Backpack Jack

Backpack Jack By R.W. Clinger I see him on Hollandale Trail, just as I’ve seen other men on the hiking trail near my A-Frame along Lake Erie in western Pennsylvania. He’s just one of a few handsome men in the last handful of years that have passed through my life. Frick Donovan. Jory Oliver. Cannon Donaldson. Nate Bachman. But this hiker is handsomer than those men. This one has thick black hair, eyebrows you can use a mower on, narrow nose at its tip, and a day’s stubble on his cheeks and chin. He might be Italian, or Nordic. I place him at six-three and one hundred and eighty pounds, thin but muscular; one of those no-fat bodies hikers sometimes have. He has to be thirty-two or -three. And he blends in with the summertime oaks and maples because of the green T-shirt covering his slim chest. His jeans are snug and show off his rounded, medium-build bottom. His boots look like a cognac, Columbia Newton Ridge II type with lumberjack red laces. And the pack on his back is a familiar label, a Yeti, just a shade darker than the cotton that covers his chest. Although he’s almost forty feet away, I can see firm n*****s poking through his T-shirt, and his lean and chiseled ladder-like abs. I’m in the gravel drive next to the A-Frame and just finished changing the oil in my Jeep Wrangler. Why pay some hunky mechanic in downtown Templeton—Lou Bell and his sexy cousin, Keith Marsden, at Lou’s Garage—to do it when I can accomplish the task on my own? Six quarts of high-grade 10W30 oil. One hour of semi-squirming under the vehicle. Hell, any man can put his mind and hands to the labor if they really want; something I’ve always told myself. I’m filth-covered and should be wearing a shirt. But silly-ass-me decides to change the oil in a pair of Wolverine work boots, snug jeans, and no shirt. My bare, well-cut, and suntanned torso has splashes of oil across it. Hard pecs and dented abs are dotted with lines of the black liquid. Even my gloves are splotched with oil because of a careless job on my part, although I do have the skills to process such a task even though I’m not a professional mechanic. Handsome Hiker stands on the south edge of my five-acre property where Hollandale Trail skirts. The trail’s been there since the beginning of time. Any Templeton history book will agree with me. It was used by slaves in the 1800s, helping their survival and fleeing from the South. The trail met the underground railway in Lisbon, eight miles east from Templeton, and the slaves used it to reach safe harbors in New England. More history explains the trail was used by the Iroquois Indians for hunting. No matter what the details of the trail provide, its history is rich and quite important to Templeton, because it has played a part in human life throughout the ages. Today more history will be made. Sexy, alluring history. Listen…Handsome Hiker waves. It’s masculine with a twist in his right wrist. He calls out, “Howdy!” which nobody says this day and age in these northern parts of the good old USA, but it’s agreeable to my ears. Now he smiles: alluring, broadly, wholesome, somewhat boyish with a masculine essence or hint to it. Not a bad smile at all. I wave back and share my pretty boy smile. This is what my friends, Carl Locker and Dean Harding, call my looks. The married couple teases me about my golden blond curls and wintry blue eyes. Carl is always telling me I should have been a model or Hollywood star. Dean is more playful and thinks I should be in adult movies, strutting my tight bottom in men’s faces, and swinging my lengthy d**k here and there. Honestly, I’m pretty happy using my smarts and architectural degree at Cutter Designs—my business for the last eight years, designing fancy log cabins for wealthy clients. Handsome Hiker removes a plastic bottle from his backpack, unsnaps its d**k-like n****e, and takes a sip. A string of water glides down and over his chin, and the cords along his neck. He slips the container into his pack, wipes the back of his left arm over his mouth to clean up remaining droplets, and calls out, “Nice July day!” It is. Eighty-two degrees with very few clouds and no humidity. Blue and white and eat-it-up-nice-and-right. One of the best days tucked against Lake Erie. “Nice is an understatement!” I yell back. He’s a forward man and begins to narrow the gap between us. As he closes in on me, I notice two, obviously clear, physical traits regarding the young man. One, although his upper half resembles something reliable, his thighs are like tree trunks: thick and threaded with pulsing muscle. And two, his crotch looks threatening: nothing shy of a fence post’s width, and just as high. Perhaps the latter is an exaggeration, but, here and now, the hiker has one of the largest private parts I have ever consumed with my eyes. God bless him. Give me an Amen! Do I lick my lips? How embarrassing, and unfortunate. And it’s not because I’m nervous to meet the stranger. It’s because I haven’t seen such a handsome man on my property since the summer before. A Mr. Jory Oliver from Canton, Ohio, someone boyish, cute, and ginger, a temporary (if I recall correctly, it was three hours…no, four) weakness for my s****l delight during an August thunderstorm. Man-with-man lovemaking at its finest. A banging good time between us as our bodies pounded together. In truth, I act uncivil and lick my lips because I have an immediate attraction to Handsome Hiker, drawn to the stranger: his overt and fine looks; the immediate rising feeling of excitement between my legs; a tingle near the specific area beneath my blonde-haired navel; pure gravitational lust at work; it must be lust; has to be.