To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  Richard and I own a piece of property along the Big River, and yes, we own it as in joint ownership, as in purchased together, as in if something happens to one of us it automatically goes to the other, Mother. It lies in the vicinity of Bonne Terre, which is a couple hours’ drive from here, south of St. Louis. That was our second major purchase, after the cottage. We wanted somewhere we could go to get away from everything and everyone. And it had to be near water. That was a given.

  It’s just an empty lot at the moment, as we haven’t gotten around to building anything on it yet. We’re always talking about doing that some day, but for now it suits our purposes. Most of it is wooded, overgrown actually, with brush and weeds, and there is a narrow path that leads to the hill that slopes down to the beach. You have to watch your step on the climb down, and sometimes it’s a major pain in the ass when you’re lugging stuff from the car. But Richard just tells me to quit bitching, so I do. Sometimes we camp overnight there, on the beach. We have a good-sized tent and a comfortable air mattress; I’m afraid that sleeping bags just don’t cut it for us.

  “Here, hon, drink this. It’ll help,” and he presses a mug of warm coffee into my hand. Mmm, I clutch at it gratefully, fold my palm around its enticing warmth. Richard knows just how I like it—he should after all these years—one packet of Sweet’N Low and plenty of amaretto liquid creamer, Coffeemate, of course. I sip at it as I begin to really wake up. I see that he is already dressed, and he looks quite fetching, as always. A muscle T-shirt that accentuates his build, cut-off jean shorts, cut very high and very short. So short that he usually can’t wear them in public because of certain things that might expose themselves at inopportune moments. Buttons, no zipper. It’s my favorite pair and he knows it. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to sew the buttons back on because of my impatiently ripping them off. I don’t mind.

  “I ran up to the store while you were asleep and made us up a basket to take with us. All your favorite cheeses, including the English cheddar.” I smile at that. “And the freshest loaf of French bread I could find. Fresh sliced fruit from the salad bar, too—melon and cantaloupe and mango and papaya—I asked the girl to get it from the back, and she did, ’cause the salad bar wasn’t really open yet.” That’s my boy. He can charm anyone into just about anything. “And chocolate, of course, lots of chocolate. Oh, and a couple of bottles of wine on ice.” He looks at me, visibly pleased with himself, as am I.

  “My, you have been busy.” I reward him with my lips and stroke his face tenderly. “Is there a particular reason for all this? Some holiday I’ve forgotten?” I know it isn’t the Fourth of July yet, and Memorial Day is over.

  “No, I’m just worried about you, and I want to take you away from the things and people that are bothering you, have a day just to ourselves. You and me by the river, just us and the beach, sweetheart.”

  Has anyone ever had a sweeter lover than mine? I don’t think so.

  “Finish your coffee and get dressed, and we’ll be on our way,” he encourages me. “I also gassed up while I was out and loaded everything we’ll need. Even the rafts, if we decide we want to use them, and the air pump.” He’s so damned efficient. It’s a shame more people don’t get to see that side of him. I know they view him as a charming wastrel, some kind of gay Dorian Gray, but he’s not—he’s really not. He’s smart, and funny, thoughtful, caring and considerate, sexy, and sweet. And if you think my life begins and ends with him, it does. I admit it. As long as we are together, nothing can go wrong. We may have our off days, times when we spat and hiss at each other like feuding alley cats. But so what? Everyone does. It’s only when we’re apart that trouble ensues. God, how I wish I could keep him from leaving me, but I don’t seem to know the magic words to do that, to keep him by my side forever. But I haven’t stopped trying. Or hoping.

  “And you told no one where we’re going?”

  “Nope, not a soul.” He grins at me most mischievously. “You better hope that this isn’t the day that machete-wielding serial killer decides to go on a rampage. They might not find our bodies for days.”

  “Or weeks.”

  “Months even.” He nods. “Maybe not until the next century.”

  “Or until the collector of revenue forecloses on us for unpaid taxes,” I suggest.

  “That too.” We giggle at one another. We’re just too cute for words sometimes. I don’t care what anyone else says.

  I’m fully awake now. In more ways than one. “Richard”—I pull him down toward the bed, licking the corner of his mouth—“do I get breakfast first?” I put my knee between his legs, firmly against his cock, so there can be no mistake as to what I am asking for.

  “Yes, I have croissants.” He removes my knee; at the same time he takes my hand and presses it against the bulge in his shorts. “Don’t worry, you can feast on that later, love.”

  I try to pout, but he will have none of it. He is most adamant, and I give in with somewhat good grace.

  One of the advantages to basically being self-employed, which is what we both are for all intents and purposes, is that you can do things like this when you feel like it. Take little jaunts during the work week when other people are enslaved at their dreary nine-to-five drudgeries, come and go pretty much as we please. We only have the one car between us—my reliable ’76 Monte Carlo—and have never felt the need for another one when this one has always served our purposes. I make sure that she is immaculately maintained, and we are either together or, if not, our schedules never seem to conflict to where this is a problem if one of us needs to use the car.

  Richard plays chauffeur today, and I sit close beside him, my fingers playing with the dangling threads on his shorts, at the same time stroking the soft skin of his inner thigh. I feel lighter already, just for him having thought of doing this for me. It shows how much he loves me, despite my mother’s misgivings. I push all thoughts of everyone and everything out of my mind. Today there is nothing but Richard and me—us—this is our day to make the most of together.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking.” We’re already south of St. Louis by now, heading down I-55. It’s a glorious day, and there’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be but right where I am. “Maybe we should take a trip. Go back to Greece soon. Stay on Crete for a while; check out all the Minoan sites again. Whaddya think?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” Richard says noncommittally. “We can discuss it later, if you like.”

  “Okay.” Satisfied for now, I relax against him, happily tracing patterns on his leg.

  We reach our lot at last, winding down the narrow road, the turnoff of which is just before the Bonne Terre exit off of Highway 61-67. The sun is awake now, and so am I. These are not roads to be taken lightly or too quickly, not just for safety reasons. It’s not unusual to see deer cross the road, or fox or raccoon even. Or to find turtles crawling placidly along. I get out and release the padlock on our gate so that Richard can pull the car through even as I think to myself that I’ll surely need to wash the car tomorrow. After he is past, I relock it, wait for him to stop, and saunter up to his side of the car, leaning into his window.

  “I think the first thing we need to unpack is the blanket, so I can have my breakfast.” I wink at him knowingly.

  “No, the first thing we unpack is the sunscreen, my sensitive little wolf, so I can rub it all over your cute little body.”

  “Cute? I’m not cute. I’m fucking sexy,” I protest with a pout which probably detracts from my words.

  He squishes up my lips between his fingers. “Aw, who’s not cute? You’re adorable,” he teases before he kisses me. “C’mon, cutiepie, let’s get what we need down there so we’ll be done.” I can’t very argue with that logic, now can I?

  Working together, we’re done in just a couple of trips. Some of the stuff we leave in the trunk ’til we decide if we want it or not—the rafts, the air pump, the fishing poles and related accessories. Neither one of us is what you call an avid fisherm
an, and we don’t really know one lure from another, but we do like to throw a pole in the water now and then. No pun intended. Richard has even packed a few books, including Cocksure, our favorite Bob Vickery. We’re big fans of Joe, the sperm-eating vampire. Makes for some interesting role-play.

  On our section of the beach, we have only one big tree for shade, beneath which we set everything, including the hibachi, for those occasions when we decide to cook. The rest of it consists basically of sand and rocks. Rocks and sand. Not the warm silky squishy desert sand á la Lawrence of Arabia, no, tough demanding Missouri sand. The kind that makes or breaks you. This sand is best confronted with footwear of some type, such as sandals or tennies. Go barefoot at your own risk. Directly across the river from our lot are high bluffs, which I imagine are attainable from somewhere, I just don’t know where, and I’ve never seen anyone up on them. You couldn’t ask for better privacy, actually. We have no qualms about skinny-dipping or sunbathing. Or making love. Our neighbors on either side are seldom there, and the only other egress is from the river, which, while there are people who canoe by now and then, thanks to the bluffs which act as a sort of echo chamber, the sounds of their coming can be heard far enough in advance to enable us to cover up or put our activities on hold until they pass by.

  We have a big blue-and-white comforter which we only use for excursions to the river or other outdoor activities; it is never allowed to touch the bed, and it has its own place in the linen closet. Richard just laughed the first time I separated it from the other blankets and insisted on washing it in its own load. He said I was one very anal wolf. But he is careful to obey the rules for its use, just the same. I simply have my own way of doing things. If that makes me anal, then so be it.

  We spread the comforter, and then we strip out of our clothes. Ah, what a glorious feeling of freedom this brings, to be able to allow one’s skin to breathe, to feel the warmth of the sun directly, not hear about it secondhand. To stretch one’s muscles and simply bask beneath the glorious disc of the sun god himself. And to be able to see Richard’s beautiful body, unmarred by tan lines, it manages to stay a pale, deliciously creamy color because we don’t actually tan, merely sunbathe. As I’ve said before, we burn. Hence the reason for the sunscreen with the rating of 200+ SPF to protect our delicate skin.

  He is bending over our tote bag, and I take advantage of this to slip up behind him, press up against that beautiful ass and snake my hand around to grab his slumbering cock. “I’d like some breakfast now,” I purr.

  He slaps my hand away, straightens up, sunscreen in hand. “Not so fast. What did I tell you?” He gestures toward the blanket. “Lay down like a good boy and let me put this on you.”

  I do as he asks. I’m a rather obedient wolf, I must admit. “Back or front first?” I ask.

  “Back first,” he responds, squirting the thick white fluid onto his long, slender fingers in preparation. This particular brand is supposed to be good for the skin as well, filled with vitamins and emollients and such like. It has a pleasant silky texture and a nice smell, and we’ve discovered that it works well for other purposes too. I flip onto my stomach, lay my head on my interlaced fingers, and relax. Richard settles himself on me, straddling my legs as he spreads the lotion, beginning with my shoulders, not just troweling it on but actually using the flat of his hand to work it into my skin, where it will do some good. I like the feel of him on top of me, the comforting solidness of his body on mine. His gentle touch. He gives good back rubs too.

  He makes sure that he covers my back, his hands moving lower and lower as he massages the goo into my skin. When he reaches my ass, his slides his fingers teasingly between my cheeks, brushing lightly across my pucker, which produces a moan from me. So, for good measure, he does it again.

  “Quit teasing unless you’re serious,” I warn him. He only laughs, slaps my butt, and tells me to roll over so he can do my front. Of course I am now sporting an erection. “Grease that up, and I’ll show you what I can do with it,” I offer.

  “We have all day, sweet thing.” He grins. “I think we’ll find time for you to show me a thing or two.”

  Pouting isn’t working, so I have to content myself with that thought for the moment, as he covers my chest. The little devil! He tweaks my nipples, supposedly in the cause of applying sunscreen, but I know better. I try to reach for his cock, which isn’t easy considering the angle, but he merely slaps my hand away again. “Slow learner, are we?” he asks smugly.

  “You’re a cock teaser, is what you are,” I growl, and he only smirks all the more.

  I have a random thought. “Has Mr. America booked any more time with you?” I ask for no apparent reason. I know that Richard has already had two photo shoots with him. So far.

  “If you mean Morgan, then the answer is yes,” he responds, applying fresh lotion and rubbing my stomach. “Now shush and let me concentrate. I mean it: no stress today. No shoptalk. Nothing but you and me.” He continues his ministrations while I stew for a minute over Amy’s goddamned nephew. The wannabe model with the face of an angel and the soul of… what? I don’t know. I still haven’t put my finger on it, but there is something not right about him, and the wolf recognizes it. And I still think he is after my boyfriend in a major way, which only serves to awaken every jealous sensibility that I possess. By the same token, Richard still insists that Amy is hot for my body, which notion seems patently absurd after all these years. She has done nothing, I have to admit, since she’s been back, to indicate that in any way shape or form she harbors any form of the crush she had on me way back when. I don’t know about either one of them, so I push those thoughts away. Out with the bad air, in with the good, right? Right.

  “You wanna watch Total Eclipse tonight?” I ask.

  “So you can drool over David Thewlis’s cock?” He smiles.

  “Well, you drool over Leonardo DiCaprio’s ass,” I counter. Touché.

  “You only think I do, ’cause it makes you feel better for drooling over Verlaine, my little Rimbaud.” He finishes with his task, leaning down and brushing his lips lightly over my erection. Oh God, that feels good.

  “Admit it, you think Thewlis is hot.” He licks around the slit.

  “Yeah, hot, totally hot,” I agree, losing my concentration. “I’d love to get him between my thighs….”

  “I bet you would,” Richard laughs, slapping my hip lightly. “Change places so you can do me.”

  Dammit, I knew he’d quit there. But I move so that he can lay down, and I take the same position on him and perform the same ministrations. “Wouldn’t you?” I query.

  “Of course. Totally.” He lay on his stomach and I try to cheat, pressing my erection insistently against his ass. “Stick to the agenda,” he warns me, “or you’ll find yourself in the river, toot sweet.”

  Why do the same rules not apply to both of us? He can be such a prickteaser sometimes.

  “Did you bring Season in Hell for me?” I ask, sliding my fingers over that lovely torso, guiding the sunscreen into every little crack and crevice I can find. No pun intended.

  “Hell no,” he replies, “this is not poor tortured poet day; this is you and me day. I brought Cocksure, the Joy of Gay Sex, and Moby Dick.”

  “Moby Dick?”

  “Yeah, it’s a whale of a story.” He never even cracks a smile as he utters that horrible pun. I roll my eyes.

  Slicked up at last and ready for the UV rays. “Wine, my love?” he asks, sitting up once more, rolling me off in the process. Knowing my answer already, he reaches into the cooler, brings out a bottle of white Zinfandel, deftly uncorks it, and hands me the bottle. Down there we eschew glasses as being a pain in the ass. I take a long drink, hand it back, and he does the same.

  “I lied.” He smiles. “No Melville. I brought the sonnets.”

  The sonnets. The bard of Avon. Sounds marvelous.

  He slides the cork back in with a resounding thump, sets the bottle within easy reach of either one of us, t
hen makes himself comfortable, and pats the blanket beside him. “C’mon down here and lay by me,” he says and beckons, and of course, I do. He slides his arm beneath my neck, around my shoulder, and we are like two large grains of sand cohabiting on the beach now. This is nice. This is very nice. As he softly strokes my shoulder, I begin to relax, gazing up into the sky, where fluffy white clouds of various sizes and shapes lazily roll across the heavens for our viewing pleasure.

  “I see a fire-breathing dragon,” Richard comments, pointing up to a peculiar cloud formation. “See the smoke coming out of his mouth?”

  This is a game we’ve played many times over the years, picking pictures out of the clouds, letting our imaginations soar.

  “Mmhmmm,” I reply. “I can see it. See the train? Over there? Not a modern one, but one of those old-fashioned ones with the big locomotives, like Jessie James liked to hold up.”

  “Yeah, I see it. Right next to the one that looks like a wolf.”

  “Wolf? I don’t see a wolf. Where are you looking?”

  He points up to the sky. “See? You can see the gaping maw from here, that feral look in the eyes.”

  I have to laugh at that. “I think you have wolf on the brain. I don’t see that.”

  “Only have one wolf on my brain, and that’s you.” He kisses the top of my head sweetly. “Oooh, look, now I see David Thewlis’s cock, moving toward the wolf’s open mouth. I think the wolf is going to eat him.”

  “Is that so? Looks like a regular porn movie up there, doesn’t it?” I roll over on top of him, press my growing hardness against his. “This wolf wants to eat you, instead.”