Date: Mon, 15 May 2006 07:37:34 EDT
From: MtWhiteRock@aol.com
Subject: "The Travelers"

DISCLAIMER: The following account is true. However, the names, portions
of details and locations have been changed or modified to protect privacy
and to prevent the discovery of pertinent information harmful to the
subjects of this writing. Indiscreet disclosure could result in
unsolicited scrutiny and acts of provocation by local law enforcement,
disapproving family members, and religious zealots.

=========================================

Evening falls gently over the Black River Valley where our secret
swimming site is lodged between the mountains. It's called 'East Fork,'
famous for 70 years of skinnydipping. During the hippie era, Bill Clinton
skinnydipped at East Fork along with his counter-culture friends (FOBs)
before running for Congress in 1974 and marrying Hillary in 1975 only a
few miles away. (Yes, it leaned to the LEFT, dear friends. Confirmed.)

It had been a hot, dry July day in the Ozarks; so cooler breezes at dusk
feels good against my naked body as I cross the meadow returning to my
old pickup dedicated exclusively to East Fork. Other of my vehicles are
parked in the garage safely at home -- never to be abused on such rugged
terrain. Newton County 'roads' are not exactly expressways. In fact, some
of them are closed to traffic except 4-wheel drive during winter / early
spring. But the rough gravel roads are what protects East Fork from
losing its skinnydipping protection. The more difficult it is to get
there, the better.

Up ahead I notice a distant figure heading the other direction toward the
swimming hole. "Doesn't he realize the sun's going down?" I ask myself.
There are no lights and electric for miles, just raw nature.

A little closer I notice he's not wearing anything except a backpack and
smile. Maybe he's camping out? Then I see the gorgeous bod on him, deeply
tanned from head to foot, slim figure -- maybe 32" around the waist to
match his age of about 32, broad smile with glistening white teeth,
blonde, muscular arms and legs, long uncut dick. What a dream!

I just have to get this guy's attention and strike up a conversation.
Damn!

"Hey, what ya doin' heading up here at night?" I ask.

I then notice his ass for the first time, his best feature. But
everything about Jim gets an A+. His buttcheeks are round, muscular, and
firm. The shape of them drives me wild.

I hear him speak the first time. "Oh, just thought I'd take a dip, cool
off a bit and meet some folk. Been a long, hot day, hasn't it?" he
comments. His southern mountain drawl warms the heart.

"Helluva day. Hey, my name's Derek," I introduce myself while sticking
out my hand.

"Jim. Jim Tisdale. Good to meet ya," Jim says as we shake.

Imagine two naked men standing out in an open field making introductions.
Not exactly "formal," is it? At least nothing that can be published in
the local paper.

Did I forget to mention his hands? Love them! They are worn and
calloused, indicating years of hard work. Our first handshake is magic to
me. The feel of his strong, rugged palms and fingers drives me insane
with desire.

We get into such an interesting, long conversation, Jim changes his mind
and decides to head back to the truck with me instead of going for a dip.
I discover Jim's a farmer near East Fork but has to hide his
skinnydipping activity. Plus he enjoys running nude around his place;
something he sure wouldn't want to share with his family, especially
since he's the son of a Baptist preacher.

I let Jim know who I am, slip him my business card, and give an invite to
drop by my place of business sometime, never thinking he'd actually take
me up on it.

Jim is a country boy, 100%. His manner of speech and accent are simply
charming. But I can tell he's very intelligent based on the fact he can
talk about most every subject with full comprehension. Jim is articulate
and his way of talking only adds icing to the cake. He's a successful
farmer, not just any run-of-the-mill hillbilly type that inhabits these
parts. In fact, his abilities and talents are what supports his entire
family including his parents, four brothers and their kids. He's the
'godfather,' so to speak.

So, in a manner, Jim has earned the right to participate in activities
ordinarily forbidden by his church and kinfolk. He makes the dough, so
what can they say about his "recreational" choices: skinnydipping and
running around naked when no one's around to find out? Besides, it's a
harmless hobby -- though in direct contradiction to the way he was raised
where women are forbidden from wearing anything but long dresses and men
long pants.

But Jim pays his dues. He attends church weekly where his daddy pastors,
sometimes plays the piano, and contributes tithes and offerings. People
love him, though they are totally unaware of his secret life. If they
knew, would that make any difference?

Jim's honesty is refreshing. When he says something, I know it's
'gospel,' so to speak. I realize he's forced to hide his tastes for nude
recreation and men. But those are the only things he hides. And it's just
to protect others: his folks and friends. You see, Jim thinks of others
ahead of himself.

He leads a wholesome life, not just physically but mentally. His
priorities are in order, he abides by the golden rule, and never
participates in anything careless enough to jeopardize his health; for he
knows his family depends on him. He's pure as the driven snow and
therefore safe. Another reason I'm attracted.

I fall in love that first twilight evening in 1996. And know it.

I see Jim out skinnydipping at East Fork a few Sunday afternoons in the
waning weeks of summer. He swims clear across the reservoir -- the
largest pool preceding the roaring rapids that empty into narrower pools
below. He's an expert swimmer. I see his beautiful butt bouncing above
the water as he approaches the big flat rocks where I'm sunning naked. My
mouth waters as I lick my lips.

His feet too are calloused, 'cause he doesn't like to wear shoes on his
nude escapades, even if they require hiking two miles to skinnydipping
sites. He climbs trees naked, agile as a monkey so he can spy on other
nude swimmers or guys hooking up in various positions. What a site!

But summer passes and our happiest days fade.

A few months later I'm surprised to get a call from Jim: "Hello, Derek.
This is Jim Tisdale. Remember me?" the voice on the other end of the line
asks.

"Jim! Of course. Jim from East Fork. I remember you well. Whatcha doin'?
I inquire.

Jim continues, "Oh, I just got a little time to kill and wondered if
you'd like to meet for lunch somewhere. Are you available?"

"Matter of fact, yes. Just finished my last appointment for the day, so
I'm free all afternoon. Want to meet at my office and go to the
restaurant from here?" I ask.

"That'd be great," Jim replies. "I'll be there in about 40 minutes." It
takes about that length of time to drive from his farm to the city where
I have my office.

As one could imagine, I am more than excited to finally have a date with
Jim. But I am also a bit apprehensive. You see, I am married with kids
and in the closet, about par for most American men who have to act the
part in order to survive, much less safely participate in "upward career
mobility," as they call it. This is especially true in the conservative
core of the country, the infamous 'Bible Belt."

If one chooses to disclose his sexual orientation -- especially if gay or
bi, well, that's a career decision, not simply an exercise of one's
freedom. The younger generation may be less encumbered with such hangups,
but it's true for most in my neck of the woods to this day. The truth
exposed in BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN is heart-wrenching because it mirrors life
for millions of men in the heartland, who long to be free but never will,
of which I'm one.

Nevertheless, I'm a successful businessman. I travel a lot to conferences
and trade conventions, which involves long extended absences from my
family. I used to go alone.... that is, until Jim came along.

Excuse me; I'm getting ahead of myself.

Jim and I meet for the first scheduled appointment one spring day in
1997. He drives up in his beatup old blue pickup, parks in front of the
office, and through the window my eyes follow him. Yeah, that's him all
right, gorgeous from head to foot. Tight jeans, cowboy boots, pressed
shirt, ballcap, and a wide grin one can see a mile away. Jim is all man;
he has that masculine quality that speaks of confidence. Plus his
good-nature and sense of humor are enough to die for. Expert practical
jokester.

He carries no "vices" to speak of except mansex and nudism; of which he
only indulges in sex occasionally because of job-related time
constraints. Doesn't smoke, doesn't drink heavy 'cept beer once in a
while, no drugs, and no crooked business-dealings. Nudity is actually his
only "sin" practiced on a regular basis; he owns enough land where he can
take advantage of the "recreation" by stripping about any time he
pleases, weather permitting, at least if three of his brothers aren't
around. The other brother doesn't mind 'cause he has the same habit. Must
be something in the genes. (Or in the jeans.) LOL.

No one is at the office at the time, so I welcome him at the door, escort
him through the complex, then ask, "You mind if I greet you less
formally?"

Jim replies, "You mean like this?" He abruptly embraces me tightly and
draws me to his waist then deep kisses me on the lips. I respond in kind
by inserting my tongue in his mouth and finding his. I knew I had fallen
in love the summer before, but now it is confirmed. My heart is racing
and burning with that overpowering sensation called "love," not just
desire.

We don't go all the way that day but head to one of my favorite
restaurants. Jim isn't used to eating out a lot. Reason is -- he grows
most of his own food, gardens, and then cooks what he raises and butchers
-- not because he can't frequent restaurants or anything like that, but
just because that's the way he lives. He is a man of many means: builds
houses and barns, does electrical work and plumbing, carpentry, roofing,
mechanics, masonry, woodcutting, and of course, farming, the occupation
of choice. If others can only love their jobs as much as Jim does, this
world would be a helluva lot better.

So, it isn't just the looks that attract me. Although one quick glance
will jumpstart any guy's sagging libido.

We arrange some more "business" lunches afterward which result in happier
endings, if you get my drift. I schedule my staff for other engagements
to clear the calendar (and office), then invite Jim over for
"consultation." Next, I clear the desk -- which is to say, shove
everything off on the floor, then lay Jim's naked ass on top. His cowboy
boots, and clothes are strewn about, as are mine. It is reckless, the
riskier the better. Entering Jim on top my own mahogany desk is the
ultimate high; never felt so good. We do "lunch" several months. High
protein, low calorie.

It still isn't enough. My mind races into high gear, "How can I be with
this guy more? What are the chances?" I am married, a classic closet
case, still having to cover my tracks at every turn.

A lightbulb goes off in my head. "Conventions! That's how I'll do it."

Jim is keen to it also. He's never traveled much -- only to a few
neighboring states, and we're only 25 miles from Oklahoma, 40 from
Missouri. It ain't that he's just an ignorant hillbilly, 'cause he
tain't. It's just the way it is. So opportunity knocks.

My wife can't stomach trips, especially business ones, so this is ideal.

Our plans are for both Jim and I to buy separate but matching airline
tickets to destinations where I'm scheduled to attend conventions or
business conferences. After my wife drops me off at the airport, we meet
in the lobby behind security clearance and board the plane together.

Then we take off to Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Seattle, New York,
wherever.... for a week or more of business mixed with pleasure. I
faithfully execute my duties for the firm while Jim is out at the pool or
beach or workout center during day-hours. At night we are free, thank God
free at last. What a deal!

I search online for nude beaches, especially gay ones. After convention,
we are at liberty to visit destinations never imagined. In Vegas, we
arrange to stay several days at a gay resort not far from the Strip where
my convention is being held. My travel and lodging expenses are basically
covered, so we encumber minimal costs. Jim loves the plan as much as I.

His first flight is an experience. Nervous as a chilled Toy Chihuahua,
Jim is literally shaking in his boots. His mom warns him not to get on
that plane because it'd crash. She knows because a nightmare tells her
so. Other relatives scare him with similar. Our first flight is non-stop
to Los Angeles. Jim's brother drops him off at the airport, but when Jim
arrives at check-in, he discovers his billfold missing. Panic attack!

So Jim and Randall comb through the luggage and carry-on, find nothing.
Finally, Randall walks back to the pickup and finds Jim's billfold lodged
in the dashboard's groove. Jim is so apprehensive about flying, he can't
think straight. Secretly, it is fun to watch. Like seeing the Clampits
off to Beverly Hills.

Our plane leaves the ground and I securely slip my hand into his. Jim's
virgin flight has to be good or there won't be any others, I realize.
Holding his hand tightly, I feel love well up inside. Real love. I hold
back from telling him. It's more than a pleasure watching him observe the
land far below as we soar above the puffy clouds that resemble cotton
candy at carnivals. Because this is his first, and we share child-like
discovery.

Ironically, after taking Jim with me, I notice other conventioneers and
delegates whose spouses are conspicuously missing -- substituted by other
women OR men. Or they'd rent "company" on-site, if you know what I mean.
"Escort services," they discretely call them. Yeah, right. It is
startling to me nonetheless, to think our arrangement isn't unique.
'Cause it isn't. I'd just never looked around before at the
extracurricular going on right under my nose until I'm involved in the
same. Honest.

Los Angeles is an experience! Like boys away from home the first time, we
rush to see all the touristy places we could after meetings adjourn,
catch the Metro, his first subway experience, to Hollywood and get off to
stroll the star-embedded sidewalks. Then we head for West Hollywood to
cruise gay-friendly territory. Feels good seeing other guys hold hands in
public; never seen that back home. So, we join them in the pleasure,
walking hand-in-hand down the boulevard.

We enter a male strip club where guys dance nearly nude except for a
strategically placed G-string covering frontal property. I tuck a
ten-dollar tip in his crotch, another first. Jim laughs to tears. After
all, the dancer's got a great athletic build and movements to match. We
visit most of the clubs in W.H., then catch a cab to Santa Monica, the
beach and pier, Venice Beach with all the Bohemian artists and relics
from Hippiedom.

At dusk we dine at a seafood restaurant and watch as sun sets over the
Pacific and mountains near Malibu.

Strangers fall in love with Jim's accent, not to mention his great ass. I
get turned on by their frozen stares directed deliberately at Jim. He's
sort of my trophy. If he's extraordinarily attractive in Hollywood,
what's that tell me? I'm very pleased.

After convention, we spend four more days in Southern California.
Unscheduled days! We ride Amtrak south toward San Diego, except we
disembark at a little ocean town called Solana Beach and catch a bus down
to La Jolla. Destination? Black's Beach.

We study the maps I'd printed before the trip, and get off at the
intersection of Torrey Pines and La Jolla Farms Roads. We walk to Black
Gold Road, and down to the asphalt winding road that leads 300 feet down
sandstone bluffs to Black's Beach. The blue Pacific viewed from above is
breathtaking. It's a torturous hike downhill; imagine what it's like
uphill?

We walk another two or three miles to the nude area indicated by a big
warning sign. I take Jim's picture nude in front of it. Naturally, Jim
can't wait to take off his clothes. I can though. He tightly packs his
belongings in his backpack and we continue up to the gay section at the
far north end.

Guys are surfing nude while others just wade or wander up and down the
beach. It's a recreational cruise area. Some of them are there for sport;
others sex. Regardless, one has to be in good physical condition to even
get there.

Jim spreads huge beach towels out for us and sets up "camp." I disrobe,
making sure to cover myself with sunblock. Jim's already dark tanned from
his farm "excursions." On the other hand, I've been confined to the
office for months, white as a sheep.

Jim steps into the Pacific the second time; the first was at Santa Monica
and Venice a few days prior. Water is cold as hell in California, unlike
Florida or Texas. How can they stand it? I guess the beach makes up the
difference.

Some guys jog by, most of them are simply beautiful with their cocks and
balls dangling and the creases of the firm asses showing. Not too many
tan-lines. Or what some call cotton tails.

Jim notices guys climbing the low ridge behind us. "What's up there, I
wonder?" he asks.

Our curiosity gets the best of us, so we follow a young guy, about 20, up
the sandy trail. To our amazement, the area's dedicated to lovemaking or
fucking or whichever way one wants to describe it. What a setting! One
can view the Pacific while getting laid.

Jim is tempted; I can read it in his eyes (besides his growing uncut
apparandus). But I have a throbbing headache, dammit. I encourage him to
explore other channels -- meaning, hook up with the 20-year old who
happened to unknowingly lead us up there in the first place.

The 20-year old (Eric) gives Jim the eye. We know what that means. Jim
nods in agreement. No words are exchanged. The young man simply walks
over, grabs Jim's uncut beauty and starts kissing him right in front of
me. I guess being a partner doesn't mean anything in this neighborhood.
But I can tolerate it just to watch.

Soon Eric slips on a condom and mounts Jim. They roll on the sand and
laugh. Then Eric fucks his brains out, screwing Jim doggy-style right on
the bare ground. Fuck first; talk later. They make more "formal"
introductions afterward.

I notice other guys around in all sorts of entanglements, some in
three-somes, others four. Sucking, 69ing, ass-licking (or what do they
call it? Rimming?). Doesn't matter. They're all enjoying themselves and
the nature that made them. After passionate sessions, they slide down the
embankment to cool off in the ocean. Then after the break, they're ready
for more and climb the ridge.

By early afternoon, we're dying of thirst. Didn't bring a damn thing to
drink 'cause we didn't think about it -- just getting there was the only
thing on our minds. We wish someone would offer us a drink.

From the Torrey Pines State Park to the north, we notice a guy riding a
bicycle with a basket loaded with something. He arrives and stops to
offer us cold beers, five bucks each. Just in time. We buy 4 of them: Two
each for the preacher's boy and the guy who never drank an alcoholic
beverage his whole life. Virgin territory is broken this day more ways
than one. Jim's indulged before, but not on a regular basis. But I've
been abstinent. So here I was: drinking BEER NAKED on the beach while
guys fucked behind us. If Momma could see me now!

Jim continues to experiment and experience on the ridge above while I try
to sleep off the headache. He meets visitors from all over the world,
most of them great looking specimens. It's late afternoon by the time we
reluctantly pack up and leave. Because we realize it might be our last to
Black's Beach.

Riding Amtrak again, we arrive back exhausted at the Westin downtown L.A.
latenight. We collapse in each other's arms.

Our other memorable trips include Las Vegas, Seattle, Minneapolis, Miami
and New York. Short trips are made to Dallas, San Antonio, and a male
naturist campground in Missouri. We visit Hippie Hollow near Austin,
Sandy Hook in New Jersey, and Haulover Beach in Miami.

The trips to the Missouri resort are exhilarating, where having sex out
in the open is the norm. I fuck Jim for the first time in front of 100
other guys while he's laying on a picnic table. He reciprocates by
fucking me up the ass for the first time.

Each trip in itself is an adventure, and each secret rendezvous brings on
the apprehension that soon we'll get caught. But we take precautions.
Contingencies are made in case we do. I would either get an apartment or
move out to the farm. Jim wouldn't have much to lose because he's the
breadwinner which carries a lot of leverage. They probably couldn't
survive without him, and they recognize the fact, as does Jim.

But my love for him grows by the day. All these adventures add up to
delightful memories compelling us to do more together.

We sneak off to watch 'Brokeback Mountain' in winter when it first comes
out. The photography from Wyoming to Alberta is spectacular! Not to
mention the gorgeous lead actors. I can relate to the characters in a
most personal way. Then it dawns on me how many millions of other men
experience the same and 'improvise' much like I do with Jim. We must fill
the longing for one another, and it's common, not unique. At first I
weep, then laugh as I recognize how ignorant society and religion have
been all these thousands of years -- trying to dissuade natural
inclinations to promote procreation of the species -- as if nature needed
assistance.

There's a deep longing for other men within most, but we remain in denial
to protect status or image or some other artificial barricade. Dr. Kinsey
discovered this decades ago and during the process of research discovered
himself -- though happily married, had an undeniable desire for men. To
fill the gap, he made love with his young male research assistant, who
too was married, bi, and in-the-close for necessity's sake. Kinsey
accepted his orientation as is. Oh, that all would be so honest.

Jim and I continue as part-time partners. We don't try to hide it by
'pretend-fishing' like the Brokeback boys. But we camouflage our
relationship by conventions, business trips, and taking dips at the ol'
swimming hole where it all began. East Fork is our 'Brokeback Mountain,'
which we enshrine with terms of endearment. We are "The Travelers."

------------------------------------------------------------
NOTE: The above story is written as a true account, though slightly
modified to protect real-life characters. 5/14/06

If interested, write to MtWhiteRock@aol.com
Derek Hammil