Wolfsoul

by BRK   

For the tail end of his senior year, 19-year-old Cam moves to a remote town where all the guys are hairy, buff, and glad to welcome him and his workaholic dad into their close-knit community. Their easy affection and heady hotness almost distract him enough to keep him from wondering how all this could have happened, and what it means for him now that he’s inserted himself into this strange backwoods bastion of ultramale hotness. 

“Cam. Dude.”

“Cam, you’re spacing again.”

“Hello, Earth to Cam.”

I blinked, and immediately felt my cheeks start to warm as I realized I’d been caught at it again. I was staring.

It’s not really about the staring. I mean, I was staring—Jordan had a really nice chest for a nerd, nice and square and kind of pillowy and basically your standard-issue male eye candy even when he was wearing baggy white tee shirts like he was today. That’s where my eyes sort of rested when I zoned. But it wasn’t about Jordan, it was about all of them. Jordan the homework obsessive, and Big Dave the guitar savant, and Eric the prankster and José the chill-bro and Gino the cynic and Trey the soccer nut—every single one of the six hairy, hunky guys from my class and friend group crowded around me on the lawn at lunch that day late in my high school senior year, smirking in amusement at my inexplicable ditziness in being constantly distracted, was pretty much tied for the hottest guy I had ever seen. Their attractiveness was like a headiness in the air, thickening my dick and confusing my poor brain at every turn.

See, there’s something a mite odd about Harrison Springs. The locals don’t really notice it, but after moving here with my dad for the last months of my senior year in high school it didn’t take me long to notice that everyone in this isolated, back-country town nestled deep in the high sunlit forests of the New York Adirondacks is just that little bit harder and hairier than you’d expect to find anywhere else. 

The effect starts straight in with the onset of puberty, apparently, and chances are by the time you’re 18 (or 19 like me) and getting ready to graduate your hardness and hairiness has blossomed to full effect. I was the town raree, the outlander whose workaholic dad had had to relocate here at short notice to take over the tiny paper mill outside of town, dropped into Harrison Springs as if from out of the sky into a social circle full of men who looked a lot like each other and not much at all like me. No matter how comfortable they made me or how earnestly they welcomed me, every day as I walked the halls of Mohawk High I couldn’t quite help feeling like the pink piglet in a den of very friendly wolverines. 

My self-image got quite a shock. Not to be a dick, but I’d been quite proud of my looks back in my old school where my smooth creamy skin, sleek sandy eyebrows, bright blue eyes, and sharp, hairless jawline got plenty of attention from guys and girls alike, just like my dad had when he was my age (and still would, if he ever looked up from his spreadsheets). I was convinced I was quite the stud, and when I won “Cutest” instead of “Handsomest” in the yearbook superlatives junior year I swallowed my pride and owned it, though I secretly harbored a suspicion that some kind of ballot box malfeasance had gotten Chester Kaye—who if anything was prettier than I was—the slot I had truly deserved. 

Here? It was as though the studliness of the entire town had been leveled up. All of my crowd was smoking hot. Dark like Big Dave, light like Trey, ginger like Eric—it didn’t matter, every face I saw smiling at me was dick-twitchingly sexy, and the ridiculous follicle count was a big part of that. No one, and I mean no one, was persistently clean-shaven. It was too much trouble. I asked my new friends about it, and they just laughed. Shaving was such a chore, they said, and then the bristles just popped back up again practically as soon as you were done. Instead the guys all kept their beards neatly groomed. It was a thing. Most bookbags had a cordless beard trimmer, and the guys that had ’em used them all the time. You’d head into the boys’ bathroom first thing and see a whole line of guys giving their cheeks and chins a quick buzz before homeroom. Most schools, the outlets are clogged with phones charging; at Mohawk, the phones weren’t always what got plug priority.

There was plenty of variation in the chinly bristles, of course, which only made it more exciting to be around all these hairy, hunky guys. It wasn’t just in terms of hair color, either. For example, some guys like José had finer beards, and these tended to get stroked a lot (by their owners or others) just because it felt nice, like the way you want to slide your hand over the pelt of a fox or a ferret just for the simple esoteric pleasure of it. Other bros had courser beards, often quite dense and formidable. These tended to grow faster and need to be trimmed more ruthlessly. It was these guys who’d be most likely to make quick five-minute grooming runs at intervals through the day, say, before first period, lunch, and then after their last class before band or football or whatever. Dave, a manly half-Native brunet, at one point was doing a fast touch up pretty much after every period—though that was mostly because he was first getting besotted with that redheaded goofball Eric, and wanted to look his best in case they ran into each other for a quick smooch between classes. Fortunately they’ve both settled down into a playful friends-and-fucking normalcy, which they’re kind enough to keep more or less discreet and ot lord it over us like sexless peasants.

It was the same for head hair. Most guys kept it long, at least shoulder length, because cutting it short like mine (I was sandy-blond, the only one in my extended friend group, and closed to bussed near the ears and in back) just meant it started getting messy and awkward right away as the hair started growing out again. Again, it varied: Dave let his straight black grow out a little longer, sometimes down his back (I teased him it was only so he could play “More than Words” on his acoustic with maximum credibility). Jordan was as meticulous about keeping his loose brown waves exactly shoulder length as he was about everything else. Eric’s flame-red hair was a bit kinky long but if it was cut it turned into tight, ungainly Finn Wolfhard curls he pretty much hated; so he always grew it out. Most of the guys I knew were somewhere in between and didn’t worry about it too much, because long hair was—apart from me, the weirdo—just what everyone had.

You’d think with all that hair being allowed to grow out there would be perceived a trade-off with the chore of taking care of such manes—all that shampoo, conditioner, and product—but Harrison Springs guys never used conditioner and seemed not to need it. Somehow, all they needed was a few seconds with your basic black-plastic five-dollar vented brush from Walgreens, and they looked ready for a manly-dudes photo-shoot. Still, there had to be some snipping and pruning. Trimming your hair before it got too long was as mundane a part of your week as homework and football games, and there was even an unused classroom where a few of the seniors who were good with a comb and scissors helped out their buddies after school for a few bucks or a free meal at the diner on Oak Street. There were plenty of barber shops too, and asking for a cut higher than your collar at any of them was a sure way to peg yourself as an outsider.

It goes without saying that all that shag wasn’t just from the Adam’s apple up. All of them were covered in body hair, however fine or thick. I swear, once I arrived I was literally the only dude it my class without a swath of fur across his pecs and down his abs. There were no exceptions. It might be faint and subtle, more appreciated by the hand than the eye, like Gino’s fine platinum blond dusting across his firm chest; or it might be a forest dense enough to hide every micron of skin beneath from view, like Jordan’s unexpectedly thick savannah of kinky chocolate-brown fur. 

But every guy had it. Not that they were constantly showing it off—for one thing, it was so normal that there was no need. I mean, there was plenty of shirtlessness outside of class, for sure, especially outside when the sky was blue and the sun was out; even now, with us sitting out on the lawn and sharing sandwich bites and orange segments with each other, José had casually pulled off his shirt, laying it next to him to shrug back on before we headed in for afternoon classes. He wasn’t showing off his finely-furred chest or anything; he just liked being comfortable.

Anyway, shirts or no shirts, it didn’t matter. Even in an English lit class full of note-taking guys wearing tops and attentive looks the chest hair was always there, climbing over the collars of Jordan’s basic tees or playing peekaboo with Eric’s button-ups and Dave’s slightly more brazen V-necks. 

And, since I mentioned the pecs and abs… that was an adjustment, too, in more ways than one. I was naturally fit and took it for granted my defined, well-proportioned but un-gym-groomed body rightfully attracted admiring looks from all sorts of observers. Again I owed this to my dad, a handsome, trim thirty-something whose graduation pictures look exactly like me. Like him I dressed accordingly, in tight shirts that showed off my naturally broad shoulders, narrow waist, and gently delineated chest. Sure, there had been plenty of guys at my old school who were trucks compared to me; but they had had to bust their ass for it. I, I told myself confidently, was innately sexy, just the way I was. 

Here, though, in Harrison Springs, I was surrounded by a baseline of male hard-bodiedness that was three or four notches ahead of what I was used to. Everyone around me was naturally hard and buff head to toe. Here, “normal” meant traps that swelled gently into rounded delts; firm pecs that rose easily from the chest like little mesas looming over the hard, chiseled stone-like abs below; corded forearms and sculpted upper arms; swimmer’s thighs; and an overall core of palpable strength that seemed to ripple through them at the slightest need for action or exertion. Some were slightly more thickset and sturdy, others like Gino were comparatively wiry and lissome; but the fact remained that you could flip through a stack of shirtless pics showing everyone in our entire senior class and there wouldn’t be one you wouldn’t call at least “buff” or deem capable of dropping for a hundred fast push-ups on demand. 

The only guys who deviated from this universal athletic standard were the ones who actually worked out, like our soccer-mad Nordic throwback Trey and, weirdly, the always-placid José, who didn’t play sports but found the routine of working out calming. Even then, the guys around me like Trey and José who did pump iron didn’t tend to get huge so much as even harder and denser, like they were transforming into steel before your very eyes. 

I had always associated the kind of athletic, furry physique everyone had here with alpha jocks, but there was the same pantheon of personalities you’d get anywhere—if anything what they had most in common apart from a baseline buffness was everyone being consistently friendlier and more casually affectionate than normal. There were nerds and stoners and antisocial types and activists and mundanes—but here they were hot and hunky nerds and stoners and antisocial types and activists and mundanes. If I had to choose the guy I jerked off to most it would probably be adorkable Jordan, with his big grins and intense commitment to whatever had his attention, and a body I wanted to see naked literally every time he showed up; but there isn’t much of a margin between him and the others when it came to hardening my dick and fueling my fantasies. 

So, yeah. Hard and hairy. The average height was a few inches above what you’d expect elsewhere, too, but there was still a decent amount of variation. My friends and classmates ranged from just under my height (6-foot even, another attribute I’d been proud of before, now pretty close to the basic minimum in our class) to a head taller (like Dave). With that you got some who were laid back and slumped in their chairs, and those who sat up and engaged in the lessons, and everything in between, just like everywhere else. Incidentally, this was the one area my outsider Dad had an edge on me in measuring up even a little to the locals: though he was slim and hairless like I was, with pale skin and close-cropped sandy-blond locks like mine, he actually had a good six inches on me and fit in well in that respect with his dramatically more hirsute and broader-shouldered colleagues.

I guess I’m fortunate in that the main effect of my being this submerged in a world of hunky and hairy cohorts was to be persistently and unrelentingly turned on from having them around me almost all the time. It could have been worse. I had actually wondered at first about why I wasn’t being hurled into a pit of insecurity by all this hotness around me 24/7. And it was 24/7, because we’d moved into a duplex and in practically no time at all our lives were completely intermeshed with the big, towering, uber-friendly Gonzalezes next door, to the point that by early March we were having weekly communal cookouts and, in my case, sleepovers more nights than not. Dad and Mr. Gonzalez were even talking about knocking down a wall or two, downstairs and upstairs, so I could more easily hang out with the three neighbor boys, the youngest of whom was my pal and fellow senior José, while my Dad worked long hours at the office, massaging the WENUS or whatever it was he did.

The truth was, I was too busy feeling drugged by the delicious heat of being near such perfectly masculine specimens, shifting my boners so they didn’t get too painful, and surreptitiously drawing sketches in my notebooks of the ones I knew I’d be dreaming about when I finally got to sleep to think too much about myself or how the others saw me.

I did have another reaction, though—curiosity. It was not lost on me how strange it is that the common denominator for raw male sexual attractiveness was anomalous in these parts. Asking about it was useless—like I said, they locals didn’t really see it—and I quickly stopped trying. Instead I asked about local history. I had a hundred theories—I kept scribbling ideas in my notebook around the not-quite-dirty sketches of my friends, only to cross them out in frustration. What could possibly account for all of this? Some rare mineral compound in the water table? Descent from a demi-god? Government experiments? Time travel from a genetically superior future? 

I dunno. None of it made sense, and none of it covered all the bases. Something in the water, natural or artificial, didn’t explain me and Dad remaining resolutely unfuzzy and unbuffed as settled into the community, and descent from superior stock should have diluted and diverged over the course of however many generations it had been since this half-hidden fold in the Adirondacks was settled.

It was my buddy Dave, in fact, who first mentioned the local legend about the wolf-spirit in the stony mountain ravine over the hill past the spring, and how there were all sorts of stories where guys had sought out the wolf-spirit and had their lives and fates changed by it. 

“He’s said to bond with all us local boys, as soon as we hit puberty,” Dave said slyly, his eyes twinkling. “Then, when we come of age at 18, he… enters us, and we become one.” 

Gino snorted around his banana, the fruit-meat he was biting into, I couldn’t help noticing, being pretty much the same color as his amazing white-blond mane and the curls of his collar-escaping chest-hair. “That,” he said, when he’d swallowed the bite he had in his mouth, “is the dumbest thing I’ve heard since Jordan explained the electoral college back in eighth grade.”

Dave’s lips were quirked—he didn’t believe the tall tale either. “Don’t anger the wolf spirit,” he teased.

I was laughing, tickled they were letting me in on the local legend and what they thought of it. “But you’re all 18,” I said. “So what you’re saying is, you all have a bit of wolf… in you?”

José, smiling and shirtless with the sun glistening off the curves of his finely-fuzzed delts, wiggled his butt against the grass like a happy bear. “Mmm, and it feels good.”

We chuckled. Jordan, though, I knew felt an innate responsibility to curate the facts of any situation, and was eyeing me, the outsider, with a wary smile. “You know it’s just a myth, right? We know there’s no such thing as wolf spirits, or werewolves, or—”

“Oh, there’s werewolves all right, Mr. Hill,” Trey shot back with a smirk, slapping his meaty chest. “And we are going to kick Euston County Consolidated’s ass on Saturday!” Yeah, you heard right—whether by plan or fluke the school’s team mascots were, in fact, the Mohawk Werewolves, and we were number two in our division. No one seemed to give the team nicknames any thought.

Big Dave, always supportive, followed our token jock’s jock-like declaration with an obligatory rapid-fire “Owoo-owoo-owoo!”—the crowd chant from the games and pep nights—and the others did likewise. Eric, cuddling up next to him, just shook his head. His only team was Team Dave.

Jordan grinned, shaking his head, the gentle cascade of his well-trimmed hair brushing his slim but meaty shoulders, and I felt the usual little rush of arousal at how hunky-twunky-cute he was. I never knew what to do with these little gusts of intense arousal, or indeed the low-level constant stimulation I felt being surrounded by a literal school full of fit, furry fuckables and a close-knit, warm-bodied, unusually affectionate friend group I just wanted to box up and take home with me. 

“Not what I meant,” Jordan was saying with a crooked smile, but he let it go and took a bit of his roast beef mini-hero. Jordan was big into beef and found ways to indulge in the premium red meat we had around here in ways I’d never even heard of. He made a killer bulgogi, for one. At least once a month we were over at his place marinated Korean barbecued sirloin, wrapped in crisp cool lettuce for the perfect contrast in flavor and texture.

I wasn’t thinking about beef in that moment, though. Maybe I just hankered too much for an answer after all these months of trying, but Dave’s story had sparked something in me. As soon as I head about this wolf-spirit I knew, like a pang in my heart, that it was connected to the strange beauty of the men of this town I didn’t quite fit into. From that point on there was nothing that would stop me from seeking out the truth. I’d dig until I was face to face with the wolf-spirit of Harrison Springs, if that was what it took to understand who I was in the midst of these hairy, perfectly built dreamboys.

So, I knew a trek into the wilds was in my future. What I didn’t foresee was that my friends would all tag along… and so would my dad.

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