Man for Man

A Dark and Stormy Night


We met at the little cafe at the center of the village, just after dawn on that dark winter's day. We'd talked a lot on the phone and collaborated together on the grant proposal and the survey we had wanted to do on the sand spit between the ocean and the bay.


Tim and I had met each other about ten years ago at a conference, yet our respect for each other's expertise in the field had been established several years before that, as we had read each other's research papers, and then began commenting on our respective papers and research.

Still, this was the first time we were actually going to work together in the field, surveying the bird life, gathering the data we needed to carry out the grant proposal that had finally been funded last month. We had a number of hypotheses and needed to get the field research done in order to do the statistics, the analysis, and the writing of the three papers that would come out of the grant and all of our work.

I found Tim in the back booth, coffee mug in hand, and a day pack, rain coat, and a worn pair of binoculars sitting on the scarred, wooden table. The waitress caught my eye and I just nodded. Coffee at this time of the morning was just a given, especially as the latest squall of sideways rain and wind rattled the door of the cafe. The latest gust of wind off the ocean tried to break the door off of its hinges, so I leaned into it with my shoulder, shoving the door shut against the storm moving fast off the coast, pushing hard against the mountains.

January. That said it all. The height of the winter storm season. We didn't get snow this low and being next to the beach, well, except for a couple of days when the Arctic blast moved south of Seattle and swirled around a front just west of the beach, the few times when the beach turned white with snow and the pass to Portland turned into a sheet of ice.

This one, though, was warm enough that all that moisture just fell as rain, raising the river levels a couple of feet in a few hours, and driving even the hardiest fishermen off the ocean and into a snug harbor, where there was cold beer and good conversation in all of the local bars.

Tim and I, though, were the exception. Everyone else would be hunkering down in their houses, or hanging out at the cafes most of the day, sipping coffee and telling stories, or finding an excuse to mosey on home and spend the afternoon making love and getting drunk on the lower half of a bottle of hooch.

We were the mad scientists, though, and this weather was actually part of the research we needed to do, to study wildlife and how all the birds handled sideways rain and the occasional gust of 70 mph winds.

We'd come to like each other a lot over the last couple of years. We had the same scientific mind, and often exchanged long e mails critiquing each other's research and journal articles, and sending each other our recent favorites we'd found from other experts in our field. Tim had a sharp mind, and a wry sense of humor, and he'd begun sharing his dry assessment of our less astute and egg-headed colleagues.

Tim kept his personal life pretty well under wraps, though, and he had just recently told me that he was single, and wasn't tied down to any family obligations. I'm a pretty private guy myself, and my last lover moved out last summer, leaving me a bit lonely, yet relieved at being done with a dead love life with someone who'd been cheating on me. At least he'd had the decency to leave me with a few bottles of single malt as a good bye.

We'd rented a cabin for the two weeks, just out of town. It had a wood stove, and a big living room overlooking the bay, a perfect place for us to spread out our paperwork and collaborate on the research project. We had two weeks here, just the two of us. Plenty of time to tramp around the sand spit, the ocean beach, and the mud flats along the bay, making our observations, and doing the leg work we needed.

The evenings and the days when the wind howled the loudest would find us working together next to the woodstove, our laptops and notebooks, and the dozen reference books I'd boxed up, strewn around the big planked table in the center of the room. Some of the folks at the university felt sorry for me, having to spend two weeks in the dead of winter, trudging through the storms and sand, spending my time in a dead little fishing town.


Me, I thought it was heaven. The work was a pleasure, and I loved the feel of the ocean spray against my face, the wind and salt spray whipping through my beard, and working with a guy who had a gifted brain and a great sense of humor about our work, and about life. Besides, we both liked the same brand of Scotch, and we'd been e-mailing our thoughts about how much Scotch it would take to make it through the project. Research materials, we called it.

After we'd drained the first mug of coffee, the waitress returned with a fresh pot, and we ordered breakfast. No sense rushing off to the sand spit, without a full belly and not enough coffee. Besides, the storm was getting a bit stronger, and any bird in his right mind would be hunkered down in the brush until the winds eased off a bit.

We caught up on the details of our prep work, and planned out our two weeks. It was like a vacation for both of us. No meetings, no conference calls, not even any e mails. We'd made sure that our staffs thought that we were going to be in the boonies and didn't have internet service at the cabin. That wasn't true, but we weren't going to enlighten them. We both needed a break in the routine of our lives, and the ability to really get away and do some real work for a change.

After the waitress took away our now empty plates, the storm calmed a bit, and you could actually see more than a hundred yards down the beach. It was time to take our first hike down the spit, and start our research.

Tim grinned at the thought, his smile splitting his newly bearded face. He'd worn a moustache during the last few years, but now, he hadn't shaved for a couple of days and the stubble across his chin and across his jaw and cheeks was a nice salt and pepper of thickening stubble.

"Thought I'd give it a try," he said, when I mentioned his start of a beard. "I like how your beard looks, and well, we have two weeks. Didn't think you'd mind being around me, all stubble faced and scraggly."

"Not at all, Tim," I replied. "I like beards. I've had mine since my college days. They come in handy during winter storms, too. Keeps my face a bit warmer," I chuckled.

Tim laughed, too, his laugh resonating deep in his thick chest and his belly.

I couldn't help but taking a good look at him, this morning, as he drained the last gulp of java out of his mug. Below the salt and pepper whiskers that were starting to thicken across his jaw and chin, and down to his Adam's apple, there was a nice thicket of chest hair poking out of the top of his thermal undershirt and his plaid flannel shirt. My lust wondered a bit about how thick his fur was across his broad chest, and if there was a nice thick trail of fur leading down to his crotch.

My cock swelled a bit at the thought, my mind now wondering if his cock was cut or not, and if Tim's chest hair was more gray than black, and how sensitive his nipples were to a bit of tonguing and tugging.

We'd never really talked much about our sexual preferences. Tim was pretty quiet about his past lovers, and I wasn't really sure if he was straight or gay. About a year ago, I'd mentioned to Tim that I was gay, and he didn't seem to get excited about that, like a lot of people I know.

Not that I was looking. My last lover had left me with a pretty open wound in my heart, and I was feeling that I was just now starting to feel I could move on a bit, and maybe even think about dating. Not that there was a long line waiting to ask me out. Still, if someone wanted to pick me up sometime, I'd probably say yes, just to be able to feel I was alive again. My cock always seemed to not be able to refuse a good blow job, or an evening greased up and sliding into a wet hole between a nice set of hard butt cheeks.

We drained the coffee from our bladders in the bathroom, paid the waitress at the register, and headed off down to the parking lot at the base of the spit. Our rigs were loaded with our gear for the trip, as well as the food we'd bought for two weeks at the cabin. Except for the breakfasts at the cafe, eating out was pretty hit and miss around here. Besides, Tim said he likes to cook and dinner would be his specialty for the time we were here. That fit in well with our desire to experiment with Scotch.


The day passed quickly, as we hiked down to the end of the spit, four miles in soft, wet sand. We ate our lunch of granola bars and jerky overlooking the mouth of the bay, and then headed back on the bay side, finding the deer trails through the marsh grass, brush, and scrubby beach pines, until we hit the parking lot about half an hour before dusk.

The rain had turned to showers, but we were a sodden mess by the time we reached our pickups, what with the rain, tramping through the wet brush and trees, and working up a good sweat. We'd taken turns leading on our hike, and I'd found myself admiring Tim's tight butt through his rain pants, thinking about all that hair and sweat in his crotch, my cock swelling a bit with my fantasies of getting to know Tim a whole lot better.

I didn't have these thoughts a few months ago, when we'd stayed at the cabin for a long weekend, hammering out the final draft of our grant application, and doing a bit of field work, as part of the application. Tim had shown off his culinary skills and we'd had a good talk about our lives, as we had worked on a bottle of Scotch and sat in the hot tub out on the deck. Tim played his guitar a bit and sang some mournful and lonely country songs. They were the songs I'd wanted to hear and sing, too, so we had had a good time together.

As the light dimmed, and the western sky turned red, warning of yet another front ready to roll through during the night, we stowed our day packs and binoculars and notebooks, and caravanned to the cabin, with promises of a good stiff drink, a dip in the hot tub, and dry clothes.

In a few minutes, we had unloaded all of our gear, and the supplies for our two weeks in our cabin. It was time to unwind and warm up.

I started a fire in the woodstove, as Tim mixed our drinks. As I shut the cast iron door after the fire got going, I looked over to Tim, busy stripping off his shirt and undershirt, exposing his deeply furred chest and belly. Pinkish nipples poked through thick tufts of fur swirling around his areoles and the thicker pelt in the center of his chest. The smell of his day's sweat wafted through the cabin, his armpits musky and dank, the damp hair glinting in the fading light of the day.

He slid his belt open and dropped his pants and shorts, tossing them across the couch, his cock dancing a bit in the midst of a thick patch of fur, his large balls dangling underneath his uncut meat.

"Time's a wasting, my friend," Tim chuckled. "I've been thinking about the hot tub all day."

It didn't take me long to join in Tim's choice of dress for the hot tub, and in two minutes, we were neck deep and bare assed in the hot tub, our tumblers of Scotch and soda lined up on the deck, close at hand.

It was pitch black outside, the only lights being the occasional flash of the lighthouse beacon about eight miles up the coast, its white beam barely lighting up a few of the low clouds that were moving in. A dim light shined out of the living room, giving me enough light to see the glint of the drops of water in Tim's stubbly face, after he had sunk under water for a bit, when he first got in. I'd been able to catch his bare ass cheeks and his large, furry ball sack in the light, before he slid into the tub, ahead of me. My cock, despite the long day, swelled a bit at the sight of all that furry muscle and hairy balls, needing to be cupped and played with a bit, in my hot, horny hands.

Soon, we were soaking up the heat of the water, and the heat of the first few sips of Scotch that hit our empty bellies. Our tired leg and back muscles relaxed a bit in the heat and the massage of the water jets, chasing away the chill of the long day's hike.

"Two weeks of this. Hope we can take it," Tim chuckled. "No meetings, no phones, no obligations, except hiking the spit and taking notes."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "This is the life."

We sat there in the silence, letting the heat penetrate every muscle and feeling the Scotch unwind whatever tensions of our work life back in the city had remained.


"I'm looking forward to getting to know you a lot better in the next two weeks," Tim said, his voice quiet against the roar of the surf crashing into the base of the cliff. "We work together well, but, well, I'd like to be real friends."

I nodded, his words catching me off guard. I wasn't expecting him to go so deep, and to tell me what he's wanting. Men don't do that, I thought. At least not in this profession. We are supposed to keep it on a professional, scientific level. Real friendship in academia and research is pretty rare. At least for me. I really hadn't found anyone in our work who I could call a real friend.

We talked then, a lot, about what friends are, and how hard it is to have real friendships. And, how lonely we'd both been, over the years, as we worked our way up in the academic hierarchies, maneuvering through the politics and intrigues, and rivalries that seem to be inherent in our world.

Perhaps the Scotch helped, and when we'd finished the second round, Tim began to tell me about his love life, his marriage to his high school sweetheart, their divorce, and his struggle to start dating, in his mid thirties.

He asked me about what it was like to be gay, and work as a gay man in a university where people claimed to be liberal and open minded, yet were quick to condemn and ostracize a person for their sexuality, for their vulnerability. We'd both seen fellow professionals open up, to be frank about their vulnerabilities, their experiences in life, their wisdom, only to see the vultures circle and rip out their hearts.

Real men didn't talk about their weaknesses, their doubts, their real desires. At least, that was the lesson that kept getting taught, again and again, in our institutions of inquisitiveness, of higher learning.

He wondered about how a gay man makes love, how they love another man. In the near darkness of the evening, and being bare assed naked sitting on the edge of the hot tub, steam rising off of our backs and furry chests, and furry faces, we talked about love, and sex, and being a lover. And, what we really wanted in love.

It wasn't all about the touching, the orgasms. It was deeper, wanting our real self to be honored, to be celebrated. To be trusted, and supported, as each of us could take the time to really see who we are, and who we wanted to become in our lives. And, to not be afraid to take that journey, or go it alone along that path.

I told him of the sadness and drama of breaking off a dead relationship, and how that had made me a bitter, and too private of a guy, hiding myself from some opportunities, well most opportunities for finding love in my life, and really finding out who I am inside.

Tim spoke, too, of loves lost, and loves that turned into sharp spears thrust into his chest, when he was most vulnerable, and most in need of just being loved for who he was.

Warm now, we toweled off and went back inside, the woodstove doing its job to heat up the cabin. Our conversation had lowered the barriers quite a bit between us. We'd talk about anything now, our friendship and our trust for each other gone to a new, deeper level. I slipped on a pair of sweat pants, dropping my towel and catching Tim take a long glance at my cock. He slipped on a pair of sweats, too, and, like me, didn't reach for a shirt -- enough clothing for us now.

Tim's muscular chest and well developed arms kept my eyes entertained, the fur around his nipples and the long happy trail down his belly keeping me interested in getting to know him a lot better on this trip.

Tim started cooking dinner, his strong biceps and thick, muscular chest moving around the kitchen with a comfortable ease. Soon, the smell of broiled salmon, and home fries and onions filled the cabin, as I tossed up a salad and opened a bottle of Pinot Gris.

Our hot tub confessions had moved our friendship down the road, and our conversation lightened up a bit, with stories of lust and sex, and embarrassing moments with lovers. We laughed about dates gone awry and embarrassing moments in the heat of passion.


The wind picked up strength after dinner, rattling the windows and whistling down the stove pipe. I added a few more chunks of wood, keeping the living room nice and toasty. The lights flickered a bit, then went out, and I lit a kerosene lamp on the coffee table, giving the room a nice golden light, which picked up the soft black and gray curls that splayed across Tim's bare chest.

I asked Tim if he'd ever made love with another man. What the heck. It's where this conversation is headed, anyway. And, it seemed like he wanted to talk about that.

"Well, one time, in college, after a lot of drinking one night. There was a guy in my dorm, and he took me to his room. We fooled around a bit, but I was too drunk to really get it up," he said, blushing a bit and looking out the window into the ink black night.

"Did you like it?" I asked.

There was a pause. The wind was blowing the rain against the window overlooking the ocean, and the wood stove cracked and popped a bit. Probably time to throw another piece of wood on the fire.

"Yeah, I did," Tim said. "I'd always wanted to do something like that, to try it out."

We talked about Tim growing up in a church where gay sex and even sex outside of marriage was looked at as mortal, eternal damnation sin. Yet, several of the elders of the church cheated on their wives and one minister was obviously bisexual. Young women who became pregnant before marriage were unceremoniously kicked out of the church, even though the story of the Immaculate Conception and Mary being an unwed mother was a big part of the annual Christmas pageant at Sunday School.

All that contradiction and hypocrisy drove Tim out of his family's church, despite the family and peer pressure to go to teen night and all the other church functions, the center of social life in a small town for most teenagers.

Tim told me of his dating in high school, losing his virginity in the back seat of his dad's car after the homecoming game. Other kids thought he was a big stud, and he ended up putting more than a few notches in his belt before he finished high school and went off to college.

Still, he liked guys, too, and sometimes got a hard on in the locker room, or watching a porno with the guys at college, fantasizing a bit about the studs in the movies, and wondering what it would be like to be bedded by the porno studs, or a famous actor.

All that brought a lot of shame and guilt into his life, making him doubt who he was, and how big of a sinner he really was.

After his marriage failed, Tim tried to get back into the dating scene, but his heart really wasn't into it. After ten years of marital strife, and his wife's repeated affairs, the last one with another professor in his department, Tim's heart wasn't quite into going back to his role as the campus stud, or a guy who was going to play the field.

"How do you deal with all the guilt and shame bullshit that's out there?" he asked. "I mean, is it just as screwed up for a gay guy as it is for a straight guy, with all the dating games and crap out there?"

I nodded, agreeing with him that other people put a lot of pressure on a guy to be the macho stud, yet be the monogamous, hard working provider for the family.

"I don't have all the answers, either, Tim," I said. "But, I'm old enough now to not really give a hoot about what other people think I should be doing in bed, or who I'm doing it with."

"Besides, it's really not anyone's business who I sleep with, or what gets me off, when I'm with someone."

Tim nodded, agreeing with my to the point view of politicians and gossipers and people who spend a lot of time passing judgement on someone else's sex life.

"We're scientists, Tim, and sex is as much about biology as anything in our lives. It's a basic part of who we are. Our hormones, and our basic drive to find intimacy and be sexual with someone is just basic biology. We really are living to have sex with each other. It's about as primal as you can get," I added.

"So, any money I spend on my sex life is really professional development?" Tim joked. "I need to tell that to my accountant."


We both laughed, enjoying each other's company, and our ability to bring any discussion back to our work.

"So, maybe I can ask you to be part of my experiment," Tim asked, his voice dropping to just barely a whisper.

"And, what would that be, Mr. Professor?" I asked, noticing Tim fidgeting with the string on his sweat pants.

"I'd like you, uh, I'd like you to make love to me, so I can figure all this sex stuff out. I want to know who I really am, and what I'm attracted to," Tim said. "And, I trust you, Mike. I know you'll help me out with all this."

I nodded, tears clouding my eyes, my heart reaching out to this half naked guy who's just ripped open his chest and handed me his beating heart. I'd never had someone put all their emotions in my hands before, and ask me to be a real lover to them. My lust had been running at a good pitch tonight, but Tim's request was deeper, more soulful.

I wiped away the tear that had spilled out of my eye, catching in my beard. I choked a bit, my throat tight with the feelings Tim had stirred up in me, feelings of trust, and openness, and compassion.

"Yes. Yes, I would. And, that's going to be something new for me, too, Tim," I said, as another tear, a tear of gratitude, and humility, and trust, ran down my cheek.

"This storm sounds like it's going to go all night and half way into tomorrow. That pretty much cancels out our field work, so we better plan on working this experiment the rest of the evening and all day tomorrow," I chuckled.

Tim joined in, taking in a deep breath, filling his hard chest with air and letting it out, laughing and chuckling with me.

"We're scientists, right?" he said. "So, we better make sure we explore all the variables."

I took Tim in my arms, pulling him off the couch in front of the wood stove, feeling the strength in his bare shoulders, my hands feeling the tightness underneath the light fur that covered his shoulders, his musky nervous sweat in his armpits filling my nose with his odor.

My own armpits were wet, too, with lust, and with excitement, and nerves.

"What if I screw this up", I thought. "What if this turns out to be a really bad one night stand, and we still have to work with each other here for two more weeks. What if...?"

Tim's lips pushing into my moustache, and on my own lips interrupted my thought, his hand running down my bare chest, stroking the curly hair, and finding a nipple to caress. He closed in on me, his groin pushed tight against the cotton fleece of my sweat pants, his hardening cock warm and stiff against my own cock.

His other hand moved tight against my neck, running down my back, pulling me even tighter against him, until our chest hair pressed tight, until I could feel the dampness of his pecs, and the steady breath of his lungs, and the beat of his heart.

The room fell silent, except for the occasional wind gust and patter of rain against the window.

"Thanks," Tim breathed into my ear, his stubbly beard and thick moustache intertwined with my beard, his nervous, lustful sweat strong in my nose.

We kissed then, and again. Tim's tongue explored my moustache, my lips, and danced with my own tongue. I felt him grow harder, longer, against my own groin, feeling his hardness and my blood fire bring my own cock into life, my balls pulling up under my manhood, a bit of precum oozing out of my cock head, dampening my sweat pants.

Tim's hand found the knot in my waistband, string and slowly tugged the knot open, until my pants slipped down across my butt, and hung on the end of my cock, now nearly erect, throbbing with my hot blood.

"Feel me, Tim," I whispered, my breath warm against his stubbly jaw.

His hand reached down, gripping the shaft of my manhood, his warmth adding more fire to the lust that was building up in my balls, and the hot sweat now dripping down my ribs from my armpits.

My pants fell to the floor, the cool air of the cabin against the skin of my butt cheeks and my furry balls. I kicked the pants off my feet, until I stood against my lover, naked, ready for what he was going to do with me.

Tim kissed me again, our moustaches meshing together, my nose filled with the spicy musk of his sweat drenched armpits and the dampness of his chest. I reached down, feeling his hard cock and heavy balls beneath the fabric of his pants, and the damp spot on his pants soaked by what would be my first taste of his seed.

I slid down his naked chest and belly, and the soft cotton of his sweat pants, until my mouth found the outline of his hard cock pushing against the crotch of his pants. Hungrily, I took him into me, then, cloth and cock, his salty precum on my tongue, the heat of his loins against my nose and beard.

Slowly, I stroked him with my lips, my tongue, wetting him with my saliva, until most of his shaft was drenched with my lubrication. My hands grabbed onto his waistband, sliding his pants down his hard, muscled butt and around his hard manhood and his balls, nestled deep within the thick, musky fur of his groin, until he, too, was bare assed naked, and hard in my mouth.

I suckled him, then, slowly at first, taking my time playing the corona of his cock, the slippery foreskin, and then the hard veined shaft of his cock, until my lips and beard caught on the long, curly hairs of his ball sack.

Tim groaned, moaning my name, as I danced with him, playing my long version of my love song on his cock, cupping his balls with one hand, as the fingers on my other hand played the other part of my symphony on his hardening, aching nipples.

I pushed against the inside of one of his thighs, moving his legs farther apart, so I could cup and finger his balls, tugging them a bit, feeling his gonads rising higher, as he began rising to his climax, the first one of this stormy evening. His hard, hairy butt pushed harder against me, adding another rhythm to our dance, until he finally yelled, and the first long spurt of his seed filled my mouth, and dripped down my beard onto my now sweating chest.

We collapsed to the floor, in front of the woodstove, its heat adding to the fire that we had started a few minutes ago, me wordlessly fingering his now spent cock, and whispering his name.

The storm outside would rage for several days, yet would never equal the heights and surges inside our winter cabin retreat.

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Keywords: eating out / gay love / gay men / virginity / bisexual / bisexual / macho / eating out / gay sex / ball sack / free gay sex / bulls / gay date / ball sack / biceps / gay anal sex / shaved / hunk / locker room / lubricant / manhood / adult porn / relationship / ass cheeks / bear / his shaft / my butt / dad and son / mate / tight ass / virgin
In fictional stories it is fine to have sex without condoms, but in reality you should always use a rubber, regardless if you use Prep or not. Prep only protects for HIV, thats why other diaseases spread among Prep users that practice bareback sex.