Marketing Beef

by Rick Bettencourt

  As I thought back to our morning romp—Dillon pinned under my arms and groaning as he thrust himself deep inside me—my paddle scraped the bottom of the shore.

  Dillon pulled us closer by sticking his paddle in the ground. “We’re here,” he said and started out.

  My mind was still stuck on him grunting and groaning under my downward thrust.

  He waded in the water and pulled at the head of the boat while I sat inside. His biceps flexed, and the little tribal tattoo he had stretched with the flex of his arm. He stood, holding the throw rope in his hand. The Star Wars vintage, red T-shirt that he told me he had picked up at Target—hugged his chest. Oh boy. He’s doing it to me again.

  He wore his Red Sox cap backwards, the little logo sat just above a tuft of blond hair. “What?” He put his hands on his hips. His tan corduroy cutoffs stretched tight along the zipper’s seam. “You gonna sit in there all day?”

  I looked over my shoulder. “I can’t get out.”

  “Huh?”

  I looked down at my crotch and then back up at him.

  “Again?” He shook his head and laughed. “You’re worse than a teenager.”

  “I can’t help it. I was thinking about this morning, and…” I shrugged and then in a lower, more gravelly voice said, “You just really get me going.”

  He dropped the rope, put a hand in his pocket and turned around. “You’re gonna get me worked up again. Stop.”

  “All right, all right.” I stuck my paddle in the sand for leverage and scooted out.

  He turned around, adjusting his crotch. He looked at my waistline. “Evan!”

  “I told you. I can’t…”

  “My God. You’re apt to have a hawk come down and perch on that thing.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Ten

  We hiked for several hours along the Piscataqua trail and stopped at a rest spot before we went back to the kayak. The shade felt good, and the scent of pine was enchanting. I closed my eyes to take it in.

  “Next!” Dillon said and shut the door behind the outhouse, which had a sticker from the servicing company, Blow Family Portables. Dillon tapped a finger to the sticker. “That’s a marketing faux pas if I ever saw one.”

  “Did you get a good one?”

  He grimaced.

  “You know. The Blow family. I thought maybe you got one while you were in there.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He moaned. “It felt really good too.”

  “Hmm. I’m a little jealous of this outhouse.” I started toward it.

  “Are you going in there? You mean the camel has to pee?”

  I turned, smiling, and went in.

  I hated the smell of portable toilets—not that anybody likes them. I pulled my T-shirt up over my nose and did what I needed to. I didn’t like going to the bathroom in the bushes, like Dillon was ready to do again ’til I stopped him. The environmentalists said that it could damage some of the endangered flora. I finished up and was using the hand sanitizer when I heard Dillon talking to someone. I unlatched the door, stepped out, and saw Pike chatting with him.

  “Hey, chum,” Pike said to me. He was wearing cargo shorts, hiking boots similar to Dillon’s, and carried a daypack on his back, strapped along his naked torso. I was a little taken aback at how good-looking he was. Not that I was interested—I had Dillon—but one couldn’t help but notice. I hadn’t realized as much when we were at Woody’s.

  He rolled an arm out of his backpack. “You mind watching this?” he asked Dillon and leaned it up against the pine tree.

  “Not at all.” Dillon stepped closer to it.

  Pike walked past me, punched me lightly on the shoulder, and went into the portable.

  I walked over to Dillon. “The smell in there is awful.” I went to the pine tree, caressed its needles, and smelled my hand. “Much better.”

  Dillon took a swig from the water bottle he had had strapped on his belt loop and then offered me some.

  I touched my own, nearly full one, on my belt loop. “All set.”

  “You are a camel.”

  “You’ve got to conserve.”

  “Mine’s nearly empty.”

  “Well, you can have some of mine, if you need it. We’re heading back soon, anyway.”

  There was a rustle inside the portable. “Oh, man, this thing reeks!” Pike’s voice echoed. The door kicked open. He was wiping his hands as he jumped down from the steps. He walked toward us and swept a flap of dark hair from his eyes with a flick of his head. He was still rubbing his hands clean. “Thanks.” He pointed with his chin to his backpack. “I could’ve pissed in the woods, but those environmentalists…”

  I smiled. “It’s better if we go in the toilets. The acid in our urine does a number on the plants.”

  He looked at me as he bent down to grab his backpack and snickered.

  “What’s with the Blow Family?” Dillon asked.

  Pike looked over at the toilet as he shimmied back into his day pack and chuckled. “Joe Blow, believe it or not, is the owner.”

  “Blow is a real name?” Dillon said incredulously. He had just clipped his water bottle back on his belt loop.

  Pike nodded. “Went to school with them. Come from Bath.”

  “The Blow family from Bath, Maine,” I said. “Hmm.”

  Pike started toward the trail. Dillon followed.

  “That’s Maine for you,” he said.

  Pike was heading back in our direction, and the three of us walked the mile back to the beach. At one point, I thought I caught Dillon staring at Pike’s ass a little too long and felt a jab of jealousy, but I let it pass. The little tear along Pike’s shorts revealed a bit of his right butt cheek. It was hard not to take notice.

  “Guys,” Pike said, turning around and continuing to walk backward for a bit. “This way.” He started up an incline, taking long strides along his way.

  Dillon looked at me, shrugged, and followed him. As did I.

  We hiked a few feet up the side of a small hill, which was overrun with brush. He stopped, and we huddled between the leaves of a buttonbush and some invasive knotweed. I could smell Pike’s sweat.

  “I wanna show you something,” he said. He grinned and hiked up his shorts.

  I swallowed. The hum of the street above us whirred.

  Pike climbed up a little further. An empty plastic bottle of water fell down the hill. I was tempted to pick it up, but it slid down the embankment with Dillon’s step.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Pike got up to the top, waved us on, and disappeared on to what I assumed to be our destination.

  When I got up there, Dillon was climbing over a small metal guardrail. Pike was in the distance with his hands on his hips and was looking up. The Sagadahoc Bridge was a few hundred feet away.

  “There she is,” Pike said and pointed.

  I looked up at the billboard. The guy I assumed looked like me had a sly grin on his face, a woman stood beside him, holding a barbeque branding iron that sort of resembled something you’d use on burgers. Stamped along the man’s chest were the words,Cut above the rest. Below the couple was a plate full of hot dogs and hamburgers on top of a picnic table. A green field behind it faded off along the ad’s edges.

  Yankee Neighborhood Beef—Our Meat Beats…the Rest.

  I stepped closer to Pike and Dillon to get a better look at the ad. “Wow. That’s pretty suggestive. Beat…meat. But I still don’t think I—”

  Suddenly, Pike reached over to me, pulled my shirt and yanked it up. “Woah!” He stepped back.

  “Pike, what the hell!” Dillon yelled.

  He saw my birthmark! I pulled at the bottom of my shirt, as if trying to hide behind it further. “What’d you do that for?!” I turned and walked hastily away.

  “Dude, I’m sorry. I was just—”

  I turned around. “Well, don’t!”

  “I was just joking,” he said, in a more hushed tone, apparently to Dillon, but I wasn’t sure. I
was heading back toward the hill, into the woods.

  “I was looking for the brand…mark,” Pike added. “It was a joke!”

  I jumped the guardrail and tore down the incline. I took it a little too fast and scraped up against a couple of thorn bushes, nearly tripping over a discarded hubcap. When I got to the bottom, I was out of breath. I leaned against a pine tree and took a couple of deep breaths.

  “Evan! Evan!” I heard Dillon yelling. He was traversing through the same clump of thorn bushes as I had, as was evident by his curses. There was a rustle, and out he popped. “Jesus. It didn’t seem that thick going up.”

  I was breathing less rapidly and stood up straight.

  He came closer. “I didn’t know you were that sensitive—”

  “I am.” I started toward the path that went back to the beach.

  “He didn’t mean any—”

  I spun around. “He lifted my shirt up, Dillon! The whole street could’ve seen me.”

  Dillon stopped.

  I turned back around and started walking again.

  “Evan, you’re fine,” he said. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  I stopped. Embarrassed? I’m not embarrassed. I turned around. He was still standing in the same spot. “Is that what you think I am?” I started toward him. “Embarrassed?”

  Dillon put up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, and then stopped.

  When I got closer to him, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and sighed. When I opened them, Dillon was in my face. He kissed me.

  “You’re fine,” he said and kissed me again. “I don’t know the right words…I’m a writer not a…not a good talker. I fumble. I didn’t mean you were embar—”

  “Shh.” I put a finger to his lips and kissed the tip of his nose. “You’re right. I am embarrassed.” I looked away and then back into his eyes. “And I shouldn’t be. I’m thirty-one years old and having temper tantrums like a little teenager.”

  He grinned. “And that ain’t the only thing that keeps you acting like a teenager.” He put his hand on my crotch, and I instantly threw an erection.

  “Umm. You keep that there, and you might just get a little surprise.” I put my hand on his chest and tweaked his nipple through his shirt.

  Suddenly, Pike jumped down from the embankment. “Shit!” he said and put his hands out.

  Dillon and I pulled away from each other.

  Dillon was looking at the ground. I was wrestling with my shorts to make my excitement less noticeable, though the scare had done a pretty decent job at its abatement.

  “Dude,” Pike said, “I don’t…do what you need to. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He looked back up the incline and then back at me. “And Evan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He came forward. “Damn, you have hot abs!” He grinned.

  I laughed. Dillon snickered, took off his baseball cap, scratched his head, and put it back on with the brim forward.

  Pike stepped between us, put his arms on our shoulders and we walked a bit further. He still smelled sweaty. “Did you know I was the only kid in my class to stand up against the bullies that were picking on Jenn Sandown?”

  Dillon looked over to me and furrowed his brow. “Pike, who’s Jenn Sandown?”

  “Jenn Sandown used to be Jim Sandown.”

  I looked over at Dillon and shrugged.

  “Look, I know it’s not the same thing,” Pike said, taking time to address us both. “Trans, gay.” We took a few more steps, and he took his hands off our shoulders. “It’s just that it’s…it’s not a big deal to me.” He started down another trail that went further inland and turned around. “Well, see you at Woody’s?”

  “Thanks, Pike,” I said. “And sorry if I was an ass.”

  Pike scrunched his face and waved a hand dismissively. “Not a big deal.” He turned and started to walk away, but then stopped and turned. “And I mean it. Killer fucking abs.” He slapped his naked stomach. “You gotta teach me your secret sometime.” Then he spun around and ran off.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Dillon’s hands were pressed against the small of my back. The cool metal of his dog tags dragged against the space between my shoulder blades as he pounded into me.

  The night was cool but we were dripping sweat inside the tent. The campfire outside continued to roar. We had just finished watching the sunset, eating a dinner of sausage and shrimp paella, which I had made using a skillet over the flame. The bottle of wine we shared was left on the ground. I’d recycle it later.

  We couldn’t keep our hands off each other any longer and wound up naked in the tent, finding the dark of night best to avoid notice from the other L.L. Bean campers nearby.

  “Jesus,” I muffled into my sleeping bag, which I was biting. I lifted my butt to thrust harder against his drive.

  He leaned down and bit the nape of my neck. My erection oozed as it slid across the flannel of the bag.

  “Evan?” I heard.

  Dillon got up, his hands grabbing hold of my waist again. I turned around, for I liked to see his face in ecstasy. His teeth were clenched around one of the stainless steel pendants of his dog chain, like he was trying to hold himself back from being too loud.

  “Evan?” a voice said again.

  I quickly flipped over on my back. Dillon’s condom nearly ripped off. He fell over to the side.

  “Evan? Are you here?” It was Ron. I could tell by the voice.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. “It’s my friend, the one that was supposed to come camping with me.” I cleared my throat and then said, in a much louder voice, “Oh, hey, Ron. We’ll be right out.” I put my hands on my head.

  “No rush,” Ron said. “We’ll just set up over by your car.”

  I looked over at Dillon and mouthed, “What? And who’s we?”

  Dillon was already grabbing his shorts from the bottom of the sleeping bag. He had pulled the Star Wars T-shirt back down from being crimped behind his neck. He pulled off the condom from his semi-hard cock and threw it into the corner of the tent. “I thought he wasn’t coming,” he said, in a hushed tone.

  “I thought so too.” I put my feet through my shorts. “He said he’d pulled his back.” I lay down to pull up and fasten my cargos. “He mentioned potentially coming, but I didn’t think…”

  Dillon threw my shirt to me. I sat up and put it on.

  Ron’s car was parked behind my Explorer. It looked like a BMW, but it was bigger than the one he had had last summer. I don’t know much about luxury cars but it looked expensive. Ron spent money as fast as he earned it. And lucky for him, he earned a lot. The trunk was open. I walked around the back, but he was already putting his tent and belongings in the small space on the other side of our tent. “Hey, Ron,” I said.

  He turned around and smiled.

  I put out a hand. “I see your back is better.”

  “It is,” he said. He got down on his haunches and dropped the small cooler he had been carrying onto the ground.

  There was somebody else, face first, inside their half-raised tent. Ron looked over at him and then back at me. He got up. “I tried calling you, but the reception sucks here.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” It is?

  The man in the tent popped out. “Evan? Evan McCormick?”

  I felt like my eyes were going to bulge out of my head. “Gary?” I stepped back, and my shoulder hit the side view mirror of my Explorer. It was my ex.

  Dillon came up along my left and put his arm around me. He had his baseball cap back on and looked as if he had spent a little time making himself presentable again.

  Ron looked to Dillon, to Gary and then back to me. “You guys know each other?”

  Gary stood up and came closer. “Well, yeah.”

  I looked at Dillon, then back to Ron. “Uh, we dated.” I looked over to Gary. “We were…in college.”

  “Oh my God. I didn’t—”
Ron started.

  Gary put his hands on his hips. “When you said his name was Evan it didn’t occur to me.” He shook his head. “What a coincidence.”

  I swallowed. “Yeah,” I said, as Gary came over and gave me a hug.

  “The gay world’s a small one,” Dillon remarked.

  Gary and I had had fleeting contact over the past seven years. A few years back, we had bumped into each other in Boston and ended up having a beer at Faneuil Hall. He was out shopping for a suit, and I was walking to the train, on my way back from an Environmental Defense Fund lecture at the Boston Public Library.

  It was so long ago that we had been together that there was nothing romantic between us. The distance of time had allowed us to talk, as friends, without an ugly past rearing up.

  Ron stepped forward and extended a hand to Dillon. “Ron. Ron Beckham.”

  “Dillon. Dillon Deiss.”

  Dillon and Gary exchanged greetings, and I felt a sudden sense of awkwardness in knowing that every man I had ever had sex with was present before me—well, except for that circle jerk in high school.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but hesitated. I wanted to say Dillon was my boyfriend; yet, despite our obvious attraction to one another, we hadn’t quite established that, and I didn’t want to initiate such an announcement in the company of my former sex partners.

  “You’re looking well, Evan,” Gary said and then looked to Dillon who had removed his hand from my shoulder. “I mean…not like…well.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I am doing well.” I looked at Dillon and said, “Really well.”

  Ron put a hand on my shoulder. “Money Bags, why don’t we exchange something other than bodily fluids and have a toast?”

  I choked on some spit.

  ****

  We sat around the campfire. Ron pulled out a bottle of vintage Cabernet from Northern California, which he told us he had picked up on a trip to Napa a few months back. We sipped from metal coffee mugs I kept in my picnic basket. Ron wasn’t too pleased that Gary forgot to pack the wine glasses, but the mugs were fine.

  “The firm opened a location in Portsmouth, New Hampshire last year, and I’m heading it up,” Gary said. “Last time I bumped into you,” he glanced over at Dillon and then back at me, “I was picking out that suit from Brooks Brothers in Boston.”

  Dillon took a sip of his wine and rested the mug, in hand, on his knee. “Love Brooks Brothers,” he said, and his face flinched. His legs spread as he leaned forward. His upper back expanded as he took in a deep breath and exhaled.