The Black Pearl of Pharazion

This story is true. I swear it. The people in it are real. These springs really exist in the mountains somewhere north of Seattle…however, the cooperative that maintains them doesn’t want any extra publicity, so the exact location is going to have to stay a secret. He walked slowly up the mountainside bowed under the heavy pack on his back, sweat plastering his T-shirt tight against his straining flesh. The red-brown clay of the mountain, always damp here in the Pacific Northwest, stuck in clots to his hiking boots.

He paused to wipe the sweat off his sorehead. It seemed like forever to get to the springs, but then he was out of shape. Sitting at a desk all day in an advertising agency didn’t make for the hard, taut bodies of the magazine ads he sold. Neither was it, he admitted, attractive to the hard, taut bodies he was attracted to. Still, the weekly three nights at the gym were paying off; his wind and stamina had improved since last summer, better to make this mountain trip. Water began to appear at the side of the trail, cutting rivulets that oozed down like blood from a cut capillary. It was slightly warm, a warmth not accounted for by the summer air. He was passed by at least five younger and more energetic people than himself before he took the trail turnoff that led to the hot springs. Ten years ago the springs had been a collection of muddy patches on the moutainside, but the forming of the cooperative had changed all that. Over the years, those who knew of this place had dragged up timber and pipes, and with the work of picks and shovels, hammers and saws–all hand-operated, no electricity up here–they built a series of terraces in the mountainside with wide, plastic-lined pools to catch the steaming water. Tarps shielded the pools from the rain, and benches lined the ouside of the terraces. No changing rooms, however.

It was customary to go nude here, though not required. He noted the regulars: the cute Japanese girl and her blonde boyfriend, the quiet security guard who worked at the Bremerton shipyards, the air freight pilot who flew out of Las Vegas. The hottest pool, affectionately called “The Lobster Pot” was empty but for the Naked Groumet and his cooking utensils. He was frying something over a portable propane stove set at the side of the pool, standing waist deep in the steaming water. His skinny Puerto Rican frame looked like a wiry, gnarled root, each knob of his spine standing out like a dinosaur’s; thin, but in terrific shape from lugging his utensils up and down all the time. Crowbar was the unofficial bouncer, welcoming committee, and administrator. He spelled the Naked Gourmet at the stove as the latter took off to find a roll of paper towels. His paunch jiggled as he maneuvered in the water, a jolly Santa Claus bounce. “Hey, Steve, haven’t seen you up here in a while.” “Been busy at the office.” He took off his pack and then his clothes, folding them neatly to stow inside. No one paid much attention to him. He was slightly tan, slightly fit, but still clearly middle-aged; no one special. The population of the springs was mostly male. Women came either with a husband or boyfriend or with a group of mixed sexes. He didn’t mind, because women didn’t interest him that much. “What are you cooking today?” “Potato chips,” Crowbar chuckled. “Greasy as hell, too, real fat pills. There’ll be plenty to go around today. I think most of the regular folks stayed in Seattle.” “Pissy weather,” he said. It was clear this far up in the mountains, though it had been raining in down south when he’d left. “Baby!” Crowbar spread his arms, looking like Poseidon rising from the sea, as his daughter Prybar thumped onto the deck. She squatted by the side of the pool to give him a hug, shrugging off her backpack. “She’s taking a year off from college, you know,” he beamed. “Going down to party in Guatemala.” “It’s a volunteer rainforest conservation project, Dad.” “Whatever.” She made a face but stripped off her clothes as casually as Dad had. She was all wholesome enthusiasm despite the ring in her navel and the Celtic tatoo around it…tall and slim, but still glisteningly ripe. She had a tattoo around the thickest part of her shin, too, a banded design like the top of a kneesock, and her bush was trimmed back to a neat line. He was glad she’d arrived, because it caused a stir among the younger men in their teens and twenties. The rhythm of passing beers and smoking cigarettes did not stop, but quietly, unobtrusively, their dicks got hard, bobbing on top of the steaming water like buoys at harborside. It wasn’t considered bad etiquette to have a hard-on at the pool, but it was not something that went without comment, either. The older men remained supremely unaroused, their dicks, both cut and uncut, almost regal beneath the overhanging shelves of their bellies, wreathed in nests of thick, soggy hair. The shriveled cocks had an odd dignity, like ancient warriors whose active duty was over, yet still posessed of years of experience. But it was the middle aged men, the family ones, who had the most interesting reactions of all. They tried to act self-effacedly fraternal towards the girl, yet there was an extra intensity there, a show of trying very hard to be nonchalent that was revealed as a show by hard they were trying. Their cocks, though unerect, seemed on the verge of inflating; a tension existed there that was amusing to watch. He rinsed off his feet and settled himself into the third-tier pool, the water enveloping him like a womb. The innocent show was definately arousing, though he was not on the brink of erection just yet. If he did become hard, he could he could blame on relaxation and the temperature of the water like most of the other men did. He flipped over on his stomach just in case, accepting a friendly Red Hook pale ale from the UPS pilot. He couldn’t help smiling at the gesture, in the cool way a former lover told him was like “liquid ice on hot chrome.” The young man would be very surprised if he knew another man was imagining his lips wrapped around a cock instead of the mouth of a beer bottle. He lay there for a while, letting himself dream, soaking away the petty tensions of a week in the business world. The pilot had a rough trade charm about him, almost from the boonies, and there was an exquisite pale boy in the pool below, half-Japanese he thought, with the warm dark eyes of a gazelle. Just the barest fuzz on his shaved scalp, a dusting of velvet nap on ivory. He made small talk about the weather, the stadium issue, Paul Allen’s latest business deal. Crowbar passed around with the freshly fried chips. Some hikers arrived and others left, pulling on their soggy clothes on the terrace below. He glanced up as another fresh group arrived, picking their way down the narrow steps that led to the terraces. Some older men, two women in their thirties. A young woman in her twenties perhaps, leading a four-year-old child by the hand. Behind her, oh my god, a living god. THe spitting image of Dart Bishop, the porn star of the late eighties. Buff, fit, cut. A patrician face, young enough to be vulnerable but old enough to speak of experience, an aquiline nose, blonde hair in a ponytail that reached to mid-pack. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, with the clunky oversized hilikng boots like an R. Crukb cartoon character would wear.. Tan and healthy, or as tan as he could be here in the Northwest. He started to drool he couldn’t help. Was he alone? Who did he come with?

He stepped further down the terace, a figure descending out of a dream, a blank yet fixed expression on his face he threaded the rocks. He bent over to keep his balance, coming closer to the bottom terrace, revealing the nature of the pack on his back. A baby. SOlemn, pudgy, with the immense dignity only healthy babies could have. A father. ANd turned back to ask him something, the woman holding the toddler’s hand, the gleam of a wedding ring visible through the pudgy little fingers. God Damn it! But he couldn’t take his eyes off the couple as they staked a spot for themselves on the terrace, putting their packs and children in order. THe woman was about 28, he guessed, but young looking for her age; her breats were small and drooped only slightly after two children. She was slim, but her belly had a healthy roundness; she wore her long brown hair in several loose braids. Her clothing was all of cotton in muted colors, not expensive, loose in the modern day back-to-nature mode, and she wor several strands of beads. She took off her clothes while her husband minded the children–like an alpha male od a gorilla band watching out for the youngsters–and then undressed the four-year-old and gave him a small plastic pail and bucket to play with. THe baby came next. But he wasn’t paying attention to the baby. He only watched, meserized, as the man pulled off his boots, his shirt, his shorts. He carefully pulled down his briefs, stepping carefully to not let them touvh the wet deck. He was built, alright, a perfect “V” shape from behind, broad choulders narrowing down to a trim waist, hard as a board he guessed. His muscles rippled as picked the briefs up and stowed them in his pack. More delightful yet, he was three toned…an ass as creamy as grade A butter, bronze above waist, and a slightly lighter bronze, almost gold, on his legs, which were fuzzed with fine, pale hair. Scandinacian, he thought; he had that up-and-down spareness, the clean lines without bulges insdicate of the finest Sweidish moderne design. THe buttocks were perfectly molded, looking hard tense even though he was relaxed, with a slight indentation, a dimmple, above that mouth-watered crack, and another perfect scoop of indented muscles at the sides, below his hips. He turned around His long blonde hair rippled back like a god, the Norse god Thor. He felt like a voyeur, watching all this, but he couldn’t help it. Besides, no one saw or noticed what he was doing. He could have been staring out over the valley at the clouds as far as they knew. He turned around and oh my god, the hammer of gods, open and vulnerable to his inspection. He was cut, but the cock was a healthy size, maybe a bit oversized, as clean and architectural as the other lines of his body, straight and burving neither to the left of right, with a healthy set of balls dangling beneath it. Nobs, they called them in Scandinacia. THe whole was a nice mauve color, a lilac-mauve-pink color or healthy blonde flesh, moving slightly when he walked, a Viking raider, a Norseman, an explorer of the northern seas. Unself-conscious, he padded toward the third-tier pool. He would have to pick this one, he would….he held his breath as the man stepped in, again ignorant he was being watched. “Excuse me,” he murmured, and the others moved aside to give him room. He caught a whiff of sweat and maleness, felt the momentary heat of a passing body. THe man settled himself in against the edge closest to the deck, scooping palmfuls of water over his chest and arms, his magnificent chest, his face. Soggy strands of hair escaped from the ponytail and plastered themselves to his face. Life was unfair. Life was so unfair. Why did a man who looked like that have to be so…straight? Wifey came up, nude but inconsequential, baby on her hip, the toddler following beating out a tattoo on his plastic pail. “Thor surrended his watch to her, exposing a pale band on his left wrist. Wifey dipped her legs in the pool, keeping an eye on the toddler who was splashing in the next poool over. She handed the baby to her husband. Carefully, as if in a ritual, he held the baby in both hands, supporting it by the neck and back, and lowered it into the pool. “Well look at that!” “I’ve never seen such a thing.” Chirtling, laughing, the baby splashed, its somber mien gone, THe chubby legs and arms jerked. “He’s a water babym” Thor volunteered, a smile on his face. “He was LaMaze all the way, and they dipped him in tub of warm water before they cut the cord.” Water baby. He knew who they were know; the new back-to- earthers, the small but growing community who lived in harmony with the earth, probably vegans, too. They probably lived on a farm and sold free-range chickneshift as fertilizer, weaving ponchos out of malamute hair. What a waste. What a waste. They were talking, but he wasn’t really listening. They did live on a farm; they were into brewing their wine and making cheese from a nearby dairy farm. Thor placed the baby on his stomach and he started to swim, a coordinated doggy paddle. “He’s been in water since birth,” they said. “Every weekend. It just comes natural to him. It reminds them of when they’re in the womb.” Back to the womb, back to the egg, before it was kissed by the sperm. He started to sqirm. He hadn’t had sex since the spring; his life lately had been lovers that turned tinto friends, friends that became baleful injured parties with no explanation, chemistry that soured or never ignited. Being at the pools today, seeing all this flesh..well, he han’t felt this exposed and this horny and tried so hard to control, since his college athletic days, when it had been so painful a few times he’d actually had to run out and whack off in the bushes. A halthy, libido, but also a unhealthy level of frustration. EVen the baby seemed to taunt him, his baby- whiz half-erect like a leering putti on an Italian Renaissance fountain. KNowing pursed lips, cellulite heavy flesh, all those pink, plump cellulite-ridden asses floating up to heaven. He had to get out of here. He HAD to. He murmured excuse-mes to the other soaking bodies and stumbled to where he’d left his towel. Had anyone seen him, saw what made him crouch? He wrapped the towel around his waist– lossely, so its folds could conceal the iron-hard instrument beneath–and began to decisively walk up the stairs to the area at the top of the springs. THe forest was pretty thick around there; he could find a private spot if he wanted. It was embarassing having to do this, but it was undeniably healthy, undeniably youthful, so his feelings were an oddd mix of furtiveness, pleasure, and censure. He couldn’t helkp the censure. God only knew he wasn’t as self-assuredly confidant, as happy with his sexuality as the younger faggots were. They’d grown up with a measure of acceptance; he hadn’t. So he stumbled up the stairs, nodding only curtly in response to Crowbats’ “Hey, leaving already?” and reached the trail. Now where to go? It had to be distant; he was going to do himself good, a long, hard, extremely satisfying hand job, and the place had to be just right. He kept an image in his mind of Thor as he searched. He felt light and daring, almost like he was 19 again, under spell of the dark glamor, the forbidden yet delicious spell of his own sexualit.y He kept that image in his mind, as hje kept himself hard with loving trokes underneath his towel, until he found the spot. Behind a stump, hidden from the trail by a sharp overhang, but overlooking the valley below, with the view screened by some trees. He could masturbate all he wanted, with none the wiser. It wasn’t as hard to get to as it looked. He reached the spot and parked his back against the tree. He slipped his hand under the towel and started to rub. A lifetime of jerkoffs had made him develop the perfect technique ffor him. To his surprise he responded quite quickly; it must have been the mixture of relaxation and then tension. He rubbed hi shaft up and down, his hand in a fist described as losslely tight, his left hand encircling the head of his cock, storking delicately. He grew larger by the second. My god. He didn’t know it was going to be this good. Was it going to get better? A few more…and…oh! that was it. He felt the sensation of a fishing reel drawn right in his testicles, building up the release of tension. He felt his veins throb all the way down the shaft, aching as they hadn’t since he was in his twenties. This one was going to be really good. He increased his rate of stroking, hands pumping up and down, the sight making him get even harder, even though in his head he was still seeing Thor, long blonde hair unbouind, as he knelt to take his cock and balls completely in his mouth, his nose rubbing against his puiblic hair, with a suck like a Hoover on steroids, the muscles of his back rippling as his head loved, like a liquid bronze melting in a forge. A small noise made him turn around. He opened his eyes and turned around. A pair of eyes peered at him out of the brush about 40 inches off the ground. Stared briefly, the branches swished into the place where they were. “Daddy!” WHat the hell…? The mood was broken. He could no longer remain hidden now. Oh no, what if the kid thought he was some pervert hiding in the bushes? THere’d been entirely too much on the news the past few years about child molesters lately. His ass could be in a slig. THe mood was gone, but his cock was still half hard, aching in frustrated dissapointmnt, trying vainly to regain its former height. He had to come out, to announce himself to the paretns. He readjusted his towel and burst out of the brush to make an explanation. Thor stood in the path, naked but for a pair of river rafting sandels and a roll of toilet paper. Taking the kid to the potty. Magnificently in spite of the mandaneness, or perhaps because of it. “THere he is Daddy. That man had his thingy in his hand.” He tried to grin sheepishly, feeling his hard-won erection deflate. “Sorry,” Thor murmured. “Kids.” He took up the boy’;s hand. “He was just trying to find a place to go potty, Trevor. Just like you.” “No Daddy. He was making noises.” Oh god. He could have shriveled and become a clot of mus in the muddy mountain trails. He felt a mosquito nip his ass. Thor rolled his eyes, apparantly as embarassed as he was. Well, not quite discomfited enough for embarassment. He and wifey pribably shared all the houseold farm chorse; he must be used to kidshit by now. “Come on Trevor. Let’s leave him alone. Sorry ‘about this.” He brushed past him on the path with the lingering aroma of calm male aroma, not aroused, not violent, not tired. Just male, a musty odor like stale perfume, trailing disappointment in its wake.