Date: Sat, 1 Dec 2012 16:25:27 -0500
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Wayward Island (2)

Wayward Island (Part 2)
How Randy Compared himself to Hrut in "Njals saga"
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. All characters are fictional and are not based on real persons. Most place-
names are fictional, too. Send comments and suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com.
Jake will respond to all sincere correspondents. Please consider supporting "Nifty
Stories" with a donation! To learn how, click "Donate" in the index heading.

      *   *   *   *   *  *  *

	My sleep was restless with thoughts of Randy. His short stature and red
Irish looks excited me. It's a cultural expectation that athletic hunks like me want
to date other hunks, like birds of a feather that flock together. I could have held
my own with beautiful people if I wanted to, but my eyes and my heart wandered
to outcasts, to guys who couldn't make the team or get into the club, or weaklings
who got beat up on the playground. If I were fated to wait for a sexy hunk, I
would be like a guard keeping vigil in front of a mirror, waiting for the image to
come alive. Randy didn't match my ideal exactly. He was too assertive for that.
He wasn't Mr. Right. But he had the appearance and physique of the "other," the
guy who would be left at a gay bar after everyone else had departed with their
mate for the night. In the Cities I could have been a nerd-magnet, if that's what I
wanted, but in the North Country, gay guys don't dare reveal themselves. Those
that do get outed. Life becomes such a misery that they end up moving to the
Cities after all.

	These were the thoughts that interrupted my sleep—-I tried to understand
why I was attracted to Randy, who had a leprechaun-like appeal that would
normally be reserved to other leprechauns. Some guys would say that I lacked
self-esteem—a weakness for which the remedy would be an affair with a guy who
ranked higher on the beauty-scale. Self-esteem wasn't my problem. I had lots of
friends in Ashawa and on the shores of the lake. More than once I had to fend off
attempts by well-meaning women to hook me up with a girlfriend. My excuses
were lame. It would be too embarrassing for me to disclose them even to you,
Dear Reader. I'm sure I wasn't the only eligible bachelor in need of a wife, but
equally sure that I was an object of discussion around dinner tables at which
young ladies were present. If they only knew how hopeless it was! However so, I
enjoyed being me, even though I seemed fated to be alone in my body. Unlike
fantasy-nerds, Randy was tangible—a real-life possibility. That was part of his
appeal.

	Randy was a self-proclaimed top. That message came loud and clear, and
was not part of his appeal. I had always fantasized myself in that role, unless the
relationship was to be exclusively oral. However so, I reasoned that "hunk versus
nerd" and "top versus bottom" were two separate issues. For me the first step was
to find a guy I could like. "Top versus bottom" could be negotiated later. I no
longer think this is the case, but at the time I was put off by internet "personals"
that sorted everyone into tops, bottoms, and versatiles.


	I showed up at Wayward Island Resort at nine. At breakfast we exchanged
cellphone numbers so we could talk on the phone on the way to Hibbing. I led the
way. Randy followed in the U-Haul. When we were on the highway, Randy called
on the phone: "Hope you had a good night."

	My sleep was restless, I said. Randy laughed. "So you stuck to your
promise. I did, too." We made small-talk on the highway, until Randy broached
the question: "Last night you said you're inexperienced. Do you feel comfortable
talking about that?"

	"I had a buddy in college," I said. "We exchanged blowjobs. That's about
it: mutual fellatio. We were inexperienced. We each had straight roommates, so
we didn't have many chances to meet. My buddy had mixed feelings about sex.
We graduated college and went separate ways. He felt relieved when that part of
his life was over. The last I word I heard from him was an invitation to his
wedding, which I didn't attend."

	"Most guys get more skin in high school."

	"Maybe in Chicago," I replied. "Welcome to the North Country, land of
repression."

	Randy: "In view of your vast experience, why do you think you're a top?"

	"I don't know," I said. "I guess I never thought about sex in any other
way."

      "I like being a top with athletic studs, Jake—especially when they are self-
proclaimed tops like you. It's my weakness," Randy said. "In case you were
wondering, lots of body builders and jocks get laid by nerdy normals."

	"I never thought of you as a nerd," I protested.

	"Of course you did, Jake, but it's kind of you to deny it. I like to play
`revenge of the nerds' `with jocky tops." Randy signed off. He had a knack for
leaving a guy with something provocative to think about. I knew he was messing
with my mind, but that didn't dissipate his power of seduction.

	The U-Haul center was a gas station off the highway in Hibbing. Randy
returned the truck. I offered to show him the sights. "What could there be to see in
a dump like this?" he asked.  "You'd  be surprised." We drove to a park
overlooking the open-pit iron mine. "The old town of Hibbing was here, but the
town was moved to make room for an enlargement of the mine," I explained.
"Apparently this happened twice in the history of Hibbing, so this is all that
remains of the second town." We could see street curbs and lighted lamp posts.
Lawns and gardens covered the ground where the homes of miners had been.

	We walked through the park to a viewpoint overlooking the mine. "It's the
largest open pit mine in the world," I said. "The Mesabi Iron Range is the ass of
the world, and Hibbing is the hole."

	We laughed, oblivious to other visitors who stood behind us while we
leaned on the iron rail overlooking the mine. "I won't carve out a hole quite that
large," Randy said.

	A good-looking Indian approached us.  He introduced himself as Billy
White Cloud, and handed us each a brochure with a picture of bears. "I couldn't
help but overhear you mention the town of Ashawa," Billy said, "so I think you
might want to visit our bear sanctuary in Orr. It's just a few miles north of
Ashawa, off the highway in the woods, on a side road on the highway to Orr."

	We looked at the brochure and talked about it with Billy. "It's a way to see
bears in the wild," he explained, "much better than the exhibit in Ely which is
really just a zoo. In the bear sanctuary in Orr, it's the people who are enclosed,
while the bears run free in the woods."

	"Why do I get the feeling that everything in this part of the world is in the
woods?" Randy asked. He looked at the business card that Billy had stapled to the
bear brochure. It had his name plus the name of a church in Crane Lake. "Mission
Church; Reverend Billy White Cloud," Randy read out loud. "By the way, I'm
Randy O'Grady, and my friend is Jake Preston." We all shook hands.

	"Crane Lake is a good twenty miles north of Orr," Billy said. "Our little
church is part on the Reservation. But you don't have to be an Indian to be
welcome there. I'd be so pleased if you wanted to worship with us some Sunday."

	"Chippewa, isn't it?" I asked.

	"That's right, Jake. Our little church is a place to get to know people in the
region who you wouldn't meet anywhere else." Billy King smiled. His eyes
twinkled sweetly. My gaydar buzzed.

	"I'm game for a trip to Crane Lake on Sunday," I said. "My friend Randy
will have to speak for himself."

	"Of course I'll come," Randy chimed in. Billy asked if we were planning
to visit other sites in Hibbing. I mentioned the Bob Dylan center, and the
Greyhound Bus Museum.

	"If you follow me in my car, I can lead you to the "Zimmerman" house
where Bob Dylan grew up. It's in a typical Hibbing neighborhood. It's unmarked,
but I know where it is. From there I can lead you to the Bob Dylan center, and the
Greyhound Bus Museum. Or if you prefer, you can leave your car here and I'll
drive you to around."

	We accepted Billy's offer. Billy was attracted mainly to me (no surprise),
but Randy had the charm to chat him up. Randy rode shotgun while I sat in the
back seat of Billy's Chevy.

	First we drove to a residential street in Hibbing. The houses looked alike:
modest two-story homes painted white, with one-car garages. Many of them had
"FOR SALE" signs on the lawn. Some had boats and campers in the driveways,
marked "FOR SALE' with shocking low prices.

	"It's sad but true that most people here are underemployed, or out of work
altogether," Billy said. "If you guys are in the market for a boat, even a Chris
Craft, or a car, or a camper, this is the place to buy."

	Billy packed his car in front of one of the homes. We got out and stood by
the side of the car, with Billy in the middle between us. As we looked at the
Zimmerman house, Randy moved in close to Billy. I did the same. Billy put one
arm around Randy, another around me. "This is the place where Bob Dylan grew
up," Billy said.

	An elderly lady came out of the house. She approached us. "Hello, I'm
Reverend Billy White Cloud," Billy said, and handed the lady his business card.
"We're here from Crane Lake and Ashawa. I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

	"Not many people know how to find this place," the lady said. "Bob
Dylan's home, you know. Would you like to come in?" We accepted the
invitation.

      The lady introduced herself as Mrs. Ravitch. "No relation to Bob Dylan,
but I do have a collection of memorabilia." She gave us a tour of the house. "I'm
pretty sure that this was Bob Dylan's bedroom," she said when we got to one of
the rooms upstairs. It was decorated with posters in frames, and record albums.
"And now you must stay for coffee," she said. Mrs. Ravitch was alone in the
world, and hungry for company. I took an immediate liking to her.

      We sat in the parlor (her word) and waited for the coffee to brew. We
moved to the kitchen table, where she served homemade donuts with the coffee.
"I don't get much company here, so you boys have brightened my day. I hope
you'll stop in again, next time you're in Hibbing," she said. She must have been
prescient. She seemed to sense that we three were more than friends, which
wasn't true at the time.

      "Of course we'll come back," Randy said. "But you must come to visit us
at my uncle's lodge. It's called Wayward Island Resort, on Lake Ashawa." He
handed her a business card from the resort. "We'll treat you to dinner." He
paused. "We can provide transportation," he added. "How about next Sunday?
We could pick you up early in the morning, take you to church in Crane Lake, and
then to Sunday dinner in the lodge." Randy wrote his cellphone number at the
bottom of the card. Mrs. Ravitch was thrilled at the prospect. We all agreed.

      "I would say that your missionary work in Hibbing has been quite a
success," Randy said to Billy as we returned to the car. "There's nothing more
effective than a grand old lady to bring three guys together." We had a plan.
Randy and I would visit Billy's church the next morning. On the following
Sunday, Randy and I would pick up Mrs. Ravitch, take her with us to Crane Lake.
After church we would all drive to Wayward Island for dinner.

      "You guys are mensch, aren't you?" Billy said as he got into the driver's
seat. "I'm impressed."

      "Maybe it's you who brings out the mensch in us," Randy said. Seated
beside him, he gave Billy a hug.

      We toured the Bob Dylan Museum, which offered lots of memorabilia, but
it didn't compare to the free tour that Mrs. Ravitch gave us. Then we moved on to
the Greyhound Museum. "Hibbing," Billy said. "This was the town where the
Greyhound Bus Line was started, as a bus service to the Iron Range towns, and
Duluth, and further south to the Cities."

      Billy drove us back to our car near the open pit mine. We promised we'd
see him on Sunday, and I invited him to my place afterward, for dinner. "You've
sure given us a lot to think about," I said to Billy.

      I took a different route home, through the mining town of Chisholm.
"There's one big site that we haven't seen, the Interpretative Center. But that's a
full day. Maybe somewhere to go with Mrs. Ravitch," I said. "She could probably
interpret a lot of the family history there."

      The road from Chisholm to Ashawa was deserted. After a few miles of
farms and woods, we came to Tamarack Swamp, ten miles of swampland with
tamarack trees, whose needles had turned to gold for the winter. The trees
glistened and shimmered in the sunlight.

      "How can a place be so dismal and beautiful at the same time?" Randy
said. "Seeing this would have been worth the trip, even if there hadn't been
anything else to see in Hibbing. It's an amazing place, Jake, and you're an
amazing guy."

      I noticed a wide space near the road and parked the car. We got out for a
closer look at the tamaracks. No cars were in sight. We held hands. We
exchanged kisses in the great Tamarack Swamp.

      "Have you thought about what I said, about me being a top?" Randy
asked.

      "I've been thinking about little else," I replied. "What are two tops to do if
they get together?"

      "Easy to say," Randy replied. "One of them has to sacrifice his ass for the
greater good, for the `summum bonum'. You're a philosophical guy. You work it
out. All you need next is a leap of faith."

      "I've been wondering what you've got in that package." I glanced at
Randy's crotch.

      "Ah, you'll have to be the judge of that," Randy said. He ignored my
oblique request for his specs.

      "I shouldn't have asked," I said. "I'm not as superficial as my question
made me out to be. It's character that counts. That, plus a leap of faith, as you
say."

      "Let me tell you a story," Randy said. "It's about an Icelander named
Hrut, more than a thousand years ago. I call him Hrut the Runt. In Iceland, Hrut
got engaged to a woman named Unn, who was the daughter of an important law-
giver named Mord. Before the wedding could take place, Hrut learned that he had
inherited an estate in Norway, so he delayed his marriage to Unn—for three years.
He sailed to Norway to claim his estate, and while he was there, he enrolled as a
guard in the court of King Hakon. He became King Hakon's lover, and stayed in
Norway for three years. Of course their relationship had to be kept secret. Many
people whispered that he was sleeping with the queen, when all this time he was
sleeping with the king. After three years of adventures and love-making, he
returned to Iceland and married Unn. Their marriage was not a happy one, for
reasons that no one could say, for Hrut was always kind to Unn. Two years went
by, and three years, and everyone could see that Unn was unhappy about
something. Finally, Unn went to her father, the law-giver Mord, and asked him to
arrange a divorce from Hrut. She told her father the reason for her unhappiness. It
was because Hrut was so well endowed that she could not enjoy sex with him in
the usual way. The result was a quarrel between Mord and Hrut. The story ends
with a scene in court, in which two boys and a girl pretended to be Mord, Hrut,
and Unn respectively. One of the boys said, `I'll be Mord and you be Hrut and I
will bring a lawsuit against you on grounds that you couldn't copulate with her!'
Mord was angry, and thrashed the boy with a switch, but Hrut came to his aid. He
gave the boy a gold ring and told him to stop hurting people's feelings. That was
the story of Hrut the Runt."

      We got back in the car. Tamarack Swamp was behind us. I asked Randy,
"So who am I in the story of Hrut: Hakon, or Unn?"

      "Well, you're not Mord," Randy chuckled. "In every relationship there are
more than two people involved." A long silence followed. "That was my version
of a story in "Njals saga"—hope it don't scare you off."

      "Hmm," I responded. We drove through Ashawa and caught the road to
the lake.

      "What?" Randy exclaimed. "I've been to college too. Do you think I
wouldn't know anything about "Njals saga"?"

      "You know more about it than me," I said. "What does "Njals saga" have
to do with me losing my virginity?"

      "Everything," Randy said. "The problem with virginity is that you only
get to lose it once. Most guys lose it too soon, when they're too young to know
what they're doing. They give it away to some jerk who takes him for granted and
doesn't value it either. He realizes later that he doesn't even like the guy. By then
his cherry is gone and he can't get it back, and the jerk he was with doesn't even
remember taking it. So what could have been a golden erotic moment is a
memory best forgotten. And it is forgotten: a waste of nature. You're old enough
to know better, Jake. You waited. Lucky for you!"

      I still couldn't work out the link between the "Njals saga" story and
Randy's discourse on virginity. The link is obvious to me now. Randy was using
both to sweet-talk me into a cherry-busting session. "Revenge of the nerds" is a
game for two. We were playing it. The prize was my ass.

	We got close to Wayward Island. "Tell you what," Randy said, "if you're
not ready, drop me off at the lodge. Or we can drive past the lodge and spend the
evening at your cabin. It's your choice."

	I saw the sign: "Wayward Island Resort." I drove past it. Wayward Island
was behind us. It was impulse on my part, not really a choice. Maybe that's the
way it always happens. I glanced at Randy. He gave me a sly smile that
accentuated his charming dimples. Lust gleamed in his eyes. He knew he was
going to get me. I saw that. I was caught up in a chain of events over which I had
no control. I was driving, but Randy was in the driver's seat.

       "Your Uncle Tom probably saw us drive by," I said.

	"A small price to pay for love," Randy said. "He'll find out soon enough,
anyway." He called Tom on his cellphone to say he was spending the night at my
place. The triumphant timbre in his voice was meant for me. "Thanks for letting
me know," Tom said on the phone. "I'm glad you two guys hit it off so well. It's
good to have friends."

	"Do you think he knows?" I asked Randy.

	"He hopes for the best for both of us," Randy said.