A gay story: Finding Heaven (For a variation story on the first two paragraphs and the topic of a suicide attempt, see the sr71plt story “Helpful Hiker.”)
*
I will always remember the barn. How could I ever forget it? It was a big, corrugated iron one, dull with age and with no windows on the lower level and just one at each end, up in the gable. Tall narrow windows that let light into the loft, while below the barn was dark and silent, cluttered and filled with dust. But I didn’t know that when I first saw it.
I came upon it slowly as I emerged onto the top of the mountain, after a steep climb from the bay below, which had taken me through the untouched forest of the National Park. And I came at it from the rear, seeing the high window lit with the full afternoon sun, and I saw him there caught in the sun, naked and golden, like some lost angel. Perched up there on the windowsill with his arms spread wide hanging on to the frame. He is the reason I remember the barn so well.
I stopped there, breathing hard, recovering from the climb, and staring, fascinated by the erotic image before me. I was half expecting him to disappear, to be some trick of my mind. I wasn’t as young or as fit as I once was, and a dizzy spell had caught me out the day before and left me unsteady for a while.
But no, the golden angel didn’t vanish; instead, I now saw that he was looking towards me, and I waved at him. I waited, but he never waved back; he just stood poised on his perch, ignoring me and apparently unconcerned that I was staring at his nakedness. Yes. I was staring at him, drinking him in, and letting his beauty soak into me and send a warm rush though my body. And as my breathing returned to normal, I became increasingly aroused.
Then suddenly I realised that he was falling. His arms were still spread out and he appeared to be standing, but as I watched he slowly began to fall forward. And he didn’t make any sound, or any gesture to save himself.
I was frozen and part of me was saying, “It isn’t real, this isn’t happening,” and part of me was screaming “Nooooooooooo.” A long drawn-out cry of rage rising up in me at what he had done as I watched. At what he was doing to himself, and to me.
He continued to fall silently, performing a perfect swan dive, as I stood there frozen, my mouth opening in a silent helplessness, but part of me still saying, “No, it can’t be real.” It seemed like forever that he fell, but it must have been only moments before he silently disappeared. Then there was a puff of dust and the spell was broken.
I dropped my heavy pack and ran towards the rear of the barn where he had fallen, thinking, “Have I got my mobile? Who will I ring? How do you treat a broken neck? Shit, it’s twenty years since I did first aid, shit, shit. Why? Why would he do it? Why to me?”
The grass had only been ankle high where I had been hiking past, but as I ran closer to where he had fallen, it got longer, and thicker. I was imagining broken bones poking out of skin and almost vomited just thinking of it. Then I got within a dozen feet of where I imagined he was and found myself slowed down and almost wading through thick thigh-high grass.
Then I was trying to climb a huge pile of decaying grass clippings and rubbish when I heard a soft moaning, and I finally saw him. He was pulling himself out of the centre of the invisible pile of lawn clippings and moaning.
“Fuck it. I can’t do anything right,” he suddenly shouted and started swearing. “Fuck, fuck. Whyyyyy?”
I was only feet away from him now, but he still didn’t seem to know I was there.
“Ouch,” he yelped, collapsing in a heap, half buried in dry grass and twigs as I noticed small branches sticking out of the pile he had landed in.
I stopped, only about four feet from him, standing knee deep in vegetation and in danger of twisting something. I was panting again, and he seemed to be crying as he nursed his left arm.
I struggled the rest of the way to him, “Are you OK?” I asked as I reached out to touch him, still afraid I’d find something awful.
He jerked around. “Oh shit,” he gaped at me, “Who . . .? Were you . . .? God, did you see? Oh,” He seemed completely flustered now. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a complete mess of it,” he wailed, kicking a leg out at the rubbish he was half buried in.
“I should have checked, shouldn’t I?” he continued looking up at me, with tears streaking his cheeks. “Garth always told me I was no good at the details. “You’re bloody useless at the detail, Ty,” He was always saying. And I can’t even manage to kill myself.”
He was young, but not as young as he had looked poised up there in the barn window, and I was in shock myself and started yelling at him, “You frightened the bloody life out of me. Seeing you fall like that. And I am damn glad you didn’t get badly hurt. Stop wallowing in self-pity. I hate blood. And I have no idea who to call if you were seriously hurt. I don’t even know what the mobile reception is like here.”
I sat down beside him, still panting, and he looked at me, peering at me with his mouth open. “See. Details, you think of them,” he said with admiration. “I did take my contacts out, though,” he added with a flicker of a smile.
For a moment I thought, “The twit can’t see. Geez.” But then I was looking into his eyes, and god, those blue eyes of his, and I thought instead, “God, how I’d love to be gazing into them as I fuck him.”
“You’re hurt,” I said, pulling myself back to the present situation where I was playing the Good Samaritan. “How’s your arm?” I asked, wondering how bad the arm he was nursing was and trying to remember what to do for someone in shock, as he obviously was.
And I was worried that some awful injury he couldn’t feel yet was being hidden by the rubbish that half covered him. I could see scratches everywhere, small ones that were oozing a drop or two of blood, and a couple of nastier gouges from small twigs that were starting to bleed trickles of blood.
“Come on. You need to get up and, well, get out of here. Do you think . . . Um do you think your arm . . . is, um, broken?” I asked him, but not really wanting to know, because I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do if it was.
“Um,” he looked down at it sitting against his chest. “Um, it hurts, but I am not sure. I think I landed on it. It may just be bruised.”
“What a stupid thing to do,” I couldn’t stop myself saying. “You could have given me a bloody heart attack.”
But that wasn’t the real problem just then. He had turned more towards me, and I now had his half hard cock just in front of me. Christ, I was already dying to fuck him and now he was showing me his goods. His skin was pale all over, a healthy glowing pale, not the dull pale skin of a shut-up city person. And there was nothing tidied up about him; his golden hair spread out from his bush, up his belly, and was also sprinkled thickly over his balls and inside his thighs. His cock was a hairless pale, veined sausage with its red head just poking out of his foreskin.
I couldn’t help myself, I was in shock. I was running on the primitive drive to mate that overcomes us all when we have just escaped death or seen another do it. I slid my hand under his tool and lifted the head to my open lips and lowered my lips over it.
And he didn’t stop me. But, feeling the hardness of his rod in my mouth, it was only minutes before I was throbbing and my body wanted to be buried in his. I raised my head and found his willing lips and pushed him over.
He fell gently back, but then he let out a piercing cry that froze me, even in the heat I was in, and he slapped me hard on the head while he yelled. “Stop, stop. Ahhhh.”
I sat up in horror; sure I had scared him, “Sorry I wasn’t . . .” But I knew I had been about to take him. Well sort of, maybe.
He sat up panting and started reaching about, “There’s a stick or something poking up. Christ I thought I’d got stabbed. It bloody hurt,” he said, feeling about in the rotting grass.
“I think we need to get out of here,” I declared, totally confused now.
He struggled, up oohing and aahhing as bits of twig stuck into him and were pulled out of him, and struggled gingerly in the pile of rubbish, hardly able to move. His cock and balls were swinging freely and moving more than anything except his waving arms. The hurt one certainly didn’t seem restricted, I even noticed. He seemed totally unconcerned, but it was sending me into heat and even more confusion. Did he want me looking at him, was he so naïve he didn’t realise what I was feeling? I had no idea.
“You need pants and shoes,” I said. The way he was flailing about naked even looked painful. Sure, it was erotic too, but not with the accompanying yelps, as things stuck into him and he moved his hurt arm the wrong way.
“In the barn,” he said, “On the floor. That’s a really good idea.”
I struggled out of the mess of rubbish and old grass clippings and around to the other end of the barn, muttering to myself. The two big doors were securely padlocked, but the small service door in one of them hung open, and I went inside.
The barn was dry and still, with some abandoned broken-down machinery lying about covered in a heavy layer of dust like the floor was. But in places the dust had been disturbed, and I had no trouble finding Ty’s backpack and the neat pile of folded clothes beside it. I grabbed his pants and shoes, but left his briefs there. He’d manage, I thought. And it meant less to take off him later I also thought deep down in my subconscious.
When he had struggled into the clothes and boots, he staggered gingerly out of the rubbish and long grass, then looked at me in confusion before striding around the barn and going inside it. I’d grabbed up my own pack and tagged along behind him.
The shock was wearing off for both of us, and I was feeling mildly embarrassed by my earlier attempt to take him, and he now seemed embarrassed at my presence. But when I joined him inside, he had on a pair of glasses and had produced a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz from his backpack.
“Drink?” he asked, looking at me as if he was inspecting me, as he opened the bottle and then pulled out a plastic cup, which he filled and handed to me.
“Cheers,” I said, downing half the cup of wine in one go. I needed it.
He took a slug straight from the bottle, as I shoved the cup at him, “Here,” I said, “We can share,” But immediately I had second thoughts, and stopped and said, “Um . . . You aren’t, um, that wasn’t why was it, because you have . . .”
He looked at me, waiting.
“You haven’t got AIDS have you?” I finally managed to say, “That isn’t why you jumped, is it?”
He threw his head back, God, what a beautiful neck he had-and laughed. “No. Christ. My excuse is even more boring and common. I . . .” He paused, then looked down at his feet and gulped some more wine down. “I got dumped,” He said, “Because I was too old, oh, and what he didn’t say, that I’m not a woman.”
“Oh,” I said, it sounded far too complicated for me just then, but I couldn’t stop myself saying. “You looked like a golden angel up there, or a god. When I came out of the bush and first saw you standing in the window.”
He looked at me over the mouth of the bottle and took another drink. While the other hand, the one not holding the bottle, ran absently through the hair on his chest, and I almost choked, as I could feel his skin just watching him. And my erection was getting uncomfortable.
“And you’re certainly not a woman,” I added, trembling almost as I watched a few drops of red wine run down his chest and get lost in the growth there. “Which is a very good thing. I wouldn’t have stopped to watch you if you were. I’d just have kept on hiking and wouldn’t have seen you fall,” I said, and knew it was true, and thought how awful that would have been to pass someone by like that.
He looked at me seriously. “You wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?” he said, “Outside in that pile of stuff.”
“Um. Yes,” I replied. “I hope that . . .”
“Why?” He asked, “I’m not good looking, I’m too old, and I just jumped out of a barn window trying to kill myself.”
“Um. Yes, you are a bit . . . But I still want to, and I think you are incredibly attractive and just the perfect age,” I said. Being completely honest, as I didn’t have any idea what else I could say.
“Garth told me I was too old and no good in the sack,” He said, looking at me suspiciously.
“Maybe he was wrong,” I reminded him.
He looked at me speculatively. “Oh.” Then he looked down at my package, “Do you still want to . . .?” He asked quietly, as he waved an arm, the good one, at the floor.
I looked at the floor. I looked at him. “What a stupid question. And I’ve got a sleeping bag,” I said, as I hurried to pull it out of my backpack before he changed his mind.
He was obviously nutty as a fruit cake, but I had been lusting for him from the first moment I set eyes on him standing high up in that window, arms spread and ready to jump. And nothing since had made me want him less. I was spreading my zipped open sleeping bag out into a flat rug when he produced another one from his backpack.
“I have this one too,” he said shyly as he handed it to me.
I quickly lay them out and then just walked up to him and unzipped and dropped his pants down and wrapped my arms about him and planted my mouth on his, as I rubbed my package against his gorgeous cock.
He fell into the kiss nervously, and after a brief embrace, fiddled with my shirt buttons. I had my hands massaging his butt cheeks as he undid the first one. He was going hard nicely, his veiny cock growing and rising up against my belly, but I unzipped myself and let myself free, in case he never got that far. He was going so slow with the buttons and I was aching to do him.
I took control then in desperation, driven mad by the way he moved his hands ineffectually about, touching my face, my shoulders and hugging me briefly. Now I pushed him down on the sleeping bags and kept pushing him back, kissing him until he was lying flat on his back. “Just where I wanted you,” I thought, looking along his pale well-muscled body and gazing into his blue eyes. Then I knelt back between his thighs and in one smooth movement took his legs in my hands and spread them wide, going down on what he had between his legs. A nice-sized cock, a hairy ball sac I’d have loved to explore further, if I hadn’t been obsessed with pushing his legs back towards his sides so my mouth could keep up its explorations and discover his hole.
“Hmmmm,” I sighed, feeling his puckered rim wink at me as my tongue found it.
“Oh baby, you are beautiful,” I murmured to him, “Just hold your legs there,” I instructed, and he fumbled about, making odd grunting sounds.
I stroked my tool briefly, as I stroked my other hand up and down inside his thighs and ran my fingers over his entrance, making it wink again at me. I lifted his butt, and he rolled over more so that I had perfect access to his hole for my mouth.
“Mmm. Beautiful,” I reminded him as I bent to run my tongue over it and then around it. He was moaning now and his bud twitching.
I kissed it, and he groaned, and I teased it with my tongue, and he whimpered, and I looked up and saw that his eyes, behind the glasses, were fixed on what he could see happening. My mouth on his hole, my hand on his cock, stroking it, and my other hand pulling at his rim. Then I had my tongue inside him.
“Oh god, yes,” he suddenly cried out, “Fuck me. Pump me. Oh god, I want a cock inside me. Do it, do it. Oh god.”
His sudden wild shouting drove me wilder with frustration and desire. I slobbered over him and added a wet finger, and then he was as ready as I had time to get him. I briefly pressed two fingers into his loosened hole. “Oh god, Now, now take me.” He yelled, moving his hips against my hand, driving my fingers deeper. And I was more than ready to oblige him but had to stop to rip open and put on a condom I had got out earlier
Now he was trying to get my cock into him, reaching for it, moaning, “Yes, oh what a beauty, oh how hard.”
We were both guiding it to his entrance, which just seemed to open up and suck me in as he arched his back and moaned wildly, rocking his body about from side to side, twisting himself around my tool as it drove deeper into his channel and I took possession of him.
I cried out, “Oh god, baby,” at the way his channel was turning on my throbbing tool as his walls caressed it. I hardly had time to plow him half a dozen times slowly before I was pounding his ass in a frenzy and cuming, giving a cry of release as I did, which I hadn’t done for years.
And I thought, “Thank the fuck you are gone Lachlan.” The bastard I’d been keeping for eight years had walked out six months before after telling me he was embarrassed to tell his friends what I did for a living.
“You have the mind of a frustrated housewife,” He had thrown at me. “And it’s humiliating that you call reading and publishing that romance rubbish a job.”
I loved my work, and I had screamed at him how he was never embarrassed about helping to spend what it earned me. “And you are a worse fuck than any bloody romance starved housewife Lachlan,” I’d added, because sex had not been that great for a couple of years.
Now I sagged back, spent, and just looked down at the beautiful sight of my cock disappearing into Ty’s ass and stroked his cheeks. But my other hand had joined his on his own tool, and I was looking in his eyes again as he came up his belly and spattered cum on his chest and face. I leant forward and licked it off him, and we fell into a deep kiss. A tongue feeding inside his mouth, as my dick hummed inside his passage. I wasn’t leaving his ass till I had come again and only pulled out long enough to get another condom.
After that deep, possessing kiss, he began to move his hands all over me and himself easily, stroking, pinching, tugging. And when he could get his mouth to me, he was licking and kissing me.
When I was recharged, I rode him long, and slow, and deep. And I stroked his nice thick tool as he moaned and writhed and came twice for my once. The last time shooting the little bit of cum he had left up his belly as I came inside him. We lay there connected, cock in ass, then when I slipped out, hand to cock and hand to cock for some time until he began to fuck my fist. He was young and virile.
“Again,” he whispered in my ear,
“Hey, I am not as young as you,” I said, as he began to stroke me.
Instead, I moved down, finally having time to wash and explore every bit of his lovely thick cock and his hairy balls with my mouth as he wrapped and unwrapped his legs from around me and ran his hands over his chest and belly, joining my own exploring ones and finally gripping my hair in his fists as he unloaded into my throat.
When I had swallowed his cream, I came up for air, and kissed him. And sitting up, I said honestly, “I think you are an animal in the sack.”
He seemed happy and looked half asleep, and in a few minutes I had drifted off too.
In the morning I woke to his hands stoking my erection, and I happily rolled him on his belly and, grabbing another condom, fucked up into him as he lay there nice and tight under me. Him groaning and moving his hips as he rubbed his own dick off on the sleeping bag. He grunted as he came and then rotated his butt for me as I fucked him wildly and came.
“That was the last condom,” I said, as I rolled off him, “Unless you have any?”
“No,” he said turning to look at me. “I could be fucked by you all day,” he added shyly. “Would you want . . .?”
“If I was able,” I said laughing and cuddling up close to him in the suddenly chilly morning air, and we wrapped our arms about each other and went into a deep kiss.
“Oh, by the way, my names Charlie,” I said.
“Well, Charlie, we’d better get somewhere we can stock up,” he said, smiling. “Then we can come back here for the rest of the day.”
“Let’s,” I agreed, but knowing I had to head back to Sydney that night .
“But I have to be at work in the morning in Sydney,” I said to him honestly. I was already riding out a major unpleasant storm there, and not showing up on Monday morning was just not on the cards. “Come back to my place,” I said. “Can you do that?”
“I suppose so,” He replied, shrugging. “I don’t have to be anywhere particular tomorrow morning.”
That decided, we got up and started to dress, Ty pulling stuff out of his backpack, T-shirts, a saucepan, notebook, and a couple of novels.
“Don’t tell me you read that crap that Tara Langtree writes,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, seeingThe Ruined Palace by Tara Langtree fall from his bag.
The words were hardly out of my mouth when Ty had me on the ground, trying to strangle me. “Hey, get off. Stop it. Geez, you’re mad,” I shouted at him, as I tried to push him off, suddenly remembering he was a fruit cake who had tried to kill himself the day before, and wondering if the man I had asked home was a lunatic.
And he was yelling back, “She writes great books. That bastard stole her. Great books,” he shouted at me, shaking me and red with anger.
“Yes. She did, she did,” I shouted back at him, quite honestly, “She wrote great books. Great books, until the last two,” I finished shouting, as Ty’s fingers eased their grip on my neck. “That woman used to write gold. That’s why I went out on a limb to sign her up. Now my name is shit, and I’ll be lucky to keep my job. The last one was . . . ”
“Trash,” Ty yelled, jumping up and throwingThe Ruined Palace across the barn.
Well, I had met people who were keen on romance writers, but I thought this was going a bit far, and I looked up at Ty cautiously. “Yes, it is trash. And the one before wasn’t as good as I expected, but at lest it was readable and covered itself financially.”
Ty turned to me, “You said you signed her. You? You work for True Romance Books?” He looked pale.
“Yes. Yes, but um, maybe we should go,” I said, trying to stuff my things back into my backpack as quickly as I could.
“I’m the real Tara. I wrote those books, all except the last two,” he said.
“Oh,” I mumbled, lost.
“All of them. Garth said that it would look better if a woman did the talks, though. And the book events. And I don’t like crowds of people, so I said, yes, sure. So, he got his wife to do them. Him and his wife, Angela went everywhere pretending she was Tara.”
I looked at him. He sounded rational for a lunatic, and, yes, Tara’s real name was Angela. “She always did well at talks,” I said, cautiously, “She’s a good-looking woman and knows how to sell herself.”
Ty had flopped down on the floor, “Yes. Then Garth brought me a manuscript to look at for him, “Just something Angela was hoping might get looked at by someone,” he said.Night of Envy it was called, and he asked me to see if it needed any work done on it. I said, “Of course, Garth, anything for you, lover.” It was awful. I had to put off finishingLoves Triangle to get herNight of Envy decent. Then he tells me a couple of months later that no one wantsLoves Triangle. And that I have lost my touch,” He paused; with a few tears running down his face. “I was devastated.”
And I was starting to listen to the fantasy Ty was making up, as the name Garth rang a bell too. Garth was Tara Langtree’s manager and husband, and was a hunk with an eight-inch dick. We’d fucked after the contract was signed, back when I was floating on cloud nine.
“So, you wroteCauldron of Passion?” I asked.
“Yes. Of course. Pamela’s first time. I was worried how much sex to show in that. I mean, it was very passionate,” he replied, frowning.
“So, Garth was what?”
“Um, my manager and agent and editor and, well, um, lover,” Ty said, shrugging and looking foolish. “Then he told me his wife, Angela, had got a contract with True Romance. Her contract, as Tara. And he told me I was getting too old and had lost my talent and from now on he would need all his time to manage his wife, who after years of standing in for me was now really going to be Tara.”
Ty burst into tears and ran to his backpack and pulled out a manuscript. “I have read it through a dozen times. It’s better than anything his wife could ever write. I can’t believe it was rejected. But I call people up and say I am really Tara, and will hey look at it and they just laugh at me and hang up,” he said, sniffling loudly.
I took the manuscript from his hands and sat on an old rusty drum and opened it.
“Do you mind if I read it?” I asked, as I looked up at him.
He looked frightened, “No. Read it. And . . . and tell me the worst.”
I sat there and began to read. And read and read. Until I was interrupted by a small voice and looked up.
A shaft of light was coming in through the loft window where I had first seen him, and the dusty rays were filtering down from the loft and lighting up his head and shoulders.
“So, is it alright do you think?” Ty was asking, biting his nails and looking at me.
I looked across at him, seeing him lit up like a golden angel again in the dusty ray of sunlight. God, I wanted to fuck him. Great romance novels always do that to me. No idea why, but they make me horny as hell, and Tara’s had always been some of the best.
“It’s fantastic; it’s the real Tara,” I said, throwing myself on him and devouring his mouth.
I was in heaven with an angel, my cock rock hard and throbbing.