Swing for the Fences

I didn’t think a human soul could feel betrayed by a wake-up call. But when Christian banged on our door at 4:45 a.m. with the enthusiasm of a postal worker on six espresso shots, mine just packed a tiny suitcase and left.

 

“I swear to God,” I mumbled into the pillow, “if this is a fishing trip, I’m throwing myself into the lake.”

 

It was a fishing trip.

 

By 5:30, we were shuffling the marina like zombies in Lions hoodies, clinging to scalding gas-station coffee and muttering threats aimed squarely at Christian. The water was sheet-glass. The air smelled like bait, diesel, and questionable life choices.

 

And then we saw the boat.

 

Just the Tip Charters. Painted down the side in weathered letters, complete with a winking, blushy trout sprinkled in actual glitter. A big rainbow flag snapped off the stern like it had somewhere fabulous to be.

 

Waiting on the dock: a man who looked like a one-person nautical parade float and a very handsome younger guy, I assumed was first mate.

 

That captain was a whole … situation. Massive. Hairy in all the wrong places. Wearing flip-flops, unbuttoned overalls, and a threadbare tank top that read “HOOKED ON BOYS” in glitter. His beard looked like steel wool someone had tried to dye with cigarette ash, and it was covered with bits of what was probably last week’s lunch. And he didn’t smell, well, quite … pleasant.  Like a combination of B.O. and worse B.O.

 

“Good morning, my delicious little fillets!” he called out, his voice unusually high-pitched and effeminate for someone of his large size and … bearing. “Who’s ready to wrestle some slippery beasts and maybe unlock some unresolved feelings?!”

 

Jonah clutched his chest dramatically. “I think I just found my spirit animal.”

 

Captain Stinky sauntered toward him with open arms. “Come here, you little seagull. Let me smell you.”

 

Jonah launched himself into the embrace without hesitation.

 

Jack leaned toward me. “Is this… safe?”

 

I couldn’t even respond. I was too busy trying to decide whether we had entered a cartoon or a very specific adult-themed improv show.

 

“I’m Captain Stinky,” he announced, holding Jonah’s tiny hand in his massive meat hook. “I’ll be your guide, your mentor, and possibly your gay uncle for the day. You touch my rods wrong, I will spank you. And not in the fun way.”

 

I blinked. “Is there a fun way?”

 

Captain Stinky winked at me. “You’d be surprised, cupcake.”

 

Jack made a soft whimpering sound and squeezed my hand.

 

The captain clapped once, huge hands like paddles. “Like I said, the name’s Captain Stinky. Long story, short timeline. I’ll be your guide, your mentor, and – spiritually – your weird boat uncle. Touch the rods wrong and you’re on chum duty. Questions?”

 

I blinked. “What… counts as wrong?”

 

“Anything that makes me sigh like a disappointed aunt and want to give you a spanking,” he said. “This is Reid – first mate, fish whisperer, moral compass.” He gestured to the younger guy, who gave us a sweet, sleepy smile that woke up several of my feelings. “Say hi, Reid.”

 

“Hi,” Reid said, in a voice that could convince a trout to come ashore and file paperwork.

 

Safety briefing time. Stinky pointed like a flight attendant who’d seen some things. “Life jackets under that bench. Throw ring there. Do not sit on the livewell unless you want a you’re into butt shocks. I have one life vest in leopard print, and that one’s mine. No one falls overboard unless it’s for drama. And absolutely no bananas on my boat.”

 

Jonah froze, halfway unwrapping a banana muffin. “Hypothetical question.”

 

“No,” Stinky said, already offended on behalf of the lake.

 

Jonah panic-stuffed the muffin back into its wrapper like it was contraband and performed a hasty “de-bananification” ritual over the dock. Reid quietly handed him a granola bar. Crisis averted; gods appeased. And an extra point for Reid.

 

We pushed off. The sun did that polite blush across the horizon, laying pink and gold on the water. The hull hummed; gulls edited our life choices from the railing. Stinky narrated like the showrunner of our morning: “That’s the drop-off, seventy feet – kings like it there. Thermocline’s down – she’s moody, she’s complicated, we respect her boundaries.”

 

Christian and Reid moved like they’d rehearsed this: lines, planer boards, sonar check. Jonah fidgeted with his hoodie strings like he was trying to invent cat’s cradle for anxious teens.

 

Jonah? He was in full form.

 

“So, Stinky – can I call you Stinky?”

 

“You can call me anything but late to a glitter party!”

 

“Cool, cool. What’s the most phallic fish you’ve ever caught?”

 

Captain Stinky didn’t miss a beat. “Lake trout. Long, thick, and likes it deep. Same as my ex, Lenny.”

 

Jonah howled. “I need to meet Lenny!”

 

“Oh, you’d love him. He once got banned from a Red Lobster in Livonia for trying to pole dance with a lobster tank.”

 

Jack and I traded a look.

 

“Do you think we’re going to die?” he murmured.

 

“Either that,” I said, “or we develop trauma-based humor.”

 

“Too late,” he said.

 

Our first attempts were a blooper reel. Jack’s maiden cast pinged off the side panel with a bright, traitorous ting. I tripped over the cooler trying to reel, performed an interpretive dance, and somehow elbow-bumped the horn. It honked like a wounded goose, and two gulls left the state.

 

“You’ve never fished before?” Captain Stinky asked.

 

“Nope, not really,” I admitted, hoping to be able to restore some of my dignity, bring pride to the Kincaid family name.

 

“Bless your virgin rods,” he muttered. “We’re gonna pop that fishin’ cherry if it kills me.”

 

“Okay,” Reid said kindly, walking me through grip and angle. “Rod tip up. Let the drag work. Short pumps, steady retrieve. Like you’re… zipping a stubborn hoodie.”

 

“Not like you’re starting a lawn mower,” Stinky added. “Ask me how I know.”

 

Christian’s rod bowed first. He set the hook, calm as a math teacher, and worked a king salmon in like he’d been born holding a net. Stinky whooped, blew an air horn that produced a sound somewhere between a kazoo and a foghorn, and yelled, “CLAIM YOUR JOY, STUD MUFFIN!”

 

Then my turn. My line went from “vibe” to “problem” in half a heartbeat. The rod loaded up like it owed me money; the reel screamed; my brain forgot legs. “Uh. Uh!”

 

“You’re on!” Reid grinned, positioning me like a human crane. “Breathe. Elbows low. You’ve got it.” Reid’s frequent touches were now causing me to have another problem. Damn hormones!

 

I reeled like a man trying to un-invent clocks. Stinky provided color commentary: “Yes. Give me core. Work that tension. Believe in your little spools, although they might not be that little!”

 

“Please stop,” I begged, laughing and sweating.

 

The fish broke the surface – chrome and green, a flash of steelhead – and decided it could fly now. It tail-walked; I gasped; Jonah saluted it. “SIR.”

 

“Keep its head coming,” Reid coached, net already reaching. One more run and he scooped it clean. Fish in net. Me in shock.

 

I yelled something wordless and pure. My hands shook. It felt like climbing a mountain someone hid under water.

 

Jack’s bobber dipped next. He set, missed, breathed, reset, and then found the rhythm. Coho salmon—sleek, bright, flopping exactly once onto his shoe in an act of protest we respected. He beamed at me over his shoulder, sun behind him, and it landed like a Polaroid I wanted to keep forever.

 

Jonah, for his part, kissed a brown trout on the forehead and declared, “Your name is Brenda. I honor your journey.” The gulls applauded by screaming.

 

“Atta boy,” Stinky said. “My little barnacle menace. And did you know that barnacles’ penises are up to eight times their body length? It’s the largest penis-to-body ratio in the whole animal kingdom!”

 

Jonah looked both fascinated and wildly impressed.

 

By mid-morning, the cooler clicked shut with a satisfied sound. Kings, lake trout, steelhead, Jonah’s beloved Brenda. My arms buzzed. Jack’s cheeks had that wind-pinked look that made him seem both older and more like himself at the same time.

 

Stinky steered us toward a shack on the beach that advertised itself with a single sun-blasted cardboard sign: EATS. The door squeaked like a plot, a bell dinged like a confession, and a woman in an apron looked up from a flat-top with the calm of someone who could bench-press a marlin.

 

“You catch it, we cook it,” she said. “Sides are fries, coleslaw, fries, or fries.”

 

We did not argue.

 

Grilled salmon with lemon butter that could heal old wounds. Fried lake trout with hush puppies that should be illegal in several jurisdictions. Smoked steelhead that tasted like the forest remembered us kindly. Blackened brown trout that made Jonah whisper, “Brenda would want this,” and we all agreed because it was the only respectful thing to do. Three kinds of tartar sauce – classic, dill, and “spicy mystery” – plus a coleslaw that slapped harder than it should have. We ate like sunburnt demigods who had recently negotiated with the sea.

 

Back at the lodge that night, we showered off fish facts and glitter SPF, wriggled into the Lions PJs, and reconvened at the fire pit. The sky did the big-blue-to-ink gradient; the fire turned wood into gold; the lake breathed like it had us on a metronome.

 

Christian produced a new block of fudge from a bag like a magician. “Dark chocolate mint,” he said.

 

I took a bite and saw a future where I’d make terrible choices for more of it.

 

Jonah lay across the bench swing with his arm thrown over his face. “Tell Brenda I loved her,” he said weakly. “Tell Brenda I will name my firstborn after her.”

 

“First dog,” Christian said.

 

“Fine. First dog,” Jonah amended. “Brenda Donahue.”

 

We laughed until there wasn’t any of the day left to argue with. Captain Stinky was long gone, but his chaos hung in the air like glitter and smoked fish – hard to sweep up, easy to find in your shoes later. A class act, in his own weird way. A legend we’d tell again and again, louder every time.

 

 

 

Back in our cabin, Jack and I finally had our moment for “play time.” Even though my body was physically spent, we both needed it, especially now, especially here.

 

We lit a candle in the bathroom and filled the jacuzzi tub. We took our time, slowly removing each other’s clothes. The bubbles rose as we slid in together, facing each other, knees touching under the surface. The lights were low, the room warm, and the air humming with sexual tension.

 

Moving gently, Jack reached forward and touched my face, his thumbs brushing my flushed cheeks. I leaned in and kissed him – slowly, deeply. His hands moved across my chest, slick with warm water. My fingers found his hips, pulling him closer until our bodies were flush, skin on skin, hardness to hardness, heartbeat to heartbeat.

 

“I never thought it was possible to feel so close to someone,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

 

There were so many things I wanted to say, but my brain couldn’t put the words together. All I could do was tremble as I felt his touch, filled with desire and anticipation.

 

“Jack, tell me,” I moaned. “Please, tell me.”

 

He knew exactly what I wanted to hear. “I love you, Nicky. I love you so much, and I’m yours. Every part of me is yours to take, whenever you want.”

 

His lips found my neck, and I gasped. We kissed and touched and whispered things that felt too sacred to say aloud in daylight. Every inch of skin felt electric.

 

There was no urgency in our exploration. Our bodies already knew each other so well. And our expression of love was wrapped in steam and soft laughter.

 

When the water started to cool, we dried off slowly, still kissing between towel folds and shared glances.

 

We climbed into bed, wrapped in each other and the scent of lake air and something more. We made love until the soft pink, orange, and yellow colors of the morning sky began to break through.

 

And then, both of us, satiated at least three times that night, slept like we didn’t have anything left to prove.

 

***

 

Our Traverse City run was winding down. We bumped our checkout a day early – half to dodge the Saturday minivan migration, half because we were the good kind of exhausted. Happy-tired. The kind that settles into your bones like a long hug from summer. And we missed home. School would snap back like a rubber band any minute, and who knew when we’d get another stretch of real home time. The flip side was rough: Jack and I were already missing Christian and Jonah while they were still in the room – meaningful hugs, shared socks, shared jokes, shared tears, shared 5 a.m. misery stitched together by a lake and a hundred little moments I didn’t want to give back. Over the summer, good friends became best friends – and then brothers. Except I still  kind of had a little crush on one of my new “brothers” – Christian – which made it a little creepy.

 

But we had one more whole day, one more night, and one significant Michigan check box none of us were willing to skip: Sleeping Bear Dunes.

 

It’s not some random sandpit. It’s this vast, ridiculous landscape of mountain-sized dunes built by wind and an ice age, and the most dramatic stretch of coast on Lake Michigan. The place is equal parts postcard and punishment.

 

We were up stupid-early again, running entirely on iced lattes and bad decisions. Breakfast was a McDonald’s drive-thru raid: sausage biscuits with egg, steak-egg-and-cheese bagels, a field of hash browns, and caffeine in plastic cups sweating like they had stage fright. Say what you want about fast food -- it’s the fuel of champions and emotionally unwell teenagers.

 

The 28-mile drive out felt like a nature documentary with worse narration (ours). Tall sugar maples and beech groves flashed by in green corridors; low valleys still held pockets of morning mist; a doe did the classic Michigan “I might dart across, or I might judge you, choose wisely” stare; and off to the west the lake kept winking blue through the trees like it knew a secret we were about to learn the hard way.

 

By the time we rolled into the park, the sun had warmed up, and so had we. Translation: we were already sweating.

 

From the lot, you could see them – ants on a sand-colored planet. Families, trail-runners, tiny kids with rubber bones and no fear, all inching up the first dune and then vanishing over a false summit into the sky. The slope looked… vertical. Like someone paused an avalanche and said, “Climb that for fun. I dare you.”

 

We stared. Awe with a thin frosting of dread.

 

Jonah broke first. “So, to clarify… the recreational activity is up?”

 

Christian clapped. “Let’s go!”

 

Did I mention that it was really hot? Like, basically, the hottest part of the summer in Michigan.

 

I’d love to say we crushed it. We did not crush it.

 

The sand had the exact consistency of ground-up misery. Every step forward seemed to slide half a step back. Wind flicked grit into our faces, our hair, and – somehow – my soul. I tasted silica and regret.

 

Christian bounded upward like a golden retriever who’d read about triathlons. He hit the first crest, did that irritating “hands on hips, admire the horizon” thing, and waved like a flight attendant: this way to oxygen.

 

Jonah started strong and then, halfway up, turned into a Victorian child fainting on a chaise. He dropped to his knees, dug his hands dramatically into the slope, and announced to the general public, “Tell Brenda the Trout and Captain Stinky I perished with dignity!”

 

I didn’t think so. Pain pinched his face and his eyes were doing that glassy pre-tear thing. I crouched without thinking. “Hop on.”

 

He squealed and scrambled up, scrawny legs cinching my waist like a determined koala. “My hero! My tall, sweaty, absolutely gorgeous hero!”

 

I felt heroic for about six steps – then gravity filed a complaint. When did Jonah get so heavy? Somewhere this year, he’d quietly upgraded from featherweight gremlin to carry-on with opinions. Growth spurt. Of course. We’ve spent so much time together that I missed it happening in real time. Ugh!!!

 

Behind us, Jack was wheezing. “I’m not built for this,” he panted. “I’m an indoor cat. My natural habitat is couches. This is a hate crime.”

 

“Breathe,” I said, already dying. “Pick a point. Slow steps.”

 

Jonah, who was now at the perfect height to heckle, tapped my shoulder like a tiny coach. “Aww, poor baby. Can’t handle a little exfoliation in your underwear?”

 

“I have sand everywhere,” Jack gasped. “If I cough, I’ll form a whole new dune.”

 

“Facts,” Jonah said, patting my sweaty shoulder as if he’d done anything. “This proves I’m more manly than you.”

 

“You’re being carried like a sack of very opinionated potatoes,” Jack shot back.

 

“I’m a princess,” Jonah sniffed. “You’re just mad you’re winded and I’m still adorable.”

 

Jack squinted up at me. “Nick, drop him.”

 

“I will scream,” Jonah warned. “Also, I am surprisingly heavy with charisma.”

 

I didn’t drop him, but I did set him down long enough to peel off my already-soaked T-shirt. Jonah looked me over like the dessert cart at an upscale buffet – eyes huge, decisions being made – and did tiny grabby hands for emphasis.

 

“You’re like a space heater that runs on drama,” I told him.

 

“Drama is a lifestyle,” he said, laying his chin on my shoulder and humming the “Rocky” theme off-key.

 

Jonah peeled off his T-shirt too – ostensibly for ventilation, transparently to maximize skin-to-skin cling when he launched back onto my back. Fine. If the options were dignity or not dying on a dune, I was choosing “not dying” every time. Summit first, scandal later.

 

Jack caught up while I parked Jonah to wring out my own shirt. He stripped his T-shirt as well and joined the Sweaty Boy Brigade. The view was, objectively, museum-quality –  freckles, shoulder lines, the whole exhibit – but he couldn’t quite hold the pace I’d locked into (allegedly I’m an athlete; tennis players are supposed to have lungs and strong legs), so ogling gave way to oxygen management. Sand squeaked underfoot, sweat turned us into human slip-’n-slides, and my priorities narrowed to three items: step, breathe, don’t face-plant.

 

False summit #1 broke our hearts. We crested what we thought was The Top… and discovered an identical slope, same angle, further up. The view increased by approximately three shrubs and one irritated chipmunk. Somewhere behind us, a four-year-old in Crocs chipmunk-scurried past with a shovel and a juice pouch. I didn’t take it personally, except I did.

 

A ranger trudged by with a friendly doom tone: “Remember, if you go all the way down to the big lake, coming back up can take three to four hours. Hydrate, rest, no hero moves. The lake will be here tomorrow.”

 

We nodded, like people who were absolutely not considering the forbidden descent. (We were absolutely considering it, loudly, inside our heads.)

 

We resumed. I set a pace: four slow steps, pause, tiny inhale. The sun slid higher. The sand squeaked under our shoes the way dry snow does – Michigan’s little party trick.

 

Beach grass – those wiry tufts – held the slope in place like stitches. Here and there, a stubborn cottonwood clung to the dune and rattled its leaves like tiny coins. The wind smelled like hot quartz and cold water at the same time. It’s a very specific scent; you know it when you breathe it.

 

Halfway up false summit #2, Christian jogged back down to us (rude), took Jonah off my back like a sack of flour, slung him over his shoulder fireman-style while Jonah narrated his own rescue (“I am being carried to glory!”), and then trotted ahead again. People clapped. I hated and loved him equally.

 

Jack caught up to me and pressed his forehead to my shoulder for a second. “This is terrible,” he said.

 

“I know,” I said.

 

“I’m happy,” he added, almost surprised.

 

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

 

False summit #3 asked for references and a cover letter. But then, the slope softened.

 

The wind freshened. The horizon did a quiet trick.

 

We stepped up, and the world fell away.

 

It was… stupidly beautiful. A whole ocean’s worth of blue with no salt stretched to a clean line that could’ve been the edge of the map. Lake Michigan shifted in bands – near-shore turquoise where the sandbars slept, then a deeper teal, then that offshore cobalt where the water gets serious. White seam of a freighter way out in the Manitou Passage. To the north, the hump of an island – South Manitou – ghosting up from the haze. The dunes behind us unrolled in ripples and bowls and long, blown-out slopes, stitched with beach grass and the occasional dark green patch of jack pine and scrub oak. Everything hummed – wind, insects, the low shoosh of the lake hitting the bar below, like the planet had switched on surround sound.

 

We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Not because there weren’t jokes to make, but because anything would have been smaller than the view. Not to mention, we were still breathless from the climb.

 

The wind flattened our shirts against our ribs and salted our lips with sand. I felt both tiny and exactly the right size.

 

Christian pointed out a sign way down the line at an overlook – bright red letters warning about the steep bluff to the lake and the please-don’t-make-us-rescue-you fee. “We’re not doing that,” he said quickly, catching Jonah’s eye.

 

“I would never,” Jonah said, absolutely lying.

 

We wandered the crest like out-of-breath kings. There were tracks everywhere: deer, squirrel, kid-in-Crocs, sprinting-dad-who-regrets-it. A small roped-off square marked a “piping plover nest,” complete with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles-level “DO NOT DISTURB” sign. We gave it an appropriately reverent berth because even we know where jokes stop.

 

A gust came through hard and erased half our footprints in one swipe. I watched it and thought, Okay. This place forgets things on purpose. It makes room.

 

We took a hundred photos that didn’t capture any of it. Jack tucked under my arm and leaned his head against me for one. Christian set his phone on a hat and sprinted into the frame for a self-timer group shot, which caught Jonah mid-leap doing what I think was a cartwheel or possibly a controlled fall. It looked like joy even in pixels.

 

The descent was… physics with a sense of humor. We started carefully, heel-first, and then the slope said, “Nope,” and turned us into cartoon characters: Half-walk, half-ski, occasional majestic butt-slide. Sand avalanched in little rivers around our ankles. Jonah latched onto me koala-style again, shrieking every time we accelerated. Jack yelped every third step and threatened to sue the State of Michigan, the Department of the Interior, and sand as a concept. Christian jogged down in that annoyingly efficient way, like gravity worked for him.

 

At the bottom, we looked like we’d been breaded for frying. We shook ourselves off and produced enough grit to start a small artisanal glassblowing studio.

 

A short walk through shade later – beech, maple, a cluster of white-trunked aspens whispering gossip – we landed at a whitewashed old restaurant tucked among the trees, the kind of place that looks hand-scrubbed into existence. We were sandy, sweaty, possibly feral, and absolutely proud of ourselves.

 

Over lunch, we recapped our heroism.

 

“I carried your entire dramatics club up a mountain of hot sand,” I told Jonah.

 

“And I shall sing songs of your glory,” he said, toasting me with a Sprite.

 

I ordered whitefish chowder and a skillet mac and cheese that tasted like a team of pioneer grandmothers had blessed it with elbow grease and dairy. The others went for burgers/fries and performed disappearing acts on their plates like they hadn’t already eaten breakfast for four.

 

Afterward, we detoured to a nearby beach. “Privacy curtain, activate!” Christian declared, and we formed a towel wall so we could swap into swimsuits without traumatizing a busload of fourth graders. Jonah hummed stripper music; Christian told him to hum “Yankee Doodle” instead; somehow, he blended both, and it was worse.

 

I did manage, though, for the first time ever, to sneak a glance at Christian Peen® through a crack in the wall of towels, and all I can say is, it was … GLORIOUS. It seemed that he preferred the ‘au natural’ look and had a healthy bush of pubes; he was uncircumcised, a “shower” and not a “grower” … and what he was “showing” was enormous. I felt like such a perv at that moment, but I really didn’t care. I was utterly mesmerized. And then it was gone, tucked neatly into his bathing suit. Of course, I told Jack every last detail, and just rolled his eyes at me and punched me (hard) in the shoulder. What? Why?

 

Anyway, Lake Michigan, for the record, has two temperatures: cold and still cold. We did the thing where you inch in, lie to your legs about how fine this is, count to three, and sprint anyway. The first dunk hit like an instant brain freeze. We screamed and laughed and splashed until none of us could feel our fingers. Christian body-surfed a tiny wave for the sheer principle of it. Jonah declared the water “so fresh it hurts.” Jack lobbed water at me with both hands and then surrendered to a float, ears under, eyes on the sky, the exact picture of a person who has earned the stillness.

 

We lasted maybe an hour, which felt like surviving a polite arctic expedition, then towel-mummified ourselves and trudged back to the truck, leaving a small portion of dune in every shoe.

 

Back at the lodge, the showers ran hot and long. You could hear the four of us exhaling through the walls like a chorus of old radiators. Naps weren’t a plan so much as an inevitability. I don’t remember lying down. I just remember waking up forty minutes later with sheet lines on my face and a slight, clean ache in my calves that said, You did a thing.

 

Dinner became our farewell-to-fish tour: grilled perch, broiled salmon, fried smelt, coconut shrimp, crab legs. If it swam, we thanked it. By dessert, I declared a moratorium on all fish-related activities until at least Thanksgiving. The table voted yes.

 

Jack and I yawned dramatically and announced we were going to bed early.

 

Which, technically, we did. We just didn’t plan on sleeping right away.

 

Christian and Jonah gave us matching looks that said, “Sure, Jan”, and we gave them matching looks that said, Mind your business. Outside, the lake kept breathing its slow, patient breath, the kind that carries through walls and into dreams. And for the first time all day, we didn’t have to climb anything to get a view.

 

***

 

Once inside the cabin, we turned off the main lights and turned on the dim ones in the bathroom. Jack lit the candle we’d brought from home – the one that smelled like sandalwood and citrus – and started running the jacuzzi tub.

 

I slipped off my clothes slowly, watching Jack do the same across the room. The steam from the tub rose between us, softening everything, like a dream. Finally, we hooked our thumbs in the waistband of our boxer-briefs and slowly lowered them, revealing our hardness trapped inside. I took a moment to admire his body, thin, smooth, and just the tiniest amount of baby fat he’d soon grow out of. His stiff boyhood pointed right at me. Not large, not small, just perfect, nestled in a small patch of dark brown pubic hair. I was utterly mesmerized by him.

 

I then peeled off my own underwear and hoped that he wasn’t disappointed in what he saw, but then again, he’d already seen it plenty of times before and never ran away screaming. I was just being paranoid, as usual. In fact, he seemed to quite like it, given the many hours he'd spent sucking, licking, and worshipping it. It made me feel sexy, erotic, and masculine.

 

We stepped into the jacuzzi and slid down together, bubbles enveloping our bodies, our knees brushing against the surface. Jack settled between my legs and leaned back into me, his head resting against my shoulder. It felt like he was completely surrendering his body to me.

 

I kissed his temple. He tilted his face up, and our lips met – warm, lingering, connected.

 

The kisses grew slower. Deeper. More intense. Fingers traced over ribs and hips and collarbones, not urgently, just… thoroughly. And I couldn’t seem to keep my hands off his fleshy, pale, smooth ass. It was glorious. My “safe space.”

 

Jack suggested we move to the bed, so we quickly got out of the tub, dried each other off at warp speed, and jumped onto the soft, luxurious king-sized bed. Jack was lying face down on the bed, giving me the perfect view of his exemplary, lily-white bubble butt, with cheeks that looked and felt like two perfectly ripe peaches. I lay on top of him, my chest pressed against his back, and rubbed my throbbing boyhood slowly across his crack. I could have cum right then from the intense sensations, but I fought to hold the feeling back.

 

“Is this okay?” I whispered in his ear.

 

He nodded, his breath shaky. We both knew what was going to happen, but neither of us needed to say a word.

 

I slowly crawled back down his body, kissing his shoulders, his neck, and every inch of his back until I reached my prize, those smooth white globes. I took my time kissing and licking every inch of his beautiful butt while he moaned and writhed around the bed. When I sensed that he was sufficiently excited, I grabbed two big handfuls of his cheeks and slowly spread them apart, revealing his tight, puckered pink hole, winking as if to invite me in further. Wasting no time, I buried my face in his ass and began bathing his hole with my tongue, licking gently around the edges before plunging in as far as I could go. It smelled and tasted like soap with just the tiniest hint of his usual boy-musk. By this point, Jack was already beginning to lose his mind, grabbing handfuls of the sheets and moaning loudly, calling out my name every few seconds. Of everything we’d experimented with, this was his favorite … and mine, too.

 

Thankfully, as my tongue began to tire, Jack managed to get out a few words.

 

“Nicky … need you now … want you … inside me.”

 

Hearing those words drove me to an even more feverish level of arousal, and his plea was not something I could deny him. I would give him anything he wanted, from now until the end of time.

 

However, a million different thoughts began racing through my head, including the logistics of how actually to do it. I imagined it probably wasn’t going to be as easy as it looked in gay porn. Also, would it hurt him? How could I make it feel good for him? Would this change everything between us? I had to take a few deep breaths to stop the spiraling in my head. I couldn’t ruin this by freaking out.

 

“Do you have the condoms and lube?” I asked him.

 

“Just the lube,” he admitted. “I didn’t bring the condoms … because I want to feel you without anything between us … and I want you to feel me, just as I am.” He continued to grind his ass up against my throbbing erection that was already on the verge of exploding. Yeah, I knew what my mother had been harping on for months, but now was not the time to be thinking about my mother or denying my lover what he was begging for.

 

“Are you sure?” I asked him. I didn’t want to do anything that he wasn’t 100% ready for and wanted to do. But he seemed determined. “We’re both virgins, Nicky. We just have to swear to each other that we don’t ever do this with another guy.”

 

“I promise, Jack,” I said, leaning across to kiss him gently on the lips. “You know I love you, and only you. It’s been you since the first moment I saw you. I was just too stupid to realize it.”

 

“Me too. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said. “I’ve dreamed of this moment, with you, for so long.”

 

I quickly grabbed the tube of Astroglide from the nightstand and squeezed a generous portion into his crack, massaging it in slowly, as his moans grew louder and more urgent. I spread the rest of the lube on my dick and rubbed it in. I kept thinking, “Thank God for gay porn, or I would have absolutely no clue what I’m doing!”

 

I knew I had to loosen him up first, so I slowly pressed one finger in gently, up to the second knuckle, and started slowly moving it around. The only feedback I got from Jack was a seemingly endless stream of moans and the occasional grunt. After a few minutes of that, I added a second finger and repeated the process of slowly moving them around inside him. I noticed how warm, soft, and slick his insides were. My cock was literally throbbing by this point. While I was prodding around, I must have hit some special sort of spot; Jack’s eyes burst open, and he practically shot out of the bed.

 

“Oh my God, Nicky,” he groaned. “I think that was my prostate. Holy shit, that felt so incredible! It was almost like my entire body was having an orgasm!”

 

I really didn’t know what to say at that point. I just kept thinking about wanting to put my cock inside of him and do it.

 

Thankfully, his following words were: “Put it in me now, Nicky. I think I’m ready for it. Please hurry because I’m already so close.”

 

And then I realized it was the perfect time to tease my Jack a little bit.

 

“Put what in you, babe?” I asked innocently.

 

“You know what,” he said, glaring at me.

 

“I really don’t know, love. Just tell me what it is you want me to put inside you, and I’ll do it right away!” I said, trying to keep the smirk off my face, while at the same time hoping this little “game” didn’t go on much longer, because I was about ready to burst.

 

“Your cock, Nicholas! I want you to put your hard cock up my butt … now!” he practically shouted at me. I figured I’d best comply, or it might be a while before we attempt this again.

 

It took several awkward tries to find his opening and the right angle as I perched over him, not sure if it was better to put my legs outside of his or inside of his legs. But eventually, slowly, I found the correct position, with a little help from Jack guiding me, and the right spot, and I pushed forward. It didn’t slide in easily at first, so I tried again, this time with more force. He screamed out in pain as my crown popped in, but when I tried to pull it out, he put his hand on my hip to stop me. “Just give me a second,” he breathed through gritted teeth. “Just let me get used to it for a minute.”

 

I forced myself to hold as still as possible while my instincts were urging me to start thrusting immediately. After several minutes of agonizing waiting, he finally told me to go ahead, so I began to move in slowly, and then out again, ever so gently several times until I was completely inside of him and his butt was nestled entirely in my lap. I then gently lay my body down on top of him, with my chest pressed against his back, kissing softly all over his neck, ears, and cheeks. Trying to twist his neck around to kiss me on the mouth proved to be a little too difficult for Jack, which caused him to pout for a moment, which I quickly ended with another strong thrust, as hard and deep as I could. Jack moaned so loudly, I was afraid Christian and Jonah definitely heard us next door. After a couple more minutes of sometimes awkward and poorly-timed thrusting, even slipping out a time or two, we finally found a more comfortable rhythm and speed – not too fast nor too slow – and the tone of his moaning changed completely, from mild discomfort to an intense pleasure. And I was feeling pretty darn good myself.

 

I then wrapped my arm underneath his body and gently rolled us until we were on our sides, and I continued thrusting into him, while he continued moaning, grunting, and frequently shouting my name.

 

I slowed down for a moment. “Is it ok, Jack?” I whispered. “Does it hurt too much?”

 

“God, no,” he gasped. “You feel incredible. Keep going! God, why did we wait so long to do this?!”

 

We moved together, wrapped in passion and skin, in silence and sighs. Every touch was filled with love. Every whisper was like coming home. I wish I could say we fucked like porn stars for hours, trying every position there was, but it was nothing like that. Yes, it was beautiful, and yes, it felt amazing. However, it was also awkward at times, a little clumsy, and there were more than a few instances of laughing at things we tried to do but failed. But it was perfect. Because it was just me and Jack, and we were doing this together. The connection I felt with him in those moments – emotionally and physically – was indescribable. It felt like we’d morphed into a single being.

 

Only a couple of minutes later, with Jack now on his back, his legs resting on my shoulders, I couldn’t hold back any longer, and began unconsciously thrusting harder, and Jack’s moans only increased in their intensity, and his eyes were fixed on mine. I was so close, and so was Jack, as he feverishly jacked himself off. Suddenly, I felt him spasm from the inside as he let out the most incredible moan of ecstasy, and I saw his eyes roll back in his head. The combination of his grunts and moans of pleasure, and the unrelenting tightness and warmth of his insides, made me lose all control, and I emptied myself, deep inside of him. All I could think of was that I just came inside my boyfriend. Inside of him!

 

For a few minutes afterward, we just lay there, completely out of breath, our brains trying to catch up with what our bodies had just done. I was still inside him, and every time my cock twitched, he giggled. But, after all these months, we had finally done it!

 

After ever so carefully pulling out of him, we cleaned each other off slowly, tenderly. There was no rush. No checklist. Just the two of us taking care of each other. We then jumped back into the shower to clean ourselves more properly. I giggled when I noticed my cum leaking out of his ass.

 

Finally, we curled back into bed, our legs tangled, foreheads pressed together, talking in hushed tones about what we had just experienced, what we liked, what we didn’t really like, and how we felt about the future of our relationship. “Forever,” he repeated to me. “Forever,” I agreed.

 

“I don’t want this to end,” I whined playfully.

 

Jack kissed the corner of my mouth. “It won’t. This is just the beginning.”

 

And with the windows cracked open to the sound of waves and wind coming from Lake Michigan, we finally let ourselves sleep.

 

***

 

We let ourselves sleep late the following morning. No alarms, no agenda – just the residual exhaustion from hiking dunes, hauling fish, and falling in love with a place we weren’t ready to leave quite yet. Oh, and the sex, too. Couldn’t forget about that part.

 

Despite our sluggishness, packing was somehow easier this time. No folding, no lists – just panic-stuffing. We stuffed clothes, toiletries, and souvenirs into bags like we were stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey on fast-forward. Jack’s hoodie dangled out the side of my suitcase like it was trying to escape to a better life. Christian had to body-slam his duffel twice to bully the zipper across.

 

“Looks like someone needs a Samsonite sponsorship,” I said.

 

“I’d settle for a referee,” he grunted, kneeling on it until it tapped out.

 

When the chaos was contained and the truck was Tetris’d to the ceiling, Christian jogged to the lodge office to settle the bill with his dad’s card. That thing probably had a higher limit than my mom makes in a year, but he never once made it a thing. No flexing, no weird money pep talks. Just… kindness. Quiet, generous, unassuming kindness.

 

He could’ve been one of those rich boys who wear a Rolex to brunch and say “networking” every third sentence. Instead, he’s the guy who buys matching pajamas, splits a brick of fudge with surgical precision, tips housekeeping like he means it, and does a trash sweep before we leave because “leave it better than you found it” is coded somewhere in his DNA.

 

Watching him cross the parking lot, sun catching the edges of his hair, I got this flash of the future – Christian in a slightly crooked tie at a fundraiser, giving a real speech that makes a room go quiet. Raising money for a lake cleanup or a school program, still wearing that easy smile you can’t fake.

 

Yeah. He’d make a damn good philanthropist someday, or maybe even a politician. God only knew how much we needed people with a heart like Christian’s to help lead our country, rather than grift from it and trample over its Constitution. I hoped we’d still be there to clap for him.

 

And Jonah? The jury was still out. He’s already generous – with sarcasm. But I decided right then that he was my pet project for the next term. Help him weaponize all that chaos for good. Or at least for fewer insurance claims. Maybe even help him find a boyfriend who isn’t a crustacean.

 

The drive home was quiet in the best way – sun-kissed, sand-scratched, and hearts obnoxiously full. We snacked on leftover fudge and a shameful collection of gas-station artifacts (Bugles, a mystery meat stick, a gummy worm the size of a belt). I fell asleep on Jack’s shoulder somewhere around Bay City and woke up to Christian humming along to static and Jonah taking artsy pictures of exit signs.

 

When we pulled into the driveway, I blinked at my mom’s car.

 

She came out in sweats and flip-flops, her arms folded, her eyebrows raised. “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you for another day.”

 

“We missed you,” I said, already grinning.

 

“Aww, that’s sweet.” She hugged Jack and me the way she always does – twice, like the first one was practice. “And you brought back the whole wolf pack, I see.”

 

Christian and Jonah couldn’t stay; weekend traffic waits for no one. We helped reload their bags, gave them long squeeze-hugs and kisses on the cheek, promised to text like maniacs, and waved them off like camp counselors pretending not to cry. Christian honked our dumb four-knock code; Jonah blew a kiss out the window and almost hit the mailbox.

 

And then it was just the three of us again – me, Jack, and Mom. Our weird little family.

 

Inside, we dropped our bags at the stairs like we’d been ambushed by gravity and migrated straight to the couch. Mom suggested a photo debrief, so we synced phones and beamed the slideshow to the TV. For an hour, we relived everything in little rectangles: Lake Michigan at sunset pretending to be an ocean; Jonah making an obscene gesture with a trout; Christian hitting a wakeboarding jump like a Marvel extra; Jack and me in the lodge bed with wet hair and stupid grins; a gull named Deborah stealing Jonah’s hat mid-air like a tiny thief.

 

“So… this ‘Captain Stinky,’” Mom said, pausing on a shot of him mid-joke, belly straining against a faded pink tank top. “Was that his legal name?”

 

“Probably not,” I said. “But spiritually? Absolutely.”

 

“And was he actually stinky?”

 

“That man could knock out a skunk at forty paces,” I deadpanned.

 

She laughed so hard she snorted and had to dab her eyes with her sleeve.

 

I could tell a tiny part of her felt left out, but she didn’t let it show. She said she’d had a blast on her own – pulling weeds, eating Pad Thai on the porch, watching terrible rom-coms with the dog pretending to read subtitles.

 

“Honestly,” she said, “I think I needed the break as much as you two did.”

 

We stayed curled on the couch a long time, clicking through videos – Jonah getting chased by a crab like an unpaid debt; Jack shrieking when the boat tilted; Christian serenading smoked whitefish like it might join the choir.

 

Eventually, reality elbowed in. Less than two weeks until school. That meant unpacking, re-organizing Harrison West uniform fittings, scheduling checks, refilling Jack’s prescriptions, and six other adulting things I wanted to hide from under a blanket. Fortunately, driver’s ed was done, so now I just had to wait until January to get my driver’s license.

 

Mom had shuffled a couple shifts so she could help us start packing, and – because the universe loves a plot twist – even Tommy said he’d tag along. He claimed he just wanted to “see how the one percent lives,” but I think he missed us. Or he was curious to see with his own eyes that Jack and I were okay.

 

Either way, I was glad he’d be there.

 

That night, none of the logistics mattered. All I wanted was a long, hot shower, my Lions PJs (courtesy of Christian), and the pullout sofa with Jack at my side and Mr. Bojangles installed at our feet like a judgmental space heater. The house smelled like laundry, Mom's shampoo, and a little dog. A random cooking show flickered on low, all sizzle and whispery narrators.

 

We didn’t talk much.

 

We didn’t need to.

 

Under the blanket, our hands found each other. Shoulders bumped, easy and familiar. Mr. Bojangles sighed the deep, theatrical sigh of a creature who approves.

 

And in that quiet – simple, whole, ordinary in the best way – I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.

 

Safe. Whole. Home.

 

 

 

 

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