Marie Sexton - Promises

“You’ll be warmer in your bag without your clothes,” I told him as I climbed into my bag. “That way, it’s just your body warming the bag, and the bag warming you. The layers of clothes will get in the way. Of course, it’s hell when you have to pee in the night. But you’ll be warmer. Trust me.” I was all zipped up now, starting to feel toasty and already getting drowsy. “You can leave your thermals on if you want.” I yawned. “Weren’t you a Boy Scout?”

“No. We never stayed anywhere long enough.” He was starting to get undressed now. He raised his eyebrow at me playfully and said, “I think this is all just a ploy to get me naked.”

I laughed. “You’re right. In fact, it’s going to be so cold tonight, our only hope for survival is for you to share my bag.” He laughed a little at that, too, but then he pulled his shirt off, and it was all I could do not to stare. His body was amazing, just as I had always imagined: strong and lean and heavily muscled. There was no hair on his chest but a little around his navel and a dark trail of it that got thicker as went down to where it disappeared under the waistband of his sweats. I could picture all too clearly the thick, black hair that trail led to. Suddenly the idea of him sharing my bag, although it had been a joke, was foremost in my mind. I couldn’t help but imagine having his smooth skin against mine, following that trail with my fingers to the hair below. My body was reacting in a way that would have horrified him, and I was glad that I had managed to get into my bag before he started undressing.

I closed my eyes while he undressed the rest of the way. No need to torment myself any more than I already had. I heard him climb into his bag and zip it up, and then the lantern went off.

It was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Jared?”

“Hmmm?”

“Good night.”

I had embarrassingly erotic dreams about him all night and woke up crazy horny in the morning. He was already up, and I took advantage of the empty tent to try and alleviate my predicament as quickly and quietly as I could. Once I was up and dressed and made it outside, I was happy to find that he had made coffee. He gave me the pseudo-grin as he handed me a cup of it.

“What’s so funny?” I asked him.

“You talk in your sleep.”

Oh shit! Of course, I knew that I sometimes talked while dreaming, and I tried to sound very casual as I asked, “What did I say?” I was hoping like hell it hadn’t been about him.

“You said, ‘let me follow it’, and I asked ‘follow what?’, and you said, ‘the trail’.”

I turned away so he couldn’t see me turning red and said, “I was dreaming about mountain biking.”

WE SPENT several weeks riding easy trails while he got the hang of mountain riding. He was in good shape, and what he lacked in skill he made up for in endurance. Finally, in early August, we decided to try one of the more challenging trails.

It was a sweltering hot day without even a breeze to cool us off. The stream crossings had all dried to bare trickles. The ground was baked to hard dust. It seemed like nothing was moving in the forest except us.

We were halfway up the trail when I heard him go down behind me. When I turned around, he was lying flat on his back on the dusty trail, but to my amazement, he was smiling. Not the pseudo-smile but a true, genuine, ear-to-ear smile. It was the first time I had seen it, and it was like the sun had finally emerged from behind the clouds.

“Holy shit, that hurt.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll live.” He sat up with a groan. “I think I’m getting old.” He had a huge scrape down front of his shin. “Hey, look at that!” he said in amazement. “I’m bleeding.” I think the smile got bigger.

“It’s not a successful ride if you don’t bleed.”

“Oh really? Did you get that out of the Masochist Biking Club handbook?”

“Sure did. It’s rule number three.”

I took advantage of the break to try to get my hair back into a ponytail. Curls were escaping all over the place and falling in my face. Matt stood up and inspected the damage to his leg. “The blood’s running down into my shoe.”

“Rub some dirt on it.”

“What?” He was laughing, still wearing that gorgeous smile and looking at me like I was crazy.

“Rub some dirt on it. It’ll help stop the bleeding.”

“Is that out of the masochist handbook too?”

“I think it’s a baseball thing.”

“Okay, but if I end up with a raging infection and have to get my leg amputated, I’m holding you responsible.”

“I’ll pay for your prosthetic.”

We made it to the top and stood looking down at the valley below us. He turned to me with that brilliant smile—that made twice I had seen it, and it took my breath away—and said, “The bike was definitely a good idea.”

We spent the rest of the summer together. I couldn’t remember ever being happier. It was so nice to have a friend to hang out with. At times I couldn’t help but wish that it was more, but it was never enough to dampen my enthusiasm for spending time with him. Finally, I wasn’t alone. It was the best feeling in the world.

We went camping and mountain biking and geo-caching. We went out to dinner or had dinner with Brian and Lizzy or just sat on my couch drinking beer and watching bad TV. Some nights we even cooked dinner at my house, and then he would help me do the dishes afterward. It felt strangely domestic.

One afternoon I found an old Battleship game in the closet, and we spent several days challenging each other until he caught me cheating. In my family, cheating was always part of the fun, but he was appalled by my blatant disregard for the rules and wouldn’t play again after that.

Most of his evenings and days off, he spent with me. I knew he occasionally went to Cherie’s house after leaving mine, but true to his word, he did not seem to be interested in pursuing anything else with her. He never mentioned her at all. The couple of times that I half-heartedly suggested he invite her to join us, he looked at me like I had suggested the unthinkable. I didn’t mind.

“I BROUGHT stuff to make nachos,” Matt said as he came in from the kitchen and handed me a beer.

“You’re making nachos?”

He gave me the pseudo-grin. “I thought you were making nachos.” I threw my bottle cap at him. He ignored it and looked over at the TV. “Pre-season football? What’s the point?”

“It’s better than no football at all.”

“You know,” he said teasingly, “I don’t think gay guys are supposed to like football.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. But so far, nobody’s come by to revoke my ‘Gay Guys’ membership card.”

He laughed and then turned back to the TV. “The Cowboys and the Broncos? Damn, I might actually have to cheer for your Broncs on this one.”

I laughed in surprise. “Really? I’m amazed.”

“I always root against the Cowboys just to piss my dad off.”

“I forgot he was a Cowboys fan. I’ll have to cheer against them from now on, too, just on general principle.”

“Only one more week,” he said, and I knew exactly what he was talking about. We were counting down the days until regular season started. He was the first person I had ever met, not counting my father and Brian, who was as excited about pro football as I was. “And the week after that, we’ll be watching my Chiefs kicking ass all over your Broncos,” he said. As division rivals, our teams would play each other twice in the season.

“We’ll see.”

“Loser buys dinner for a week.”

“Deal.”

He held up his beer, like a toast, but winced a little as he did.

“Are you still sore from that bike crash last week?”

“Yes. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except now I can’t sleep right. This morning I woke up with a huge knot in my shoulder. I think it’s a sign of impending old age.”

I said, without really thinking about it, “I can help you with that, you know.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, which meant he was almost laughing. “With old age?”

“No, smartass, with your shoulder.”

“How?”

He was sitting forward on the edge of the couch, so it was easy for me to get up and sit on the back of it behind him. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?” He twisted around and looked at me in horror like I had just suggested he strip naked and dance for quarters.

“Settle down.” I smacked him on the back of the head. “I’m good at this. I used to do it for my mom. She would get knots in her shoulder from painting for hours at a time.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Look, you don’t need to feel weird about it or anything.” He looked skeptical. “I’m not making a pass at you, I swear.”

“Okay.” Maybe a little less skeptical now.

“It hurts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So stop being freaked out and take off your shirt, you baby. This will help. Trust me.”

There’s nothing as good as calling a big tough guy a baby to get him to do what you want. He thought about it for a second and then shrugged a little. “Okay.” He pulled his shirt off and turned back to the TV. “Nothing below the belt.” He said it so I knew it was at least halfway a joke, and I laughed.

“I promise.”

He was still sitting forward on the couch, not leaning back against me, which made it easier. His back was broad and very muscular. It was certainly nothing like rubbing my mom’s small, lax shoulders, and I quickly started to appreciate how strong a person’s hands would have to be to do this for a living.