Date: Sat, 26 Jan 2013 19:26:59 -0500 From: Jake Preston Subject: Wayward Island 16 Wayward Island (Part 16) How Jake, Mrs. Ravitch, and Red Feather visited Oberlin By Jake Preston Reader restrictions: no minors, no readers who are offended by explicit descriptions of gay sexuality. The story as a whole is a psychological study of gay athletic hunks who love nerds, and the nerds who love them in return. The story also deals with the problems faced by gay guys who live in rural areas. If these themes don't interest you, there are many other great "nifty" stories to choose from. Send comments and suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond to all sincere correspondents. Donations keep juices flowing and fires burning. Click Nifty "donations" at the Gay Male Stories headnote. * * * * * * * A murder took place on Lake Ashawa in March. The coroner concurred with Deputy Nelson's opinion that it was suicide. The victim was Harvey Aldrich, a retired insurance executive from Connecticut, who had built a four-season vacation home on Lake Ashawa three years ago. A year later he settled here, along with his wife Donna. Aldrich was independently wealthy, and twenty years older than his lovely wife. According to Deputy Nelson's report, Aldrich was despondent because Donna had decided to leave him for another man, a resort- owner named Marcus Lane. One morning early this month, Aldrich took a walk in the woods with a revolver and shot himself. The next day, Donna reported him missing. His body was found by snowmobilers during an official search in the woods. Yeah, I said Nelson, the gay-bashing deputy. After his wrongful arrest of me and Henry, he didn't get fired. He was suspended for a month. During that time he was required to drive to Duluth twice a week for "sensitivity training." Then he was reinstated. In Hibbing, Ben Hasek kept the recording that his son Henry had made on his cellphone during our wrongful arrest-ammunition to use against Nelson if he makes trouble a second time. If Detective Matthews was disappointed with the result, he didn't show it. But Matthews held his cards close to the vest. In fact he was concerned about Henry, and called Ben Hasek once a month to ask how his son was doing. He called to ask how I was doing, too. After I told him that Ben and I had decided not to press legal claims against the County, Matthews and I got on a first-name basis. He said if I should him Gary, if he could call me Jake. When he mentioned that he'd be in Ashawa, I invited him to stay in my farmhouse. "That's kind of you, Jake," he said. "The County is stingy with travel funds. They expect us to drive back and forth from Duluth instead of staying overnight in a motel. It's a long drive." (He didn't have to tell me it was ninety miles.) "I can't tell you anything about the case that I'm working on," he said, "but I can tell you that I've checking up on you and the Haseks because Deputy Nelson is still the Law in Ashawa. It's personal, not official." During Matthew's visits, I hosted him for meals at my cabin, or else we met at the lodge. "Ah, gee," I said. "I was hoping you just wanted my company." Maybe that, too, the detective's sly smile told me. Back to the so-called suicide of Harvey Aldrich: because his wife Donna was up-front about her affair with Marcus Lane, Deputy Nelson didn't investigate. Two weeks later, Donna and Marcus got married in Las Vegas. Donna had inherited a couple million dollars, a lot of money anywhere, but a vast sum of money to folks in the North Woods. I told Gary, in confidence, that Marcus's first wife was my cousin, Bethany Lund. For five weeks in January and February, she spent her time cleaning cabins on their resort. As soon as the job was finished, Marcus announced that he had fallen in love with Donna and wanted a divorce. Some of his trysts with Donna took place while Bethany was cleaning cabins. They got a quickie divorce in Las Vegas. A week later, Marcus was found dead in the woods, half covered with snow. There was no suicide note. Marcus and Donna let everyone know that they were honeymooning in Hawaii. During their absence, the Red Loon Hotel burned down. The café where Red Feather and I had met Sam Black Bear and Roger Johnson was gone. This was a historical landmark in Ashawa, so everyone in town was surprised to learn that Marcus owned the building. "Insurance fraud," people whispered. "That's why told half the town that they were going to Hawaii." Insurance fraud of this sort is commonplace in the North Country, because the folks there are suspicious of strangers and an insurance agent has little prospect of getting to the truth about what happened. The insurance company pays up, and recovers its losses by raising everyone else's rates. Willy Elbo's insurance scam with cars was similar. "I don't have proof," I told Gary, "but the sequence of events have elements of a murder mystery." At the time, I kept busy writing a mystery about the Red Loon Hotel. Mrs. Ravitch had organized a piano audition for Red Feather at Oberlin College, scheduled for the last week of March, just after students returned from Spring break. Our plan was to drive to Duluth, and fly via Minneapolis to Cleveland, where we rented a car and drove to Oberlin. Mrs. Ravitch and I made Cleveland our home base for a week, while Red Feather stayed in a dorm in Oberlin. She planned our itinerary, which included visits to the Art Museum, and two evenings at Severance Hall, a short walk from the Art Museum. For the Cleveland Orchestra, she purchased four tickets for each evening. "Why four tickets, Anna?" I asked. "Well," she said, "I expect that Red Feather will make friends on campus. It'll be his task to invite a friend for each performance." She also purchased four tickets for Garcia Lorca's Blood Wedding at Playhouse Square. I told Gary about our travel plans. He invited us to stay at his home in Duluth for as long as we wanted. Is there a Mrs. Matthews, I wondered. "No, we'll be batching it," he said. Well, not exactly batching it, since we'll have Mrs. Ravitch with us. Since Red Feather had never been to Duluth, we decided to stay with Gary for three nights. "While we're there, we'll shop for a suit for Red Feather," Mrs. Ravitch said. "He'll need one for the Orchestra. For Playhouse Square, a suit is optional, but I think that Red Feather should get used to dressing up. I know a place where we can get him a stylish haircut, too." We drove to Duluth in the morning, and shopped all afternoon. I was thinking Men's Warehouse or J. C. Penny's, but Mrs. Ravitch took us to Mainstream Fashion on Superior Street, where she bought Red Feather a rather expensive Cardi, and a sport jacket and slacks, too. Red Feather was accustomed to her coaching him as a nude model; when it came to clothes, she was just as demanding. She kept finding things that would look good on Red Feather: shirts, ties, even socks and underwear (which, of course, he wasn't required to model). We left the store loaded with new clothes. New shoes, too-two pairs. "When it comes to shoes, most men never notice, but it's women always check them out," Mrs. Ravitch said. While we were on Superior Street, she took us to a hair salon, where she made an appointment for Red Feather for the next morning. When it came to male nudity, Mrs. Ravitch was one of Red Feather's fans, but she was even more excited about getting him dressed up. I had to admit: Red Feather looked good in new clothes. Gary wanted to take us to a fancy restaurant for dinner, but I said I'd rather go to Grandma's Saloon, downtown near the lift-bridge. Maybe we could watch an ice-breaker or and ore-boat pass through the channel, under the lift- bridge, on its way to the harbor. We could take a drive on Park Point. At dinner, we talked about Grandma's Marathon, which I ran every year in the first week of July. As it happens, Gary was a marathon runner, too. We exchanged notes about the course, which starts on the North Shore and follows the old highway into Duluth, ending at Grandma's. "When we get home, I'll show you my hard-won shirts," Gary said proudly. Ah, yes, those red T-shirts from Grandma's. At most road-races, you're given your souvenir shirt when you check in for your number at the registration table. Not so at Grandma's! In that marathon, you're handed your shirt when you cross the finish line. "That's northern Minnesota for you," I said, "You gotta be tough!" If you don't finish, you don't get a shirt. Around 9:00 PM we arrived at Gary's home. Duluth's famous fog-horn echoed across the city with its low two-tone groan. Gary explained it to Red Feather. "Once you get used to it, the sound of the fog-horn is soothing at night," he said. "In 1968, the Coast Guard did away with the fog-horn and replaced it with a whistle. The silence of the harbor caused an uproar in the city. Ten or twelve years later, a civic group called TOOT bought a replacement fog-horn from a town in Wisconsin. The ships don't really need it, but the residents do, so the fog-horn starts around 9:00 and continues until morning. Reason not the need!" "King Lear," Red Feather said, alert to the source of Gary's quotation. "You'll do well in college, Red Feather," Gary said. "But what is TOOT?" Red Feather asked. "(re)Turn Our Old Toot," Gary said. "The organization disbanded after the new fog-horn was installed. It's controlled by the City, so I doubt that it will be discontinued again." "King Lear will never be the same," Red Feather laughed. Gary brought out his Grandma Marathon T-shirts. Mrs. Ravitch invited him to model one of them. Gary took off his shirt and T-shirt. He looked athletic and fit for a man in his forties: muscular arms, tight abdomen, no love-handles, barrel-chest with perky nips. "Take your time, Gary," I said. "Mrs. Ravitch is an expert on the male physique. She's a painter. That's what she does, she paints portraits of male nudes. Surely you know that!" This was news to Gary. "I'm always looking for new material," Mrs. Ravitch said. "You'd make a good subject, Gary." He blushed. When he put on the red T-shirt, his nips budded out, even more provocatively than in the flesh. Gary handed a souvenir T-shirt to Red Feather, and another to me, and said "Please accept!" I stripped to the waist, modeled for Gary's benefit, and put on my new T-shirt. Red Feather did the same. Mrs. Ravitch wanted to retire for the night. Gary showed her to the guest bedroom. "The only other bedroom is mine," he said, "but it's a queen-sized bed. You guys can sleep with me, unless you'd rather sleep in the living room." "I'll sleep with you," Red Feather said. "Jake will have to speak for himself." "I'm down for it," I said. "How about a bit of kink?" Gary asked. "I've got a sling in the bedroom. We'll have to set it up first." Red Feather and I agreed that we'd like give it a try. In the bedroom, Red Feather took off his T-shirt. He kicked off his shoes and socks. He pulled down his jeans and got naked. Gary slid his hand over his torso, appreciatively. Gary brought out the parts of the sling from his closet. "A closeted sling!" Red Feather exclaimed. We assembled the frame, making corners straight and bolts tight. We hooked up the chains and the ankle-grips. We attached the seat, and adjusted its elevation. Red Feather volunteered to try it out for height. Gary helped him into the seat, not without groping his ass. He stood between Red Feather's legs. He pulled Red Feather toward him to test that his crotch was level with Red Feather's. We needed to lower the seat a couple inches, he said, so Gary helped Red Feather out of the sling. After the adjustment, he helped him back in. He fondled Red Feather's cock and fingered his asshole, blatantly exposed to sight and touch. Gary and I helped each other out of our clothes. Red Feather joined us in a three-way embrace with kisses and fondling all around. Our host proposed a game for three. Starting with Red Feather and me, we would lay on the bed, grasping the headboard's metal bars. Gary would take his place in the middle, and fondle us, one guy with each hand for five minutes. He used an hour-glass to keep time. If one of us removed a hand from the bars, he would ride the sling for fifteen minutes while the remaining players had their way with him. "Red Feather's a virgin, Gary," I said. "I don't know how far he'll go in the sling." "We'll think of something," Gary replied. He told us to kneel, facing the headboard. He knelt behind us and fondled, using his right hand on Red Feather and his left hand on me. Neither of us flinched, so Red Feather and Gary changed places. When Red Feather slapped our cheeks, neither of us budged, When he inserted fingers in our assholes, Gary let go the bar with his right hand. That was enough to put him in the sling. Red Feather and I helped Gary get into the sling. Each of us hooked a foot into the ankle-grips. This kept him frog-legged. The erotic mystery of the cleft disappears in this position, but anatomical openness compensates for the demystification. We took in the spectacle of Gary. His brownish-red asshole was sling-central, but erection and low-hanging balls were completely accessible, too. On either side of sling-central, Gary's ass-cheeks rounded below his tan-line like whitish moons. Total vulnerability: that was the purpose of the sling. Red Feather smacked his cheeks several times. Gary didn't feel much pain, but the glorious claps of a sexual spanking harmonized with the resounding fog-horn. Red Feather lubed Gary and penetrated his ass. As he fucked, Gary rocked in the swing, rhythmically. "How can we tell it's been fifteen minutes?" Red Feather asked. "By the fog-horn," Gary replied. "Time's up when you hear it twice." Only in Duluth can the game be played by the rules! I took my turn fucking Gary. It was my first time with him, but I knew it wouldn't be the last. "There ought to be a name for this game," I said. We decided to call it sling-tag. The guy in the sling was "it." My turn came next in the sling, followed by Gary (twice), then me again. Clinging to the bars on the headboard, Red Feather seemed unbeatable. When it was Gary's turn to play "center," he brought out two vibrators and stuck them into Red Feather and me while we frog-legged, each with a leg forming an arch over Gary's shoulders. He turned on the vibrators. Unfamiliar vibrations caused Red Feather to release his grip from the bars. "I want to lose my virginity!" he said. We helped him into the sling. When we fastened his feet into the ankle-grips, he was at our mercy. Unlike Gary he had no tan-line. His rounded mounds parted to form an idyllic valley, centered by a magical spring. I penetrated him first and fucked slowly. He groaned but didn't cry out. Gary took his turn. We switched back and forth. The fog-horn resounded a second time. We helped Red Feather out of the sling. "I think we've had enough sling-tag," Gary said. "We need to take care of Red Feather." We experimented with different positions when we took turns fucking him. Gary was first to shoot cream into the busted remains of his cherry. I missioned him and added a shot of bull-milk. Red Feather ached for release. I knelt at the side of the bed with my ass exposed, and motioned for Gary to do the same at my side. We presented Red Feather with two asses to fuck. He alternated between us, like a bee siphoning nectar in a garden that had only two flowers. While he fucked one ass, he used a vibrator on the other. He flipped us over and fucked frontally. He told us to kiss while he fucked. Gary and I bonded in our shared experience as bottoms. When Red Feather was ready to cum, he chose Gary. "Most interesting threesome I've ever experienced," I said when we crammed into Gary's shower stall. For the next two nights, the sling and the bed were the scenes of sex for three. We got used to the fog-horn at night, and appreciated its soothing effect. In Cleveland, we spent our first day in the Art Museum. We spent most of our time looking at late medieval and Renaissance paintings, and French impressionists, especially Renoir. These were the strengths of the museum in Cleveland. Only two rooms were dedicated to contemporary art, but the collection included two male nudes by Anna Ravitch. She knew they were there, but said nothing about them. It was Red Feather who first spotted them-the high point of our day. "You're famous, Anna!" Red Feather exclaimed, and then, "I know someone who's famous." The next day we drove to Oberlin for Red Feather's piano audition. After an hour-long interview with two music professors, he played well-rehearsed tunes from Mozart and Chopin, followed by some American jazz. He played from memory. Just after, one professor told him that he was admitted to the Music Conservatory. News about his scholarship application would come a month later, because there were other candidates. Red Feather was elated, and relieved that a course was set for his future. When we left Red Feather on campus for the rest of the week, Mrs. Ravitch reminded him to invite a friend for the Orchestra performances, and for Garcia Lorca at Playhouse Square. "And remember to wear your suit!" Mrs. Ravitch admonished. It didn't take Red Feather long to find a new friend. When we picked him up for the Orchestra, he introduced is to Chaim Haiam, a Jewish boy from New York. He was a frosh in the Music Conservatory. The initial attraction, for Chaim, was Red Feather's Chippewa identity. He had already memorized Ojibwe sentences and words. "We rehearse them in bed," Chaim said, his way of telling us that they had decided to become lovers, and roommates for the following school year. One of the differences between gay and hetero sex is that gay man get more of it. For Red Feather, having a Jewish friend was exotic, exciting, all the more so because Chaim had unmistakably Jewish features: curly brown hair, brown eyes, and an intense "Israeli" gaze. Mostly they talked about music, and Chaim's family trips to Israel. Chaim was with us for the second Orchestra performance, too, and for Blood Wedding at Playhouse Square. We took both boys on a tour of the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame, too, something we had overlooked when we planned our itinerary. The Orchestra was an eye-opening experience for Red Feather. The first night was an evening of Saint-Saëns and Vivaldi; the second was Ravel and Mahler. Most of the literature played on those nights was new to Red Feather. Mrs. Ravitch and I knew what to expect; Chaim, too, coming from New York. But Red Feather was astonished to hear such beautiful tunes performed in the acoustic perfection of Cleveland's Temple of Music. For the first time, he understood fully the profound wisdom of Mrs. Ravitch, who had guided him to this place. The Playhouse performance of Blood Wedding was inspirational, too. It got us into conversation about Garcia Lorca's life as an artist in Spain, persecuted for being gay, and probably killed by Fascist militia for this reason. I summarized the story in Garcia Lorca's first play, El maleficio de la mariposa (The Curse of the Butterfly), about the love affair of a cockroach and a butterfly, who are persecuted by other insects for their unconventional bond. "It was not a success," I said. "In 1920 the audience in Madrid hooted and laughed it off the stage." "It's an allegory about gay love in a homophobic society," Chaim said. "Even if the audience understood it, which they probably didn't, they still would have laughed it off the stage." "If they understood, they would have done worse," Red Feather said. On our way home, we visited the Courthouse in Hibbing, where I filed an application to adopt Red Feather. We were given a court date in May. We stopped having sex with each other. "I know it's legal, but it wouldn't feel right," I said. Red Feather slept in his own space in the loft. We lived together as father and son. He stopped dating men. He said he would wait for Chaim. They kept in touch. Chaim persuaded his parents to let him spend the summer with Red Feather at my cabin-not without promising to pay a visit. In April, Red Feather received a letter from Oberlin College, awarding him a tuition scholarship for four years. To celebrate, the ladies in the Crane Lake Mission Church hosted an after-church luncheon. In May, Red Feather's legal name became Red Feather Preston. His signed himself "Red F. Preston." Can gay men love without sex? Time was when I would have said no, but from my experience with Red Feather I learned that there are other ways to love. Besides, the change made me free to work on my newfound friendship with Gary, and it gave Red Feather time to ponder he feelings for Chaim. Some of my friends in Ashawa were puzzled by my adoption of Red Feather. I don't mean judgmental critics, but well-meaning friends. "Why are you doing this, Jake?" they would ask. The topic came up often enough for me to develop a two-part reply. First off, it wasn't just me adopting him: Red Feather adopted me, too, as his father. Second, adoption takes many forms across cultures. Ojibwe have two words for adoption: bami' (foster and support), and waangoon (formal adoption). To our Ojibwe friends, our legal adoption (waangoon) formalized and already existing bami'-relation. The Ojibwe accepted it without question. All too often, we project our personal experiences onto others as if they were universal truths, so to some people it seems absurd that a 26-year-old bachelor-farmer-writer would adopt a 19-year-old Ojibwe ex. But in ancient Rome, a Senator or an Emperor often adopted a son for his heir or successor. He did it to provide legal stability to the family estate. One of the most powerful emperors, Caesar Octavian Augustus, was adopted by Julius Caesar, his great uncle. Adoption didn't come easy. The Senate had to approve, sometimes amid controversy, but my point is that it happened. That was my spiel. It got me puzzled looks. For people who think that marriage is exclusive to a man and a woman, the logical deduction is that only THEY can have families. Still, folks got used to our father-son status.