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Blue Willows

By Gregory L. Norris


Sometimes the best sex happens in the strangest of places. For naïve musician Brent Dunne and brooding, handsome man-of-mystery Joe Legere, that place is a men's retreat in the Adirondacks designed to help the tougher sex get in touch with the beauty of being male. Great sex soon evolves into something far deeper – a love blessed by a mysterious supernatural presence. The young lovers will need all the help they can get when the same dark forces dogging Joe close in to destroy them.



“Don’t be shy or nervous,” said Mister Lang.

The old hippie’s musical baritone again hypnotized Brent.

“Please, touch him. Touch him anywhere you’d like. As modern men, we’ve become disenfranchised from the male body out of fear and prejudice – by our peers, by the conservative media, and by our own preconceived notions of what it might imply. We’ve grown ashamed of what it means to have a cock and how it feels to be a man.”

Brent blinked himself out of the trance created by the melody of Mister Lang’s voice, the humid, earthy scent of the woods and the fresh morning rain, and the image of the volunteer standing in the parade-rest stance of a soldier before the phallic totem in one of the camp’s sacred spaces. He’d noticed this man soon after his arrival at the men’s retreat weekend; he’d been walking along the lake alone, a solitary male figure looking forsaken in this vast bucolic landscape. He seemed even more lost now, surrounded by nearly a dozen naked men ranging in ages from Brent’s twenty-two seasons up to the golden years of silver pubes.

Brent was surprised by the flicker of jealousy that jolted through his blood when one of them placed a hand on the volunteer’s midriff, a terrain of ripped muscles and coarse, dark fur.

The volunteer, the lost soul, tensed. The wounded look in his eyes, a pair of magnificent twin emeralds, intensified. Some unaffected register in Brent’s dazed thoughts noticed the handsome man’s throat as it knotted under the influence of a heavy swallow, the perfection of his naked body shuddering at the physical contact. Fresh sweat dripped out of the dark thatch at his hairline. Beads of perspiration clung to the lush hair on the crossbar of the T-shaped pattern stamped over his torso.

“A man is more than a cock and raw, ruthless lust,” Mister Lang continued. “A man embodies the spirit of a warrior. His greatest desire is to be a hero, to make his family happy and to protect them from all harm. The need is no different whether he’s straight, gay, or bisexual. Inside, all men dream of being champions and when we are given that chance, we fulfill our destinies.

“The man before you wants to be a hero, and he will be. He will rise up. Touch him. Feel this man, this hero.”

Brent reached a shaking hand toward the man, a volunteer from among the attendees who hadn’t really volunteered so much as he’d been chosen by Mister Lang. But then he caught the tick-tocking swing of his cock and realized he had gotten hard, somewhere during the a capella solo of Mister Lang’s voice. His face flushed and he withdrew his hand to conceal his erection. Brent turned away, but the power infusing Lang’s words spun him back.

“Wait. Are we to be embarrassed by the swellings of our cocks? Have culture and religion shamed our erections into the shadows, along with our male emotions? Be proud, young brother. There is nothing to fear in the excitement of your magic wand.”

Removing his hands and allowing his hard length to hang in the open for all to see was the second-greatest feat of Brent’s life. The first had come less than a day earlier, when the clothing-is-prohibited rule went into effect. Getting out of his blue jeans and his underwear had taken a Herculean effort; now, among these strangers, he had thrown a boner and was being asked to display it without shame.

“What is a man?” Mister Lang asked.

Tapping his walking stick, he stepped closer to Brent, a tall slender figure with a gray ponytail reaching almost to the sagging flesh of his bare ass and an enormous length of foreskin drooping down his front. The neck of his cock was decorated with a wreath of wildflowers picked from the nearby meadow.

“Modern man is body hair and skin and smells. Musk and foot odor and hairy legs and balls that sweat and facial stubble that must be shaved daily, right?”

Shoulders shrugged and grumbles passed around the men.