Looking back on that blustery summer afternoon on Dead Man’s Pan, I now clearly see that our getting trapped by a sudden thunderstorm while skinny-dipping near the abandoned miners’ cabin was the perfect excuse the four of us needed to stroke each other off in our first circle jerk.
My granddad’s ranch, locked away high in the Rocky Mountains, extended over much of the broad plateau named Dead Man’s Pan back in the gold-rush days by tenacious miners and legions of pioneers migrating West.
With a waterfall cascading down a jagged outcrop of rocks and a deep pool only yards from its sagging porch, the dilapidated cabin unceremoniously called The Rocks by us was my favorite of several weather-splintered wrecks listing forlornly across the rugged landscape–each having endured for nearly a century and a half, with varying degrees of success, innumerable vermin infestations and Colorado’s long, harsh winters and warping summer heat waves.
“When’re you gonna lose that fricking hat?” Charlie Oleznik asked me, his face forever screwed up in a scowl that marred his handsome features.
“Leave him alone,” my buddy George Vaicek came to my rescue. He bumped into Charlie as we wound our way along a cattle trail through a thicket of trees and dense brambles toward the pool. The jolt slowed Charlie down just enough that he missed when he swatted at my canvas derby. “You’re just pissed he didn’t bring you one back from Chicago.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s all I wanna show off to the guys at the shop,” Charlie scoffed, grimacing when Vaicek suddenly turned around to face him and, walking backwards, pretended to pummel him with several quick blows to his bare, muscular chest and belly. “Knock it off, Vaicek. You’re gonna fall and crack your head open, and no one’s gonna care. Knock it off, man.”
“Vaicek, stop bugging him. We’re almost there,” I said, distracted by the fourth member of our group walking ahead of us.
Peter Gatford had graduated from high school that spring with me and, like me, planned on attending the local community college for two years before applying to one of the big state schools. Neither of us knew what we wanted to do with our lives. I didn’t want to work on the ranch, and I knew I didn’t want to drudge away my days as a suit, crunching numbers in some stuffy office building. Peter was thinking about taking Computer Programming to better his odds of landing a good job in California. He’d told me this plan earlier that week, as we lay exhausted on his bedroom floor, both of us stripped to our briefs, slick with sweat, and out of breath from the kind of wrestling we had engaged in most afternoons since becoming best buds. This time, in our haste to pin the other first, we’d knocked over his nightstand lamp, its bulb flickering bright blue before popping out with a hiss.
“I kicked your ass again!” I didn’t want to talk about his moving away. “And you’re the pud who was on the wresting team!”
“You weigh more,” he retorted, rolling his blue eyes when I mouthed the words at the same time he said them.
This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “Hat Trick,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.
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