August Weekend

Perfect.

Just absolutely perfect.

I headed up yesterday to the gay campground in northeast Pennsylvania (no, not that one, the other one), first stopping and getting some beautiful ribeye steaks, some green peppercorns, and some premium french butter. The place where I usually get sweetcorn is down along the river, and that was out of the way, so I decided to trust my luck--and the abundance of sweetcorn farmstands in my part of the world--and headed out on the road, with Faithful Companion riding along in back. Alas, there were none. I got all the way to Quakertown without seeing one, so as a last ditch effort, I stopped in to the venerable Q-Mart, aka the Quakertown Farmer's Market. It's sort of an outlet center for the rural poor in the area. Interested in a complete paintball outfit? Head to Q-Mart. Thrilled at the prospect of buying fifty bags of hallowe'en candy way out of season? Head to Q-Mart. 100% polyester sheets so course they'll make you bleed? Q-Mart!

Unfortunately, what they don't seem to have a lot of at the Quakertown Farmer's Market are the things that farmers grow. I found a lone produced stand and took a chance.

The drive up to the campground went well, and the directions on their website were excellent. And there was hot tub guy, waiting outside his cabin.

*sigh*

He had some company, three guys he'd met earlier in the day, on his back porch. He served up some way potent 151 proof vodka and orange juice, and the five of us sat and chatted for a while.

So pleasant, me, hot tub guy, the neighbors... When the neighbors started feeling like if they had anymore of hot tub guy's potent punch they'd end up passing out face down in a mudpuddle on the way back to their campsites, they departed, and I turned my attention to dinner.

And I did it again.

The steak was amazing. So juicy, so succulent, so full of flavor, so butttery smooth. Hot tub guy was looking at me in awe, his eyes focused on the middle distance, like Sainte Theresa in Ecstasy. And then he had the corn, sweet and delicious, slathered with the premium butter and dusted with salt. It was perfect.

And during dinner we talked. Having one of our amazing conversations. Opening up, sharing what was in our hearts. It's great to be able to talk like this to someone, about your hopes and fears, and what's in your heart.

And if I was still trying to figure hot tub guy out, I'd be able to say I have a handle on him totally. But I'm not. So I don't.

It's a whole new ballgame, brothers and sisters. It's just about me enjoying my time with this wonderful man. Wherever it's going... well... We'll know when we get there.

It was leather weekend at the campground (no, not that one, the other one). So after dinner, we washed up and headed over to check out the action. There was a rabbits' warren in the pavilion, formed by sheets of black plastic hung from the rafters, and all sorts of despicable acts going on in the nether reaches and darkest corners. We checked it out, then headed up to the main lodge, hanging out on the deck. As it had started to drizzle, there was a gathering of other campers there. Hot tub guy and I hung with his guests from that afternoon, and an assortment of others, talking about trucker sex.

Apparently, in Florida, particularly along the stretch of interstate known as Aligator Alley, you can signal that you want sex by leaving your left turn signal going as you drive along the highway. And when you see someone else with their left turn signal going, you both pull over at the next rest area and go to town.

Brilliant, huh?

One of our number was an actual trucker, who reported that opportunities for roadside fornication were now few and far between. As with so many good things, he blames their passing on the rise of the internet.

I had decided not to bring along heavy duty full leather. So I was pretty much there in shorts, a tshirt, and my Keen's. To signal my proclivities, I had one of my floggers tossed over my shoulder. You may remember that one of my hopes for the weekend was to show off to hot tub guy just how good I am. And, as luck would have it, I got my chance. One of the guys on the porch asked me if I was "any good with that," indicating my flogger.

"I'm very good with that," I answered. He sort of jokingly got up and bent over. Although not with his but pointed in my direction.

"Uh uh, boy," I ordered, "give me some room to swing."

He obliged.

And so did I, giving a nice selection of falls of my flogger on his butt, from playful swipes to downright nasty swats.

Yeah yeah yeah. So I can swing a flogger. What I really wanted to show off to hot tub guy was not that particular skill, but the energy I brought to the scene.

And I think I did that.

The boy with his butt in the air had my full attention. The universe melted away, and even though our scene (if you can call it that) lasted all of three minutes, I concluded by approaching, enfolding him in my arms, giving him a kiss, and thanking him for giving me the honor.

Later, hot tub guy, who had earlier told me how afraid he was of the whole SM thing, expressed how impressed he was by that, how (unbeknownst to me) the porch grew quiet as I started in on the boy, as if everyone present sensed that something important was happening, and the warmth and connection I suddenly had with this total stranger.

"Yeah," I said smiling, "That's the way I roll."

And lemme tell you something, I needed that. I've been losing touch with my leather self. Just losing track of it all. With Inferno coming up, and that usually has me all a'quiver with anticipation, this year I've been like, "Yeah. Whatever."

"Ya cain't get a man with a whip," I'd tell myself.

But in that brief three minutes, I realized that the magic was still there.

We wandered, we enjoyed the evening, we headed back to hot tub guy's cabin, and then I got to have the experience that always satisfies: sleeping curled next to hot tub guy. As he's dropping off to sleep, he gets these spasms all over. All that anxiety. And I stroke his hair, and I whisper in his ear, "It's okay. You're safe. I'm here. I've got you."

"Really?" he murmurs, and gets still, breathing deeply.

It's so wonderful sleeping with hot tub guy. I hold him. He holds me. It's like a slow, beautiful dance, momement by movement, over the course of a night. There's nothing better. Nothing that does me more good.

This morning, we got up late, and headed to the showers. The shower shed is like perfect. Outdoors, lots of cruising possibilities. I took the stall across from hot tub guy, to treat myself to the awe-inspiring spectacle of him lathering up his beautiful body. We headed to the pavilion for breakfast, sitting looking out over the pool. Then, picking up Faithful Companion from the cabin, we headed out for a walk.

First stop was hot tub guy's rock. Off the trail we followed, in the middle of a forest with the floor covered in ferns, sits the rock. Standing about three feet tall and roughly triangular, deposited there by some passing glacier eons ago. Wonderful energy in the rock, like an altar. We continued our hike, heading up to a spring fed mountain lake. I couldn't resist a dip. I shucked off my shorts, inched my way down the rocks on the bank, and swam out into the lake. The water was perfect, so cool, with those warm patches that lakes get. And that wonderful green smell of lake water.

Hot tub guy declined to join me in the lake. He said he could never do that. "Who on the planet would be upset to learn that you went skinny dipping in a spring fed mountain lake on a beautiful summer afternoon? What's the worst thing that can happen?" I asked. (That's me, the devil on hot tub guy's right shoulder.) He admitted I had a point, but didn't join me in the lake.

We continued our hike, passing a cluster of fellow campers giving blowjobs, and in a grove of pines, I told hot tub guy about the angel I saw. Several years ago, sitting in church, on some feast day or other, a beautiful summer day so all the windows were open, the choir and organ going full bore, I saw an angel. Floating slowly up in the rafters, was this angel, right out of some Early Renaisance canvas. (Or fresco, I guess). I didn't believe it or disbelieve it. I didn't question it. I didn't try to figure out what it "meant." I just took it all in.

Some things... some things... are just gifts of Fortune. You can't question, you can't treat it like a ride on a rollercoaster at some amusement park, shouting "Again!" as your car slows to a stop. It's a gift. Just let it happen. And be sure to not let it get by you unnoticed.

Which, y'know, can apply to a lot of things.

But it was time to leave. Hot tub guy and I kissed goodbye, I thanked him for the weekend, he thanked me for dinner. We loaded up the cars and I headed out while he locked up. As I was coming down the road from the camp, I noticed his car had caught up to me, showing up in my rearview mirror. I put my left turn signal on. He put his left turn signal on. I laughed. I hope he did, too.

So it all worked. Coming back from the campground (no, not that one, the other one), I could not help but be struck by how beautiful this part of the world is. It's full summer. The trees are lush and green and full, the fields are hazy with pollen, the air is alive with buzzing insects, cantalopes, sweetcorn, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini... "All fresh from God's green earth."

Now is the time of harvest. Reaping what you've sewn. Enjoyment of the fruits of your labors. Such a great time to be starting on a new journey.

it's all good.

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