were, hot, sweaty, slowly building to an explosive orgasm, these were the dreams that woke him. Other dreams were almost romantic – green meadows, billowy clouds, sky; matching Wylie’s eyes. He and Wylie would simply hold hands, kiss and speak of love. These dreams left him wanting even more, wanting to surrender and spend all his time with Wylie.

There were times, when John would watch Wylie. When he was sure he wouldn’t be caught. In John’s opinion, these observations were clinical. He decided there was nothing remarkable about Wylie. John’s dick had no problem with the dreams nor watching Wylie. If John had been clinical enough he would have noted that spying on Wylie usually preceded his diurnal jack off sessions.

The ‘avoiding Wylie mission’ carried on for almost a week. John awoke one morning to find Wylie wrapped in a blanket, asleep, blocking the door.

He got dressed, all the time glancing at Wylie. He knew what would happen, when Wylie awoke. He thought if he waited until they both had to hurry to class, he could avoid or at least delay a confrontation. He sat watching Wylie, occasionally glancing at his watch.