The Hardest Thing

was floating on his back. I might as well have saved my breath—his underpants had turned transparent. I muttered, “Jesus,” and slipped in. The water was cold but good.
    I swam out for a hundred yards, then turned in a
big loop. Stirling was still floating, his head back, hair streaming out. His eyes were closed, and the sun sparkled on his wet body.
    I was getting a hard-on. That would have to be got rid of before I got out. For all I knew, this Lolita act was just another way of winding me up; if I laid a finger on him, let alone what was rising in my shorts, he’d scream rape and the game would be over. Another report in the papers, perhaps a spell in jail, and further unemployment.
    I thought about Mom and Grandma and amputations and dead kids—I’m never at a loss for things to make unwanted erections go away.
    When it was safe, I said, “Okay, Water Baby, you’ve had your swim. Let’s go.”
    We climbed out over the boulders. It could have been an accident, but when Stirling’s foot slipped I got a face full of wet, white cotton ass. I pushed him forward. It felt like a basketball.
    And then, as we stood dripping on the pine needles, he peeled his underpants down with no attempt to turn away from me. Damn, he was nicely put together. Everything in proportion. Nothing too big, nothing too small.
    Mom. Grandma. Amputations. Maggot-infested wounds.
    He started drying himself with his T-shirt, dabbing and wiping, turning this way and that. I stepped quickly out of my shorts, kicked them toward the car and struggled into my chinos. My legs were wet, a foot got caught in the fabric and I stumbled, nearly fell. In righting myself I turned full on toward Stirling, his shorts
unbuttoned, golden fuzz climbing from his crotch up to his belly button, his damp shirt bunched up in his hand.
    “Careful, Mr. Stagg,” he said. “Take your time.” He buttoned his shorts while I disentangled myself. My feet were covered in dirt and pine needles. “Need a hand?”
    “I’ll manage.” If he’d decided at that point to drop to his knees, I wouldn’t have stopped him. We were only separated from the road by a few trees; anyone could have driven in and seen us, but for a second I didn’t care. Stirling said nothing and watched me struggle into my clothes. By the time I was dressed—chinos over my bare ass—I was pretty much fully hard. I moved around the car and got into the driver’s seat.
    This time, he took the passenger seat.
    “Don’t forget to buckle up,” he said. He pulled the seatbelt across his chest; I saw the strap sinking into his silky golden skin. My cock ached. If we’d both been marines, getting into a vehicle after a spot of skinny dipping, I’d have had no hesitation about getting it out, with one of the usual lines— hey, how about giving a buddy a hand? Shit, I wish we had a couple of chicks with us right now. The traditional excuses.
    But now I felt awkward and angry. I started the car, revved the engine and sent pine needles and dirt flying as I sped out of the woods and back to the open road.

    We were close to Utica by late afternoon, taking a long loop away from our final destination, figuring that I needed to kill time; the plan was to arrive in the White Mountains by Friday. That left two full days on the road, and we might as well take the scenic route.
Stirling slept for a few hours, head resting on his bent arm. The hair in his armpits was pale and damp. Now that he’d washed some of the toiletries off his body, he gave out a nice scent of warm flesh.
    Around five o’clock we reached Richfield Springs, a little town with no outstanding features. I found a motel and rented a room from the old guy in the office; I don’t think he even looked me in the face.
    The room could have been anywhere in the United States. Two huge beds with floral covers, a ceiling fan, fancy glass lampshades and a tiny bathroom separated from the sleeping quarters by a folding door in brown wood-look plastic. The perfect, anonymous, cheap motel. Ferrari could not have wished for a better choice. A couple of cars were parked outside other rooms, but there was nobody around the parking area apart from an elderly German shepherd sitting in the shade of a dirty red pickup truck.
    Once we were inside, we were invisible.
    “Where the fuck is this?” said Stirling, looking around as if I’d pushed him into a completely alien environment.
    “Richfield Springs, New York. The Happy Highway Motel. Room