I cut the engine as the skiff entered the cove and coasted to the rocky beach. It was unusually warm for even a summer day in southeastern Alaska and I had my shirt off. The light breeze felt good, ruffling the bushy mat of dark brown hair on my chest, the thick thatch on my face.
“Just one more set of traps,” I thought to myself, “then it’s back to Juneau in the morning. It’s been a good weekend.”
Then I saw it—a fancy silver kayak perched on the two big boulders the locals called “The Table.”
“Oh, ho,” I murmured, “tourist time. I wonder if he’s a nudie…”
I scanned the beach—and there he was.
“Oh, yes,” I breathed, “yes indeedy. Definitely an outdoorsman—and just about the best I’ve seen in a long time.”
I waved and quietly called out a pleasant “howdy”—still amazed at how easily sound traveled up here—and he waved back. Then I started checking the pots. They ringed the cove, the last one no more than 75 feet from the kayaker.
The closer I got, the more I liked what I saw. Blond, tanned, muscular and well-built but not massive. Big and solid, rather.
I didn’t take my eyes off him all the way round the cove and I could see it was having an effect.
“Oh, my,” I chuckled, “don’t look like the Good Lord short-changed this young man in any department.”
It was ramrod stiff, long and thick, but very gentlemanly. At attention, but not flailing about, as mine would have done.
“Bet he’s done a lot of butt exercises,” I guessed. “They’ve always been good for dick control. When you want to control it, that is.”
I waved again and headed around the rocks, out of sight.
“Jesus,” I snorted. “I can’t let that go by!”
I wondered whether he had seen my campsite on the other side of the island, wondered if he’d thin I was a bear, wondered if he’d take a potshot at me. I decided to find out.
I headed quietly down the trail. Most people don’t think a man my size can move with grace, agility—and silence. Most people’s mothers weren’t ballet instructors, either.
Just short of the trail end I could see him. It was as I thought—he was one fine hunk of muscle. “I bet most people underestimate his weight by 10 or 20 pounds, ‘cause it’s a-l-l muscle, oh, yeah,” I sighed. Uh huh. “Five percent bodyfat tops!”
And, yes, that very handsome appendage in the front was still at attention, now being gently stroked from time to time. “Jeez,” I thought, “he’s at least as big as I am. And it looks even bigger on someone who’s not quite so outsized. Hope he won’t be disappointed. That is, if he’s interested…”
Time to find out.
I stepped on a branch…
Rrowf, I sighed.
“Why couldn’t he have come and checked my pot, dammit?!” I said aloud. “Back home to wifey no doubt.”
Oh, well, it was nice while it lasted. That man looked s-o-o-o fine. Big, broad, obviously in shape, bearded, just the right amount of hair. He didn’t take his eyes off me the whole time. My cock had gone iron and I really had to do butt exercises to keep it from waving around. Embarrassing, that. Or it could be. But I liked the attention. I’d seen no one in several days, hopping from one tiny island to the next.
“Oh, shit,” I thought, “what’s that in the woods?”
I whirled, thinking, “Christ, all I need is a bear.” And, in a manner of speaking, that’s what I confronted.
“Guess you didn’t know about the trail, huh?” It was him. He spoke in a modified Southern drawl—not what you expected to hear in the south of Alaska. “I’m camped on the other side and thought I’d pay a neighborly visit. Hope you don’t mind?”
It was only a second or two but I stood there for what seemed an eternity, transfixed, taking him in.
“Oh, sure,” I managed to croak, “glad for the company.”
He was even bigger and better than he seemed in the cove, and that was pretty goddamned spectacular. A good three inches taller than, he must have been carrying at least 240 pounds of muscle on his 6’2” inch frame. And it was, dammit all, as I had suspected all muscle.
What the fuck is an NFL linebacker doing out here? I wondered silently.
I mean, really. At 5’11” and 170 lbs., I’m no runt. I have unusually wide shoulders for my height and weight. Most people think I’m a lot lighter, because they figure no fat means no weight. Or they think I’m a lot heavier, assuming shoulders and chest that big must mean more mass. But, Christ, my shoulders were barely as wide as this guy’s chest, a chest flaring upwards from a waist of carved marble. As for his arms, well, I’d seen tree trunks that size, but never ones with bowling balls growing on them, never ones that rippled like…
“Sea lions?” he asked.
“Huh?” I answered. Jeez, Chad, we’re sinking fast here.
“Oh, lots of folks come up this way to see the sea lions. I saw the Nature Conservancy sticker on your kayak and the fancy camera…” he fell silent, looking at me somewhat quizzically. Looking at me with these incredible eyes (later he called them “dumb brown cow” eyes, but no cow ever looked so sexy…)
And why hadn’t I noticed his hair? The chest and the beard I spotted right off, but where had this incredible flowing mane come from?
Suddenly he laughed. “You don’t recognize me, do you? Had my hair pulled back when I was checking the traps. My old dad would die to think his son had a pony tail but it’s the only way. The name’s Bernard, by the way…”
I finally began to recuperate a little.
“It’s Chad,” I said, suddenly remembering that I could charm the socks off most people and the pants off one or two. “Nope, not looking for sea lions—just like to be out here in the wild. Love the bears, though.”
He laughed again, turning it into a playful growl, the kind Tim Allen might make if he played for the Detroit Lions instead of ABC.
“Yep, I’m a bear man myself. But, shit, look here I am standing with my clothes on, at least some of them, and you’re ‘nekkid as a jaybird,’ as my granddaddy used to say.” He said the last part with an exaggerated Southern drawl. Even so, there was something in his vowels that suggested Phi Beta Kappa rather than the Dukes of Hazzard.
“You want me to strip or you want to put yours back on. What’s the etiquette in this situation?” he asked gently.
As reply, I just looked down to his waist band, then back up to his eyes—and turned on what my boss called a “million dollar grin.” No more was needed. He dropped the baggy, multi-pocketed trousers to reveal, as I had suspected, quads like bridge supports, calves that seemed improbably large (was the sunlight affecting my depth perception?) and a jock strap that was, well…
“Sorry, I guess I’m overflowing,” he said. He dispensed with it.
Really, it wasn’t any bigger than mine, but that still constituted deluxe equipment.
“You know, I really love it up here,” he said, moving closer, planting himself right in front of me. I could see everything and still make eye contact without having to tip my head back—a real gentleman this one.
“But I really miss those warm sandy beaches back home in northwest Florida. Miles and miles of nearly naked people,” he added, putting his arm around my shoulders and pointing down the beach. I could almost see them, glistening in the sun, the sound of gulls and the smell of sunscreen filling my senses.
“I mean, Juneau’s great. You’d be surprised at how good a living you can make as an antique dealer, especially if you are well-versed in refinishing. Hell, I could even make it as a psychologist again, but I don’t want to go through all that shit just to be licensed in Alaska as well as Florida, for Pete’s sake.”
He nodded to himself, then turned to me. The weight of his arm was like a log. As usual, I was fascinated that something so hard and so heavy could be so smooth and so soft, all at the same time.
“But there’s a definite shortage of sun worshippers in Juneau, especially any worth looking at,” he continued.
He put his massive, powerful hands on my shoulders, turned me gently toward him, and looked deeply, deeply into my eyes.
“Chad, you would be in the top five on any beach in Florida,” he said. “Here you’re God! I just wanted you to know that…”
I looked up and thought, “Gee, and I thought I was the one with the million-dollar grin…”
Then we both laughed for a long time.