Date: Sat, 26 Jan 2013 19:26:59 -0500
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Wayward Island 16

Wayward Island (Part 16)
How Jake, Mrs. Ravitch, and Red Feather visited Oberlin
By Jake Preston

      Reader restrictions: no minors, no readers who are offended by
explicit descriptions of gay sexuality. The story as a whole is a
psychological study of gay athletic hunks who love nerds, and the nerds who
love them in return. The story also deals with the problems faced by gay
guys who live in rural areas. If these themes don't interest you, there are
many other great "nifty" stories to choose from. Send comments and
suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond to all sincere
correspondents.

      Donations keep juices flowing and fires burning. Click Nifty
"donations" at the Gay Male Stories headnote.

      *   *   *   *   *  *  *

	A murder took place on Lake Ashawa in March. The coroner concurred
with Deputy Nelson's opinion that it was suicide. The victim was Harvey Aldrich,
a retired insurance executive from Connecticut, who had built a four-season
vacation home on Lake Ashawa three years ago. A year later he settled here,
along with his wife Donna. Aldrich was independently wealthy, and twenty years
older than his lovely wife. According to Deputy Nelson's report, Aldrich was
despondent because Donna had decided to leave him for another man, a resort-
owner named Marcus Lane. One morning early this month, Aldrich took a walk in
the woods with a revolver and shot himself. The next day, Donna reported him
missing. His body was found by snowmobilers during an official search in the
woods.

      Yeah, I said Nelson, the gay-bashing deputy. After his wrongful arrest of
me and Henry, he didn't get fired. He was suspended for a month. During that
time he was required to drive to Duluth twice a week for "sensitivity training."
Then he was reinstated. In Hibbing, Ben Hasek kept the recording that his son
Henry had made on his cellphone during our wrongful arrest-ammunition to use
against Nelson if he makes trouble a second time.

      If Detective Matthews was disappointed with the result, he didn't show it.
But Matthews held his cards close to the vest. In fact he was concerned about
Henry, and called Ben Hasek once a month to ask how his son was doing. He
called to ask how I was doing, too. After I told him that Ben and I had decided not
to press legal claims against the County, Matthews and I got on a first-name basis.
He said if I should him Gary, if he could call me Jake. When he mentioned that
he'd be in Ashawa, I invited him to stay in my farmhouse. "That's kind of you,
Jake," he said. "The County is stingy with travel funds. They expect us to drive
back and forth from Duluth instead of staying overnight in a motel. It's a long
drive." (He didn't have to tell me it was ninety miles.) "I can't tell you anything
about the case that I'm working on," he said, "but I can tell you that I've checking
up on you and the Haseks because Deputy Nelson is still the Law in Ashawa. It's
personal, not official." During Matthew's visits, I hosted him for meals at my
cabin, or else we met at the lodge.

      "Ah, gee," I said. "I was hoping you just wanted my company." Maybe
that, too, the detective's sly smile told me.

      Back to the so-called suicide of Harvey Aldrich: because his wife Donna
was up-front about her affair with Marcus Lane, Deputy Nelson didn't
investigate. Two weeks later, Donna and Marcus got married in Las Vegas.
Donna had inherited a couple million dollars, a lot of money anywhere, but a vast
sum of money to folks in the North Woods. I told Gary, in confidence, that
Marcus's first wife was my cousin, Bethany Lund. For five weeks in January and
February, she spent her time cleaning cabins on their resort. As soon as the job
was finished, Marcus announced that he had fallen in love with Donna and
wanted a divorce. Some of his trysts with Donna took place while Bethany was
cleaning cabins. They got a quickie divorce in Las Vegas. A week later, Marcus
was found dead in the woods, half covered with snow. There was no suicide note.
Marcus and Donna let everyone know that they were honeymooning in Hawaii.
During their absence, the Red Loon Hotel burned down. The café where Red
Feather and I had met Sam Black Bear and Roger Johnson was gone. This was a
historical landmark in Ashawa, so everyone in town was surprised to learn that
Marcus owned the building. "Insurance fraud," people whispered. "That's why
told half the town that they were going to Hawaii." Insurance fraud of this sort is
commonplace in the North Country, because the folks there are suspicious of
strangers and an insurance agent has little prospect of getting to the truth about
what happened. The insurance company pays up, and recovers its losses by
raising everyone else's rates. Willy Elbo's insurance scam with cars was similar.

      "I don't have proof," I told Gary, "but the sequence of events have
elements of a murder mystery." At the time, I kept busy writing a mystery about
the Red Loon Hotel.

      Mrs. Ravitch had organized a piano audition for Red Feather at Oberlin
College, scheduled for the last week of March, just after students returned from
Spring break. Our plan was to drive to Duluth, and fly via Minneapolis to
Cleveland, where we rented a car and drove to Oberlin. Mrs. Ravitch and I made
Cleveland our home base for a week, while Red Feather stayed in a dorm in
Oberlin. She planned our itinerary, which included visits to the Art Museum, and
two evenings at Severance Hall, a short walk from the Art Museum. For the
Cleveland Orchestra, she purchased four tickets for each evening. "Why four
tickets, Anna?" I asked. "Well," she said, "I expect that Red Feather will make
friends on campus. It'll be his task to invite a friend for each performance." She
also purchased four tickets for Garcia Lorca's Blood Wedding at Playhouse
Square.

      I told Gary about our travel plans. He invited us to stay at his home in
Duluth for as long as we wanted. Is there a Mrs. Matthews, I wondered. "No,
we'll be batching it," he said. Well, not exactly batching it, since we'll have Mrs.
Ravitch with us. Since Red Feather had never been to Duluth, we decided to stay
with Gary for three nights. "While we're there, we'll shop for a suit for Red
Feather," Mrs. Ravitch said. "He'll need one for the Orchestra. For Playhouse
Square, a suit is optional, but I think that Red Feather should get used to dressing
up. I know a place where we can get him a stylish haircut, too."

      We drove to Duluth in the morning, and shopped all afternoon. I was
thinking Men's Warehouse or J. C. Penny's, but Mrs. Ravitch took us to
Mainstream Fashion on Superior Street, where she bought Red Feather a rather
expensive Cardi, and a sport jacket and slacks, too. Red Feather was accustomed
to her coaching him as a nude model; when it came to clothes, she was just as
demanding. She kept finding things that would look good on Red Feather: shirts,
ties, even socks and underwear (which, of course, he wasn't required to model).
We left the store loaded with new clothes. New shoes, too-two pairs. "When it
comes to shoes, most men never notice, but it's women always check them out,"
Mrs. Ravitch said. While we were on Superior Street, she took us to a hair salon,
where she made an appointment for Red Feather for the next morning. When it
came to male nudity, Mrs. Ravitch was one of Red Feather's fans, but she was
even more excited about getting him dressed up. I had to admit: Red Feather
looked good in new clothes.

      Gary wanted to take us to a fancy restaurant for dinner, but I said I'd
rather go to Grandma's Saloon, downtown near the lift-bridge. Maybe we could
watch an ice-breaker or and ore-boat pass through the channel, under the lift-
bridge, on its way to the harbor. We could take a drive on Park Point. At dinner,
we talked about Grandma's Marathon, which I ran every year in the first week of
July. As it happens, Gary was a marathon runner, too. We exchanged notes about
the course, which starts on the North Shore and follows the old highway into
Duluth, ending at Grandma's. "When we get home, I'll show you my hard-won
shirts," Gary said proudly. Ah, yes, those red T-shirts from Grandma's. At most
road-races, you're given your souvenir shirt when you check in for your number
at the registration table. Not so at Grandma's! In that marathon, you're handed
your shirt when you cross the finish line. "That's northern Minnesota for you," I
said, "You gotta be tough!" If you don't finish, you don't get a shirt.

      Around 9:00 PM we arrived at Gary's home. Duluth's famous fog-horn
echoed across the city with its low two-tone groan. Gary explained it to Red
Feather. "Once you get used to it, the sound of the fog-horn is soothing at night,"
he said. "In 1968, the Coast Guard did away with the fog-horn and replaced it
with a whistle. The silence of the harbor caused an uproar in the city. Ten or
twelve years later, a civic group called TOOT bought a replacement fog-horn
from a town in Wisconsin. The ships don't really need it, but the residents do, so
the fog-horn starts around 9:00 and continues until morning. Reason not the
need!"

      "King Lear," Red Feather said, alert to the source of Gary's quotation.
"You'll do well in college, Red Feather," Gary said. "But what is TOOT?" Red
Feather asked. "(re)Turn Our Old Toot," Gary said. "The organization disbanded
after the new fog-horn was installed. It's controlled by the City, so I doubt that it
will be discontinued again."

      "King Lear will never be the same," Red Feather laughed.

      Gary brought out his Grandma Marathon T-shirts. Mrs. Ravitch invited
him to model one of them. Gary took off his shirt and T-shirt. He looked athletic
and fit for a man in his forties: muscular arms, tight abdomen, no love-handles,
barrel-chest with perky nips. "Take your time, Gary," I said. "Mrs. Ravitch is an
expert on the male physique. She's a painter. That's what she does, she paints
portraits of male nudes. Surely you know that!" This was news to Gary.

      "I'm always looking for new material," Mrs. Ravitch said. "You'd make a
good subject, Gary." He blushed. When he put on the red T-shirt, his nips budded
out, even more provocatively than in the flesh. Gary handed a souvenir T-shirt to
Red Feather, and another to me, and said "Please accept!" I stripped to the waist,
modeled for Gary's benefit, and put on my new T-shirt. Red Feather did the same.

      Mrs. Ravitch wanted to retire for the night. Gary showed her to the guest
bedroom. "The only other bedroom is mine," he said, "but it's a queen-sized bed.
You guys can sleep with me, unless you'd rather sleep in the living room."

      "I'll sleep with you," Red Feather said. "Jake will have to speak for
himself." "I'm down for it," I said.

      "How about a bit of kink?" Gary asked. "I've got a sling in the bedroom.
We'll have to set it up first." Red Feather and I agreed that we'd like give it a try.

      In the bedroom, Red Feather took off his T-shirt. He kicked off his shoes
and socks. He pulled down his jeans and got naked. Gary slid his hand over his
torso, appreciatively. Gary brought out the parts of the sling from his closet. "A
closeted sling!" Red Feather exclaimed. We assembled the frame, making corners
straight and bolts tight. We hooked up the chains and the ankle-grips. We attached
the seat, and adjusted its elevation. Red Feather volunteered to try it out for
height. Gary helped him into the seat, not without groping his ass. He stood
between Red Feather's legs. He pulled Red Feather toward him to test that his
crotch was level with Red Feather's. We needed to lower the seat a couple inches,
he said, so Gary helped Red Feather out of the sling. After the adjustment, he
helped him back in. He fondled Red Feather's cock and fingered his asshole,
blatantly exposed to sight and touch.

      Gary and I helped each other out of our clothes. Red Feather joined us in a
three-way embrace with kisses and fondling all around. Our host proposed a game
for three. Starting with Red Feather and me, we would lay on the bed, grasping
the headboard's metal bars. Gary would take his place in the middle, and fondle
us, one guy with each hand for five minutes. He used an hour-glass to keep time.
If one of us removed a hand from the bars, he would ride the sling for fifteen
minutes while the remaining players had their way with him. "Red Feather's a
virgin, Gary," I said. "I don't know how far he'll go in the sling."

      "We'll think of something," Gary replied. He told us to kneel, facing the
headboard. He knelt behind us and fondled, using his right hand on Red Feather
and his left hand on me. Neither of us flinched, so Red Feather and Gary changed
places. When Red Feather slapped our cheeks, neither of us budged, When he
inserted fingers in our assholes, Gary let go the bar with his right hand. That was
enough to put him in the sling.

      Red Feather and I helped Gary get into the sling. Each of us hooked a foot
into the ankle-grips. This kept him frog-legged. The erotic mystery of the cleft
disappears in this position, but anatomical openness compensates for the
demystification.  We took in the spectacle of Gary. His brownish-red asshole was
sling-central, but erection and low-hanging balls were completely accessible, too.
On either side of sling-central, Gary's ass-cheeks rounded below his tan-line like
whitish moons. Total vulnerability: that was the purpose of the sling. Red Feather
smacked his cheeks several times. Gary didn't feel much pain, but the glorious
claps of a sexual spanking harmonized with the resounding fog-horn.

      Red Feather lubed Gary and penetrated his ass. As he fucked, Gary rocked
in the swing, rhythmically. "How can we tell it's been fifteen minutes?" Red
Feather asked. "By the fog-horn," Gary replied. "Time's up when you hear it
twice." Only in Duluth can the game be played by the rules! I took my turn
fucking Gary. It was my first time with him, but I knew it wouldn't be the last.
"There ought to be a name for this game," I said. We decided to call it sling-tag.
The guy in the sling was "it."

      My turn came next in the sling, followed by Gary (twice), then me again.
Clinging to the bars on the headboard, Red Feather seemed unbeatable. When it
was Gary's turn to play "center," he brought out two vibrators and stuck them into
Red Feather and me while we frog-legged, each with a leg forming an arch over
Gary's shoulders. He turned on the vibrators. Unfamiliar vibrations caused Red
Feather to release his grip from the bars. "I want to lose my virginity!" he said.
We helped him into the sling. When we fastened his feet into the ankle-grips, he
was at our mercy. Unlike Gary he had no tan-line. His rounded mounds parted to
form an idyllic valley, centered by a magical spring. I penetrated him first and
fucked slowly. He groaned but didn't cry out. Gary took his turn. We switched
back and forth.

      The fog-horn resounded a second time. We helped Red Feather out of the
sling. "I think we've had enough sling-tag," Gary said. "We need to take care of
Red Feather." We experimented with different positions when we took turns
fucking him. Gary was first to shoot cream into the busted remains of his cherry. I
missioned him and added a shot of bull-milk.

      Red Feather ached for release. I knelt at the side of the bed with my ass
exposed, and motioned for Gary to do the same at my side. We presented Red
Feather with two asses to fuck. He alternated between us, like a bee siphoning
nectar in a garden that had only two flowers. While he fucked one ass, he used a
vibrator on the other. He flipped us over and fucked frontally. He told us to kiss
while he fucked. Gary and I bonded in our shared experience as bottoms. When
Red Feather was ready to cum, he chose Gary. "Most interesting threesome I've
ever experienced," I said when we crammed into Gary's shower stall. For the next
two nights, the sling and the bed were the scenes of sex for three. We got used to
the fog-horn at night, and appreciated its soothing effect.

      In Cleveland, we spent our first day in the Art Museum. We spent most of
our time looking at late medieval and Renaissance paintings, and French
impressionists, especially Renoir. These were the strengths of the museum in
Cleveland. Only two rooms were dedicated to contemporary art, but the collection
included two male nudes by Anna Ravitch. She knew they were there, but said
nothing about them. It was Red Feather who first spotted them-the high point of
our day. "You're famous, Anna!" Red Feather exclaimed, and then, "I know
someone who's famous."

      The next day we drove to Oberlin for Red Feather's piano audition. After
an hour-long interview with two music professors, he played well-rehearsed tunes
from Mozart and Chopin, followed by some American jazz. He played from
memory. Just after, one professor told him that he was admitted to the Music
Conservatory. News about his scholarship application would come a month later,
because there were other candidates. Red Feather was elated, and relieved that a
course was set for his future. When we left Red Feather on campus for the rest of
the week, Mrs. Ravitch reminded him to invite a friend for the Orchestra
performances, and for Garcia Lorca at Playhouse Square. "And remember to wear
your suit!" Mrs. Ravitch admonished.

      It didn't take Red Feather long to find a new friend. When we picked him
up for the Orchestra, he introduced is to Chaim Haiam, a Jewish boy from New
York. He was a frosh in the Music Conservatory. The initial attraction, for Chaim,
was Red Feather's Chippewa identity. He had already memorized Ojibwe
sentences and words. "We rehearse them in bed," Chaim said, his way of telling
us that they had decided to become lovers, and roommates for the following
school year. One of the differences between gay and hetero sex is that gay man
get more of it. For Red Feather, having a Jewish friend was exotic, exciting, all
the more so because Chaim had unmistakably Jewish features: curly brown hair,
brown eyes, and an intense "Israeli" gaze. Mostly they talked about music, and
Chaim's family trips to Israel. Chaim was with us for the second Orchestra
performance, too, and for Blood Wedding at Playhouse Square. We took both
boys on a tour of the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame, too, something we had
overlooked when we planned our itinerary.

      The Orchestra was an eye-opening experience for Red Feather. The first
night was an evening of Saint-Saëns and Vivaldi; the second was Ravel and
Mahler. Most of the literature played on those nights was new to Red Feather.
Mrs. Ravitch and I knew what to expect; Chaim, too, coming from New York.
But Red Feather was astonished to hear such beautiful tunes performed in the
acoustic perfection of Cleveland's Temple of Music. For the first time, he
understood fully the profound wisdom of Mrs. Ravitch, who had guided him to
this place.

      The Playhouse performance of Blood Wedding was inspirational, too. It
got us into conversation about Garcia Lorca's life as an artist in Spain, persecuted
for being gay, and probably killed by Fascist militia for this reason. I summarized
the story in Garcia Lorca's first play, El maleficio de la mariposa (The Curse of
the Butterfly), about the love affair of a cockroach and a butterfly, who are
persecuted by other insects for their unconventional bond. "It was not a success,"
I said. "In 1920 the audience in Madrid hooted and laughed it off the stage."

      "It's an allegory about gay love in a homophobic society," Chaim said.
"Even if the audience understood it, which they probably didn't, they still would
have laughed it off the stage."

      "If they understood, they would have done worse," Red Feather said.

      On our way home, we visited the Courthouse in Hibbing, where I filed an
application to adopt Red Feather. We were given a court date in May. We stopped
having sex with each other. "I know it's legal, but it wouldn't feel right," I said.
Red Feather slept in his own space in the loft. We lived together as father and son.
He stopped dating men. He said he would wait for Chaim. They kept in touch.
Chaim persuaded his parents to let him spend the summer with Red Feather at my
cabin-not without promising to pay a visit. In April, Red Feather received a
letter from Oberlin College, awarding him a tuition scholarship for four years. To
celebrate, the ladies in the Crane Lake Mission Church hosted an after-church
luncheon. In May, Red Feather's legal name became Red Feather Preston. His
signed himself "Red F. Preston."

      Can gay men love without sex? Time was when I would have said no, but
from my experience with Red Feather I learned that there are other ways to love.
Besides, the change made me free to work on my newfound friendship with Gary,
and it gave Red Feather time to ponder he feelings for Chaim. Some of my friends
in Ashawa were puzzled by my adoption of Red Feather. I don't mean judgmental
critics, but well-meaning friends. "Why are you doing this, Jake?" they would
ask.

      The topic came up often enough for me to develop a two-part reply. First
off, it wasn't just me adopting him: Red Feather adopted me, too, as his father.
Second, adoption takes many forms across cultures. Ojibwe have two words for
adoption: bami' (foster and support), and waangoon (formal adoption). To our
Ojibwe friends, our legal adoption (waangoon) formalized and already existing
bami'-relation. The Ojibwe accepted it without question. All too often, we project
our personal experiences onto others as if they were universal truths, so to some
people it seems absurd that a 26-year-old bachelor-farmer-writer would adopt a
19-year-old Ojibwe ex. But in ancient Rome, a Senator or an Emperor often
adopted a son for his heir or successor. He did it to provide legal stability to the
family estate. One of the most powerful emperors, Caesar Octavian Augustus,
was adopted by Julius Caesar, his great uncle. Adoption didn't come easy. The
Senate had to approve, sometimes amid controversy, but my point is that it
happened. That was my spiel. It got me puzzled looks. For people who think that
marriage is exclusive to a man and a woman, the logical deduction is that only
THEY can have families. Still, folks got used to our father-son status.