Enduring Embers
With a nudge and a yawn-smothering smirk, Jeremy poked me in the ribs and falsetto whimpered at me, “wake uuu—uup,” as I ironically continued to drive and he awakened from traveler’s daze. Always his way--- deflect the obvious by that distracting charm. Even after 18 years, I was not immune to it. The fact of which he remained well aware.
Approaching the Animas River crossing in Durango, we had made a good way toward our destination: Telluride, up-mountain. “Tride” to the familiars, Olympus to the low-landers. Beautiful and rustic, hidden deep inside a box canyon up in the San Juan mountains of Colorado, for all who know of it.
We had fallen in love with the place years before while visiting friends who kept a getaway lodge in the small community. It was Elysium. A mixture of old mining town, bucolic and unpolished, and a more recent bohemian skier’s colony. Excellent music venues with an ongoing upscale restoration of the historical texture in refined, urbane mountain style. New and old money had established their presence in the high mountain retreat that so captured sooo different many.
A plain and rough log home with windowed loft master bedroom, rock fireplaces, peaked roofs and wonderful views later, Jeremy and Luke had nestled our way into a quietly replete existence every bit of time we could manage between our two full lives most of the year. Not that we were complaining. Only calculating.
He checked over his shoulder at our two better halves, Suture and Elvee. Both rescue canines lay contentedly sacked out on the back seat, good travelers that they were. Then, he nuzzled over to encircle my right arm in his, rasping in his best Mae West voice, “Where the hell are we...honey?” His other hand reached down between my legs and groped my junk lewdly, making slurping sounds in accompaniment. His full lips enjoyed sucking dick as much as any two I had ever before witnessed or experienced.
I knew this by firsthand knowledge as well as second and even third-hand evidence. His nomination to the Blowjob Hall of Fame was all but secured. I hardened at the thought of those close by, talented full ones. On earlier trips, they had swallowed my dick in healthy similarity to this present driving pose. What he lacked in kept promises of shared driving pledges was more than atoned for by the doling out of his primo blowjobs... I forgave the intermittent lapses and naps. Besides, he always woke up horny.
Just about my first revelation regarding him decades before was that he was one giant horndog every time his eyes opened from a sleep state. Power nap, siesta, slumber, REM, any suspension of consciousness. Of course, wakening with a raging hard-on every time could account for some of the lustfulness, yet I ever wondered at what was sifting through his subconscious right before waking up that made his big boners such a given. Again, not a complaint, said my smile.
But, I digress. His sensuous dark lips closed determinedly around the head of my cock, bringing me to attention in more than one way. When toes couldn’t curl, knees could still lock. The gas pedal became suddenly heavy under my foot.
Knowing full well of his DWM (Driving While Milking) penchant, I still jolted involuntarily upon contact with the talented trio of his tongue and lips. He could bring me to a climax in less than a minute if need be but preferred to prove his steel-trap control by slow, deep, throatful mouth strokes. The big manipulator...
From my spot behind the wheel, his masterful head felt sweetly exhilarating and my big piece curved into the deep reaches of his throat, spasming every time my pubes got lipped. He always knew where a dick was on that scale of numb-to-cum and perpetuated the teetering feeling at the pinnacle of Mount Climax for about as long as he desired.
Cars and trucks passing us in the other direction surely must be able to see his dark, shaved head rising and rolling over my lap from their oncoming vantage point, though only in fractional snapshots. My erection was amplified by the thought. I rationalized that their short glimpses could leave them only perplexed, shocked...or jacked.
As we crested a hill and descended, Jeremy let me crest as well and I throbbed a high country load down his waiting throat. Proof is in the puddin’ as per the avowal. Mouthing of the phatted worm went for several minutes longer and I gradually sat back on the seat, slowly bending my knees. The gas pedal grew gradually lighter.
No longer needing to stop for coffee to keep me alert, we continued the progressive upward slope as the snaking road ascended toward Tride. The boys in the backseat snored on, lulled by the motor and turning wheels. We made more good time onward to the awaiting nest.
True to form, with throat coated and libido slaked, Jeremy regressed inward to contemplate the origins of sperm, or something, while I settled in for the sylvan riverside course inclining over the winding miles to 12,000 feet and our tucked away bower. I simmered reflectively, hearkening back to the first sight of the man-of-my-life now nestled, introspecting beside me...
Jeremy stared back through smoky grey eyes, evincing conflicted emotions in that moment as he sized-up the present scene. The little girl had deftly skittered to the side out of harm’s way, now feigning ignorance of any incident at all. Even the bumping of my wall ladder, as she had bolted away from her father a few seconds before. Now, her rapt attention was bent toward a fascinating treatise by Sophocles... the tiny, pig-tailed figure did everything possible to blend with the wall.
The man’s surety of his child’s safety overrode any other feelings and he focused on her. After quietly reassuring the imp and firmly instructing her to stay put, he turned and for the first time ever, floored me by the wafting effervescence of his smile. Introducing himself awkwardly, he offered an apology as well as a concerned look for my own status after the near hard landing. The darkly sexy creature’s breath enveloped me in a piney burst with pesto flares. Totally mesmerized, I held motionless for fear he would put me down.
Hardened to a traditional southern male psyche, I had neither expected nor hoped for such an occurrence. Leading an already full life, there was contentment in it. Or so I had thought. Nevertheless, actually falling into this man’s arms on our first meeting did happen and It will remain etched in my mind even as my dying moments someday flash past.
The proximity of our faces persisted for long enough to want more and short enough to leave a craving. I sensed his reticence to let go, as well. He stood me on my feet after a lasting, searching pause. Following a relieved yet clumsy chat, we both dazedly went our own ways. Jeremy’s daughter, Elle, and he, off to another part of the used bookstore. Myself to the check-out counter.
Other patrons rubbernecked in our direction through the startling scenario and some picked up on the inelegant moment we had shared. Several apparently evangelistic witnesses to the quasi-accident traded supercilious comments. How condescendingly smug, I thought. Had a bad ending resulted from our near miss, then these people would have no doubt easily inferred ‘God’s Will for fags’ from our meeting. Since same-sex serendipity had happened, however, they found need to titter about the breakdown in societal mores. As things stood, mere mortals would need to ascribe judgment in God’s absenteeism for this gay, interracial moment... but, by all means, keep praying. Blind pigs do find acorns now and again.
Heading to my neighborhood Starbucks on the way home, I entered the coffeehouse in a bemusedly euphoric state and was bewildered to see little Elle round the corner ahead, eyeing me shyly. Her hunky Dad emerged soon after and totally disarmed me by his affectation of another coincidence. He bent his neck deliberately up and around the room, making note of a ‘no-falling-ladder’ factor...and, “Oh, my gosh, do you like coffee, too?” Then, “Do you come here often?”
While grasping the transparent come-on, the smooth manner and drop-dead gorgeous smile weaseled its way past any defenses I could erect and the two of us laughed some more over the strange meeting shortly before. I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my arms and legs. Elle very maturely absorbed the charade.
No one ever believes the truth of this account, so we have since claimed meeting at the gay cult genre Erasure concert the following evening. I conveniently happened to have an extra ticket after a friend had canceled on me at the last minute and shyly offered it, hoping for his company. Since he accepted, we offered the alternative scenario from then on. I still send an annual thank you note on that concert date to the friend who had fortuitously canceled, providing Jeremy and me our first date.
In spending that evening together laughing over the wild sets, the erogenous music, the onstage antics, plus the excellently weird crowd, our undeniable attraction budded and grew apace. Subsequent dinners grilled on my veranda, dining out at intimate bistros, theatre tickets or basketball games all became common threads for us. The elf, Elle, would announce her and Jeremy’s arrival when we made plans for dinner at my place in all the rushed exuberance of a 7-year-old. She adored the dogs, and they her. Always curious about her Daddy’s and my connection, the little girl visualized things before we two did, more than once surprising us by her adept skills of observation. And her wry deductions.
Jeremy dourly informed me one day that Elle would soon be leaving for her mother’s home in another state for the upcoming fall school semester. It was a better situation, he had explained. As he was still by himself, working full time, and his ex-wife had remarried to a lawyer, Elle’s presence there provided stability where Dad could not. It obviously affected him deeply, as good fathering fairly oozed from the handsome man. The bond between the two was unmistakable.
After she had departed, Jeremy began showing up unannounced at my house more and more commonly as he covered his feelings of separation, inveigling his way into my emotions over that ensuing year. Much as we could both feel the vibe between us, it was months after that before either allowed another wedge of the puzzle to fall into place.
Over beer and oysters at a happy hour in Drydock Oyster House the month of the succeeding May, I slid another of the slippery delicacies past my tongue just as he leaned over to plant me with a male-on-male kiss. Right there amidst the boisterous atmosphere of straight world, testosterone-driven afterworkers. With classic Jeremy hubris, he proclaimed for all to hear that he wasn’t shy and didn’t stutter: this here, pointing at me, was the man for him. So there we were...the ensuing silence was deafening.
He moved his closet into mine that night.
We busted those ‘born-again’ cherries in multiples, brazenly breaking down the remaining wall in animalistic ritual. As only two seeking males may do, let alone understand.
His dusky masculinity overwhelmed my senses and mutual melding took precedence in the silhouette forever emblazoned on my being. His creeping, cat-like approach, dimly back-lit in an engraved mental video of my legs rising by his muscular insistence, spreading and opening for a fell swoop lubricated slide fuck. We were hooked, both tongue and dick...for life.
Only one twining figure writhed in ecstasy during that carnal introduction. We fit...
… I passed the uphill miles to the mountain home while zoning in our past. His boyish breaths pushed out muffled ‘pfffings’ as he slept, as close to a snore as I have ever heard from him. A very endearing accessory virtue, this is a bounty by which I benefited every day. We neither one pushed the other to search a quieter refuge by such nasal habits, thankfully. It was a matchless pleasure waking up to each other. Opening my eyes to those smoky greys was incomparable. As I contemplated the Fates, he slouched against me in repose, my arm resting down his chest and stomach, angelic as a Nubian Botticelli.
The unfolding of the gateway into the mountain-ringed valley was an experience we had enjoyed as a couple since acquiring the hideaway six years before. Soon, I knew, the panorama of the highland vistas encircling us would exert subliminal force on his subconscious and the haze would lift. The mind’s eye be very powerful and this shared pleasure had imprinted on us.
Having traversed the upland way two months before as we achieved the almost two-decade goal of marrying, this trip would be inaugural for us in that state of being. Sure enough, the man of my heart awakened and raised up while staying under my arm. We shared the re-entry to our honeymoon milieu oohing and aahhing at the breathtaking scenery.
Winding our way through the shimmering aspen and spruce setting of late August saturated our mental spaces with a redolent solace. It was amazing how the passage of time and the fullness of human bonding addends raw carnality with supple, familiar affection. Our fleshly attraction had not ebbed in the slightest, but our fondness added fervent flavors alien to youth. We basked in common aspirations and goals, ably learning to let the chaff go. Some call it wisdom. We dubbed it ‘streamlining’.
At the final turnoff from the avenue traversing Telluride town, we curved up the sawtooth ascent past streets rowed with high-pitched roofs. Gables thinned to widely spaced massive mountain chateaus with exposure to panoramic vistas, and we followed the cobbled way past a trickling of more and more sparsely remote log and rock edifices. Ours resided on a dead end lane higher up than most, its charming log cabin aura pervading the surrounds.
A large second floor triangular geometric of glass dominated the rest of the log lodge, with the lower level fronted by floor-to-ceiling glass encasings as well. The rock chimneys anchored it to the side. Mature evergreens variegated with aspens and Japanese maples all balanced the nestled effect. The entire place vested comfortably into the notched mountainside which terraced up to towering crags far past the tree line above.
The two loungers from the backseat rallied now and combined with JK’s contagious rambunctiousness. The three set to announcing our arrival by a vocal chorus of discordant onomatopoeia which served to thin the wildlife in the doing. Soon to return, of course.
We opened up the many windows to air the place out, uncovering furniture and items protected during our absences, then unpacked both belongings and staples hauled along to enhance our time here. The denizen owl of the ancient blue spruce came down to check out the commotion, familiar with us from previous invasions.
J-man readied the over-sized fireplace for our ritual opening-night blaze which both canine and human residents anticipated. He stacked 4-5 days’ worth of splits in the adjoining rough-hewn built-in ledges. My fetish for night sounds and by extension, open windows, made our reliance on the great room and master suite fireplaces a given. The cool evenings were kept barely at bay by the beloved heat sources. Sprawled around the hearth we heralded the coming idyll.
Bolstered by hot buttered rums, the evening unfolded harmoniously with firelight sex and conspiratorial banter. Afterward, amidst entwined contentedness, night sounds once again gained sway.
Early on in our relationship Jeremy and I had established the daily pre-dawn physical pursuit regimen that still anchored our routine. Entailing multi-mile runs over well-trodden loops and trails close by our Austin home, we had set in motion the basis for the conditioned lifestyle still enjoyed.
Even in the rarefied liberal enclave which we purposely chose to inhabit downland in Texas, our then uncommon jungle fever relationship stood out. At times it created a stir. Between the variety of hormone-governed university students and untamed local fauna, I held on to a plethora of memories which recurrently bubbled into virtual dream reenactments ranging from the mundane to the profound to the comical, and others in between. Running shorts and Tiger trainers (now evolved to Asics) were and are our sole attire during the long warm seasons of central Texas. To be certain, this proved to be a double-edged sword depending on circumstances, but we preferred the state, perpetuating the style into the present...
...Lazing in semi-somnolence on our first Tride mountain dawn, I was recalling one particular morning down home earlier in the spring. Suture and Jeremy had darted ahead in chase of one another. When I rounded the turn behind them I viewed a cartoon image of the two, askew in confusion as they attempted avoidance of a charging guinea hen. Wings raised and spread, the monster had the two totally bamboozled. Though only spitting at them with rank-smelling saliva before disappearing into the underbrush, the ‘attack’ left us doubled over by the humorous image of the wee, fluffed-up bird terrorizing grown man and dog. Their standard of courage under pressure had been established.
As running shorts had provided our only cloth source for cleaning off the viscous spittle, we ended up running al fresco. Between his notorious après-sleep boner and my own morning sex drive, that state did not lend itself to platonics very well. Jeremy had wrapped me up within a hundred yards and proceeded to bend me over a large tree stump. As he twanged the ‘Deliverance’ banjo theme, we had succumbed to fucking ravenously there on the wooded path. JK slapping my ass like a bronc rider on a wild mustang under the lightening sky.
Upon climaxing, the sun’s first rays broke the horizon. We sensed presence. Raising up from the convenient log, we realized we had unwittingly staged our wantonness for three UT cross-country team members. One cute kid stood staring, slack-jawed, as a 1970’s ‘male-rape-by-inbred-hillbillies’ plot unfolded before his eyes in interracial update. The tree bark pasted by cum to my oozing piece was telltale. The other two had obviously lost focus. At least from the look of the throbbing boners in the process of cumming--- by each other’s hand…
...As I basked in the penile rigidity provoked by that steamy dream sequence, something in my inner defense mechanism clicked on my instincts and the sexy ‘le rive’ interlude faded. I blinked open to the too-close image of the real-time snuffling, glistening black nostrils attached to a long, black-furred bear snout presently arising outside the screen of the open window just beyond the smooth dark shoulder of Jeremy’s sleeping form. My sudden jerk to wakefulness brought him to an abrupt sitting position, facing me, and I flashed on the just-relived situation involving the spitting guinea, measuring it against the current one. The dubious history of his response under pressure involving riled stray chickens did not bode well for the coming bear encounter.
Reacting rather than thinking, I clambered over my surprised horndog, slapping his confused face with my morning wood in the effort to slam shut the window, barely rescuing him from the man-eating beast. Upon grasping the situation, Jeremy only faked the heart attack he otherwise would have experienced should I not have intervened.
In truth, black bears are notorious flakes and this one substantiated the adage as she scampered excitedly away upon the noisy interruption of her 0-dark-thirty ursine curiosity lark.
Ahh, the price we pay to exist with nature. Well worth the cost, as Jeremy and I personify that concept through the ease with which this and similar disquieting episodes lead so often to excellent follow-up sex. After 18 years, it granted food for thought, but for now we simply sucked face and stroked, viewing the faintly pinkening sky while contemplating our promised land. And Denver omelettes.
Enduring embers, my ass. Stoke the fire.
.
