Country Boys, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
LAYING BY
GOODLAND, KANSAS
THREE WEEKS TILL BEAR SEASON
NOEL, FOR THE LAST TIME
DRUM STONE
GOAT BOY
OPENING DAY AT THE COUNTY FAIR
BAREBACK RIDER
WATERMELON MAN
READY TO RIDE
WELL WISHING
THE FARMER’S SON
WRESTLING GATORS
HOT EATS
“BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN”
RIVER BOY
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For Asa, learning to be a country boy
For Percy, 1995-2006. Pretty boy.
INTRODUCTION
When I moved to the country, after more than twenty years of big-city gay-ghetto life, primarily in Los Angeles and San Francisco, with extended stays in New York City, many of my friends were aghast. Could I cope with the absence of queer input? Could I even be openly gay?
Piffle. It’s easy to be a country boy. I live mostly in a small town, population six thousand, and it’s no secret that I’m queer. The bank tellers (all three of them) know it—they added my husband Asa to my bank account, using our wedding certificate as documentation. The owner of the best bakery in town knows it—she provided our wedding cake. The people at the post office (inside the downtown drugstore) know it—after all, they handle the mail addressed to “Books to Watch Out For/Gay Men’s Edition” and “Submissions/Best Gay Erotica.” All my neighbors, nosy or not, know it—they’ve seen Asa and I walking our dogs, young Zak and elder Percy (who passed away in the fall of 2006 after thirteen years), looking like any comfy gay couple, though we certainly don’t dress alike. And we’re not the only queers in town. Heck, we’re not the only queers on the block. One gay couple runs a B&B two doors to the east, another gay couple runs another B&B a block to the west, and yet another gay couple—together for thirty-five years—are renovating a home, preparing to move in soon. Beyond that, a community of homo-friends hang out in a curve-in-the-road hamlet about twenty minutes from our front door (running a small farmer’s market, providing local computer sales and service) not far from country land that hosts radical faerie gatherings throughout the year. And of course, gaydar works even here—I stay home and read and write most days, but Asa has met several fellow travelers—including the fag hairdresser all the blue-haired ladies adore—in our wee town’s one good coffee shop.
When we’re not in town, we’re on a two-hundred-acre farm about forty-five minutes away—population whoever is there at the time; the nearest two year-round neighbors live down the road and out of sight, a ten-minute walk from our farmhouse. But the father and son who hay our fields and deliver our firewood know I’m gay—they’ve seen Asa and I walking through those fields, hand in hand. The handyman who comes by every so often to fix this and that knows I’m gay—he’s had long talks with Asa about living with AIDS. The woman who runs the village library, where I go to check email when I’m at the farm, knows I’m gay—she always asks after Asa when I come in. And I’m pretty sure the women who work the register at the convenience store/gas station in the village, the only place to go for forgotten breakfast milk and eggs, and sweet fresh corn in season, know I’m gay—they adore Asa, and ask after me when he gasses up our truck or goes in for a loaf of warm store-baked rye bread or oatmeal cookies. And we’re not the only queers in the county, either: two of our best friends, a lesbian couple, live in the closest small town to the farm.
No question: rural living can be as queer as you want it to be.
This collection reflects that reality—except, perhaps, that there are none of Vincent Diamond’s alligators hereabouts, and our county fair lacks Michael Bracken’s rodeo riders (though I chatted with an out-of-town gay couple at last year’s annual Maple Sugar Festival), and Dominic Santi’s Native American reservation has no equivalent, and Shane Allison’s redneck South is an alien mindset where I live, and we’re far away in time and place from Dale Chase’s nineteenth-century wagon-train romance.
But I imagine, sadly, that some young man, a man neither Asa nor I has yet met here in our patch of rural Eastern Ontario, could well find himself mirrored in the closeted uncertainty, even pain, of Jay Neal’s high school students with dusty Kansas town secrets, of Wayne Courtois’ young men and their isolated farm encounter, of Steve Berman’s fated farm boy and his fantastical partners, or of Simon Sheppard’s boyhood pals and their missed opportunity; others, more lucky, may have already exulted in the exuberant sexual satisfaction of Jack Fritscher’s lusty birthday boy or of Kal Cobalt’s lonely diner proprietor (hey: there are a couple of diners in our town).
And I’d like to think that, somewhere in the woods and fields minutes away from my apartment’s front door, or surrounding my farm, other young men are savoring the satiation and sexual self-discovery celebrated by C. B. Potts’ woodland poacher, J. M. Snyder’s county-fair farm boy, Karl Taggart’s well-tooled handyman, Duane Williams’ summer-hire field hand, or Tom Cardamone’s pastoral river boy.
We are everywhere, boys, even in the country.
Richard Labonté
Perth/Calabogie, Ontario
LAYING BY
Dale Chase
We were well on to California that summer of 1846 before I truly knew what was upon me. Crossing rivers and valleys astride a well-worn mule, I came to maturity in new territory, reaching my twenty-first year the day we rafted the wagons across the Platte and set out onto the Great Plain. Being of an observant nature, I also began to see things among men that were before unknown to me.
Captain Virgil Dawe and his cohort Jim Frazer led fifty wagons, buggies, carts and other wheeled contraptions through the best and worst of it, and I thought highly of them, knowing they’d successfully made the crossing many times before. Then one night when darkness had cooled the day’s heat and people slept inside tents scattered along the bank of the Sweetwater, I ventured late to the river’s edge and there in the light of a half moon saw Dawe and Frazer standing naked in knee-high water, Dawe with his cock up Frazer’s bottom, going at him. Though stunned at such a sight, I did not turn away because my own prick came up hard and I will confess I got it out and began to pull on it, the sight stirring my juices as never before.
Dawe held Frazer at the hips and went faster and faster, then threw his head back as if to roar but let out not a sound and I knew he was spurting into the man’s bottom because I was at that very moment doing the same onto the ground before me.
When I had spent but still stood, dick in hand, I watched the two men finish, at which Dawe withdrew and I saw his big thing. He then turned Frazer to him and they pressed together, writhed some, then Dawe dropped down and took his cohort’s cock into his mouth. My own stirred at such a sight and as I held it I knew myself more untried than before, reaching manhood with little knowledge of the way of things. Watching Dawe’s head bob on the prick, I considered having my mouth on one, the fat knob against my tongue, the rod’s stiffness, but then I saw Frazer buck and Dawe pulled off, took the cock in hand and pumped as it let go a stream of spunk. Frazer was much agitated throughout, settling only when empty. Then Dawe stood and embraced his friend.
As I was hidden in brush, I stayed put and saw them leave the water, dress on the shore and head toward camp as if they’d done no more than bathe. Shaken by all this, I stripped and slid into the cool water where I thought of them going at it which got my dick up again.
I considered how we had traveled nearly a month, Frazer driving the wagon for Dawe, the Captain on horseback, and I considered them fucking—because that’s what it was even though I’d understood a fuck to be man and woman—up the bottom. I tried to imagine a cock in me and this gave me such a pleasurable jolt that I righted myself in the shallow, squatted and put a finger up myself, thinking of Dawe in me. This aroused me so much I worked my prick and soon set gobs of stuff to floating on the water. From then all was changed. I felt my years in a new way as I’d seen the true nature of man.
I began to watch other men as never before, aware now when two talked quietly off to one side. Before I’d thought they discussed the journey and maybe they did and I was pushing things onto them they didn’t want but sometimes they’d go into a wagon or tent and there would be quiet and I’d see nobody noticed, others went on about their business, but I listened when I could, heard things, grunts and such, and I’d get hard because I knew it was a fuck.
It was common knowledge men fucked their way across the country because babies were born as a result, women sprouting full along the way, and there were fights at times as we were very much a town on wheels with all the hurts and jealousies of a town fixed in place. But now I saw there was more to it and I wondered if others noticed what I did. Sometimes it was nothing but a man with his cock out, pissing, but sometimes there was no piss and, thinking himself unseen, he worked the thing and spurted. Dawe went at Frazer regular and when they slept in their tent, I’d take up a place outside that was close by and hear them fuck.
I traveled with my pa, an uncle and aunt, and several cousins, tending our small band of cattle, helping the family out when needed. Some days after I’d seen what I’d seen, I rode along thinking on it because I could think of nothing else. It wasn’t that I was ignorant of life. I’d seen bulls mount cows, seen men naked, hired hands pissing in the open and sometimes keeping a hand on their dicks
Dawe rode up beside me one day as I thought such things and I could not speak because it felt as if I’d been caught with my hand in my pants. He was passing down the line to tell us we’d stop early as Mrs. Wynn would deliver her baby directly.
“How old are you, boy?” he asked out of nowhere and I told him I’d turned twenty-one at the Platte’s South Fork.
“Man now,” he declared and he held my gaze so long I wondered if he knew I’d seen him fuck. He was a rough man but handsome, thirty-six I’d learned. Tall and thick with dark hair that curled at his neck, he had a welcome smile and showed it then and I knew he would, if I wanted, fuck me. My cock was hard and I think he knew this but he kept to business, asked me to ride down the line to tell the others we were stopping for the day.
By now the wagons were well separated so it took some time to spread the word. Once I’d done the task, the first wagons were already stopped and by late afternoon we had settled into a fine spot along the river. As Mrs. Wynn was delivered of a fine boy, I thought of telling Dawe he could fuck me, I was ready, but he was in conversation with several men, Frazer among them, and I knew his cohort would that day get the cock.
I busied myself helping Pa and Uncle Ned with the stock, then went out with two cousins to hunt antelope which was a failure. We had a fine meal that evening anyway after which Sam Harkin got out his fiddle and there came singing and dancing. The night was clear, a bit cooler which was a relief after the day’s heat, and as others enjoyed the music I went off behind the wagon, got out my prick and hardly pulled before I sprayed my spunk. Once empty I leaned against the wagon and thought of Dawe some more, knew he’d put it up Frazer that night. With my dick still in hand I pictured him mounting his friend as a bull would his cow, going at him like before, and soon my cock was up again and I had myself another good pull.
We followed the Platte’s North Fork for over a week through grasslands where the stock took little notice the green had gone brown. It was easy travel, the way wide ahead, buffalo plentiful. I watched Dawe and he watched me and I wondered how I could tell him I’d fuck but then we reached Chimney Rock and everything changed.
I’d heard about this great stone formation sticking up in the middle of nowhere as it was a marker for all westward travel, a pyramid topped by what appeared a factory chimney. We camped within sight of it and everyone remarked on the landmark, how it did look like a chimney, rough hewn but tall, jutting out from the hill at its base. I, of course, in my awakened state, saw it otherwise. From first sight it appeared to me an erect cock and try as I might, I could not dispel this image. In fact, when we were settled, tents up, fires lit, I rode out to it with the cousins and looked up at the thing, thinking again of a man lying with his prick up that way and doing something about it. I felt ready to burst with need and when the cousins rode back to camp, I stayed on at the rock and while astride my mule got out my prick and had myself a go.
I was thus in a state of near constant arousal—not an unpleasant state in which to reside—when a party of men on horseback leading two pack mules rode into camp. They were ten in number, said they were headed to California and might they camp with us for the night. Dawe and others welcomed them and later, after supper, we all sat together and they told us their story.
The most outspoken of the lot was about my age, a sandy-haired Kentuckian name of Luke Healy who said it was his third crossing and he was destined to make many more because he liked the adventure. Said early on he’d read stories about the West by Fenimore Cooper and on that had undertaken his first trip and was not disappointed. He’d learned much in his travels, knew all about the Indians and had met the famed scout Caleb Greenwood who told of California. “Sutter offers six sections of his Spanish grant land to families who settle near his fort,” he said, adding that this was a good reason to choose California over Oregon. This provoked much discussion as we had yet to reach the fork where the Oregon route split from that to California. Luke sat next to me and I became most interested in him as he spoke easy and well and was given to good humor. Then later, when people turned in, he and I sat together and talked. As I’d told him my name before, he began that way.
“Cullen, tell me about yourself.”
“There’s no adventure in my life,” I offered. “I travel with my Pa, an uncle and aunt and three cousins. We farmed in Illinois, then my Ma died and Pa wanted to come west.”
“Then you’ve begun your adventure,” he said. “There’s much ahead and not so easy as this.”
We sat in silence a bit, then I asked how he’d come to ride with the other men.
“They have no families and are young like me, eager to see new territory but none want the burden of a wagon. Six of us met up in St. Joseph, then were joined at the Kansas River by four who’d set out from Independence.”
I thought about the party of men, wondered if they got up to things. Knowing what I did, it seemed it would happen regular and I longed to know this but couldn’t see how to ask. All I could say was, “How do you all get along?”
“There are disputes on occasion just as with your party but we are fine for the most part. I was elected captain as I have the most experience.”
“Tell me about what lies ahead,” I said, not able to ask about fucking.
“Fort Laramie is not far and that’s usually a couple days laying by but then come the Black Hills, rougher going, and more river crossings. Independence Rock then, you’ve heard of that, and once past it you go through the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains. After that there’s Fort Hall, some hard country, a long stretch along the Humboldt River, then the forty-mile desert which some say is the worst but others say it’s crossing the Sierra Nevada. But once over that, you’re in the Sacramento Valley and Sutter’s Fort.”
I asked questions about each spot, not because I wanted to know but because I wanted more of Luke and with his telling I gained the sound of him and the way he told, capturing his spirit in my own way. He related his first time, hooking up with an old scout who’d made the crossing in 1841 which nearly failed, many wagons abandoned along the way.
We talked well into the night and stopped only because Pa came and got me, told me to get some sleep. It surprised me that I didn’t want to leave Luke’s side and he saw this and said we’d meet in the morning.
“Are you riding on tomorrow?” I asked, an ache filling me.
“Don’t know,” he answered which I read as reluctance but in my gut—or maybe my dick—I knew I suffered wishful thinking. I slept outside that night, away from the others. In the moonlight Chimney Rock stood a dark erection and I abused my cock something fierce, finding I now thought not of Dawe but of Luke.
At dawn I awoke painfully hard and had an earnest go at myself as the camp awakened. I had just spurted when I found Luke standing over me. He passed a look that told me he knew what I’d done and that he too had begun the day thusly. “I’m headed to the river to wash,” he said and I knew he meant me to join him which I did. He stripped off his shirt and I saw he wore no undershirt, chest bare with more of his sandy hair spread across a fine frame. Wading into the water, he proceeded to splash and rub himself and my prick stirred with the sight as he lingered at his man tits, rubbing the things. I tried not to fix on him, began to wash my own scrawny chest, but I could not keep from looking. The hair ran down his stomach and disappeared into his pants where I knew it sprouted full between his legs and how I wished he’d drop his drawers and wash his cock so I could see. He finished up with water over his head and shook it out like a dog, then came up grinning. “Next stop, I’m having me a bath,” he declared with a smile.
When he went to join his party I thought him lost and wondered if that was the way of westward travel, meeting up with folks and losing them along the way, but then Luke came back over to me and said he would ask Dawe if he might leave his party and join ours as his was short on food. “And sense,” he added before he went to find Dawe.
