Caucasian Crap

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With a nudge and a yawn-smothering smirk Jeremy pokes me in the ribs and falsetto whimpers at me, “wake uuup…” as I ironically continue to drive and he awakens 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 remains well aware.

Approaching the Animus 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 up in the southwestern 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 skiers’ colony bohemie. 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 a windowed loft master bedroom, rock fireplace, 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 labia. On earlier trips they had swallowed my dick in lecherous similarity to this present driving pose. What he lacked in keeping 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 recollection of him decades before was the revelation that he was one giant horndog every time his eyes opened from a sleep state. Nap, overnight, REM, any sleep type. Of course, wakening with a raging hard-on every time could account for some of the lasciviousness, 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. The gas pedal got suddenly heavy beneath 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 mouthstrokes. The muthafucka…

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. When toes couldn’t curl in ecstasy, knees could still lock. The gas pedal got 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 encoated and stomach satisfied, Jeremy regressed inward to contemplate the origins of sperm, or something, while I settled in for fatih escort the sylvan riverside course inclining over the winding miles to 12,000 feet and our tucked away bower. I simmered reflectively upon hearkening back to the first sight of the man-of-my-life now nestled, introspecting beside me…


…Reaching for the just-now espied third volume of a long sought obscure anthology, the wooden ladder holding me abruptly jerked, twisting beneath my tip-toed feet. Losing my balance but still grasping the book, I began a slow-motion fall to the side of it as I glimpsed a little girl under the ladder, either by cause or effect, right in my line of descent. Futilely grabbing at the ladder to break the impact during the plummet, I next found myself jarringly cradled in the tensed, nutmeg-toned arms of the sexiest man I had ever laid eyes on.

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 very interesting 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 evanescence 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 flashes. Totally mesmerized, I held motionless for fear he would put me down.

Hardened to a traditional male psyche, I had neither expected or hoped for such an occurrence. Nevertheless, this 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 belatedly stood me on my feet after a lasting, searching pause and after chatting in clumsy relief for a few minutes we both dazedly went our own ways. Jeremy’s daughter, Elle, and he, off to another part of the bookstore. Myself to the check-out counter. Other patrons gawked 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 brusque, 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 judgement in God’s absenteeism for this gay, interracial moment…go figure.

Heading to my neighborhood Starbucks on the way home, I entered the coffeehouse in a bemusedly euphoric state and was taken aback 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-ladder-present’ factor…and, “oh, my gosh, do you like coffee, too? …is this a common one for you to stop at?”

While grasping the transparent set-up, the smooth manner and drop-dead gorgeous smile weaseled its way past any defenses I could erect and the two of us laughed a bit 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 the aforetold story 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 cancelled on me at the last minute and I shyly offered it, hoping for his company. We offered the abridged alternative from then on. I still send an annual thank you note on that date to the friend who had fortuitously cancelled, providing Jeremy and me our first private joke.

In spending that concert evening together laughing over the wild sets, the erogenous music, the onstage antics, plus the excellently weird crowd, our undeniable attraction 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 etiler escort exuberance of a 7 year-old. She adored the dogs, and they her. Always curious of her Daddy’s and my connection, the little girl visualized things before we two did. We were more than once surprised 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 and working full time, his ex-wife had remarried to a lawyer providing 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 and inveigled 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 level 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…


…His boyish breaths pushed out muffled ‘pfffings’, as close to a snore as I have ever heard from him. A very endearing accessory virtue, this is a bounty by which I benefit every day. We neither one drive the other in search of silent refuge by such habits, thankfully. He slouched against me in repose, my arm resting down his chest and stomach, angelic as a nubian Botticelli.

Soon, I knew, his interest would pique as the mountain flowers and grasses would evoke rapturous repetitives of ooh’s and ahhh’s once the post-fellatious haze had fully lifted. The unfolding of the gateway into the mountain-ringed valley was one we have enjoyed as a couple since acquiring the hideaway six years ago. The mind’s eye be very powerful and this shared pleasure marked us early on.

Winding our way through the shimmering aspen and spruce setting of late August imbued our mental spaces with easement and solace. It was amazing how the passage of time and the fullness of human bonding cure raw carnality into supple, familiar affection. We basked in common aspirations and goals, quite ably learning to let the chaff go. Some call it wisdom. We have dubbed it ‘streamlining’.

At the final turnoff from the avenue traversing town, we began the sawtooth ascent past the outlines of high-pitched roofs. Thinning to widely spaced massive mountain chateaus with exposure to panoramic vistas, we followed the cobbled way past a slow trickling of more and more remote log and rock edifices. Ours existed on a dead end lane higher up than most others, its quaint log cabin aura pervading the surrounds.

A large second floor triangle of plate glass dominated the rest of the log lodge, even with the lower floor fronted by floor-to-ceiling glass coverings as well. The rock chimney anchored it to the side and mature evergreens mixed with aspens and Japanese maples balanced the nestled effect. The entire place backed comfortably into the notched mountainside which terraced up to towering crags far past the treeline above. The two loungers from the backseat rallied now and combined with J’s infectious rambunctiousness. The three set to announcing our arrival by a vocal chorus of discordant noises 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 things protected during our absences, then unpacking both belongings and staples to improve our stay. The owl on the back declivity of the roof came down to check out the commotion, remembering us from previous invasions.

J-man beşiktaş escort readied the over-sized fireplace for our ritual opening-night fire which both canine and human denizens gladly anticipated. He stacked 4-5 days worth of splits in the adjoining rough hewn shelves. The cool evenings were kept barely at bay, open-windowed, by the beloved fire source. All present lounged around the hearth to herald the coming idyll.

Bolstered by our hot buttered rums, the evening unfolded harmoniously with firelight sex and conspiratorial banter. Afterwards, amidst entwined contentedness the night sounds once again gained sway…


…Early on in our relationship Jeremy and I had established the daily pre-dawn physical pursuits that still anchors our routine. Entailing multi-mile runs over well-trodden loops and trails close by our Austin, Texas, home, we set in motion the basis for the conditioned lifestyle still enjoyed. Even in the rarified liberal enclave which we purposely chose to inhabit, our then rare jungle fever relationship created a stir amongst other morning exercise enthusiasts. Between the variety of hormone-infused university students and thriving local fauna inhabiting the area, subliminal renderings commonly conjure mental pictures depicting interesting past plots and story lines, and still do. Running shorts and Tiger trainers were and are our sole attire during the long warm seasons. To be certain, this has proved to be a double-edged sword depending on circumstances, but we preferred the state and perpetuate the style into the present…

…Continuing to laze in semi-somnolence on our first Tride mountain dawn, I reminisced on one particular morning 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 flummoxed. Though only spitting at them with rank-smelling saliva before disappearing into the underbrush, the ‘attack’ left us doubled over by the hilarious image of the diminutive, fluffed-up bird terrorizing grown man and dog. Their standard of courage under pressure had been established.

As running shorts provided the only source for cleaning off the viscous spittle, we ended up running al fresco. Between his notorious apres-sleep boner and my own morning sex drive, that state did not lend itself to platonics very well and we succumbed to fucking ravenously as the sky lightened. Other morning birds, pterodactyls and exercise enthusiasts be damned. Or maybe enthralled…

…As I basked in the penile rigidity engendered by the dream memory, something in my inner defense mechanism clicked on my focus and the sexy ‘le rive’ interlude faded to black as I blinked open to the too close image of the realtime snuffling, glistening black nose 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 to the just-relived scenario involving the spitting guinea as I measured it against the current one. The dubious history of his response under pressure involving riled stray chickens, and the like, did not bode well for the coming encounter.

Reacting rather than thinking, I clambered over my surprised horndog, slapping his face with my morning wood in the effort to slam shut the window, barely saving 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 proved the adage as she scampered excitedly away upon the noisy interruption of her 0-dark-thirty ursine curiosity.

Ahem, 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 jacked off, viewing the faintly pinkening sky while contemplating nirvana. And Denver omelettes.

Enduring embers, my ass.

To be continued…


P.S. Collective descriptive terms are curious things. Consider: a gaggle of geese; a pride of lions, a school of fish; a rhumba of rattlesnakes, a confusion of guinea hens, a murder of crows; a sprite of sparrows, an exhortation of larks. What about humans? Or, more specifically, gay men?

Put the words gay and men together and then sit back and watch a bunch in congregation. The two terms combined amp up the already high bar that each separate term brings to the table regarding the desire for sexual release.

Be they drinking, dancing, twerking or otherwise scratching the Itch, gay men most assuredly find the way. You know what I mean, now. So how should we be collectively referred?

Just a random collective thought…

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