A Gay Hunter Says Hell No to a Blowjob
The Bear and the Slaughterhouse Boy, 5
Something in the boy’s voice made Jack jam his foot into the accelerator. He forgot he’d left the truck in reverse, so his head snapped forward just in time to see a black shadow lunge out of the ditch, stealing all the light from the spot where Jack had just been parked.
He slammed the truck into forward and roared off in the other direction, mumbling “fuck this” under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Did you see that, kid? What the hell WAS that?”
As the truck sprinted up to 50 miles per hour, an insane speed for a dirt road in the dead of night, the boy relaxed and shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno, din’t see nuthin’. You gonna take me to Gramma’s now?”
He sounded satisfied, almost smug. “What?” said Jack. “You were warning me about something! What the hell is going on, kid?”
“My name’s not kid. It’s Paul. So? You taking me to Gramma’s or not?”
Jack sighed and tried to calm himself. Whatever he thought he’d seen was probably just the inky forest fucking with his imagination. “Yeah, we’re headed to the Crossroads now. If I can find a main road.”
“Yay! Gramma’s house!”
Jack mumbled loud enough to be heard. “But I probably should have my head examined.”
The boy smiled so warmly that Jack decided to try again. “Seriously, buddy, I know you were warning me about something, and I thank you. Really, I do. But, come on, you honestly didn’t see anything came out of the ditch? Jesus, it was big as a horse. And that smell!”
“You cussed, mister! But like, thanks for savin’ me from my dad, OK?”
“You’re welcome, but please don’t change the subject? And my name’s Jack, not mister.”
The kid’s face twisted into a pout. “Ain’t got no horses out here, mister. I ain’t see nuthin’.”
Jack sighed again. “OK, forget it. Just help me get to the Crossroads without driving all the way to Lake Superior first?”
An hour and a few wrong turns later, Jack finally spotted the Crossroads lights — soft from the inn itself, glaring white and blinding from the gas station across the highway.
After Jack parked, he helped Paul down from the passenger seat.
“Ow!” said the boy as his foot hit the pavement. “I can’t walk!”
Jack grimaced and picked him up. “All right. Let’s get inside and find your gramma.” He carried Paul in past the empty reception desk where a mounted bear head stood sentry, then into the almost empty bar.
He was about to ask the girl serving drinks if she’d seen her boss when the saloon-style doors leading back to the kitchen swung open. Sonya herself strode straight at the bartender. “I heard a truck,” she said. “Did that Jack come in here? You tell him I need to see him!”
Then she turned and gasped. “Paul! Paulie! Jack! Oh, thank God.” She grabbed the boy out of Jack’s arms and pressed him against her as she made eye contact with Jack and mouthed a silent “thank you.”
Pressing her lips into Paul’s forehead, then kissing his bruises, she said, “Are you all right? Are you bleeding anywhere? Did THEY do this to you? By God, I’ll have their stinking hides!”
“No, Gramma, no!” whispered Paul, tightening his arms around her neck. “It was Daddy. Daddy did it. Jack saved me.”
That whispered admission seemed to freeze Sonya into shock. Her whole body went rigid for a few moments. Paul squirmed in her tight grasp like a kitten done with being held.
She sighed and sat him on a barstool. “Again, Paulie? I’m so sorry. We’ll talk about it upstairs, OK?”
She turned to Jack, hands on hips, face set in stone. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, young man. I’m sorry to tangle you up in my family business.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “All I did was give him a ride. He lied and told me his mom was here. I could use some answers, though, if you want to thank me. Any idea why he was out in the middle of the road trying to flag me down? He was trying to warn me about something. What’s going on?”
The woman spun and snapped a question at the boy. “What did you tell him?”
“Nuthin’! I swear. Well, nuthin’ important.”
Turning back to Jack, Sonya said, “Never you mind. The boy’s a tale spinner. Has been since the day he learned to talk. You can’t believe one word out of his mouth.”
Paul gasped. “Gramma!”
With that, she swooped the boy up and strode off behind the bar, disappearing up a set of narrow steps.
Jack stood with his mouth opening, listening to her footsteps echo. Faint voices drifted downstairs. Jack could barely make out what sounded like pleading from the boy. The only clear words he heard for sure were, “can’t let it happen.”
He snorted, shook his head, and ordered a beer. He felt hungry, but too shook up to eat just yet. He just considering heading to the pay phone to talk to Greg when he felt a clammy hand wrap around his neck.
“Relax, kid,” said Len, “you’re way too tense. Let me rub that out? I mean rub out the cramp in your neck? Lemme buy you a drink, buddy.”
Before Jack could do or say a thing, Len was pushing a shot glass at him.
“Dude, come on, I’m married. Please. Do you have to hang all over me all the time?”
“Married? Everybody in this joint knows you’re gay.”
“I’m married to a MAN. Happily. I’m up here to hunt and fish, not cheat on him.”
Len laughed. “What happens at the Crossroads stays at the Crossroads.” He moved his hand down to his crotch and squeezed. “Besides, a blow job ain’t cheating. It’s just … messing around.” He squeezed again and thrust his hips — just enough for Jack to see. “I know you want a piece of this. Never met a gay guy who didn’t.”
Jack’s mouth fell open in shock. Then a laugh escaped, louder and louder as the night’s tension escaped out of his body. Soon, he was shaking with mirth. Len backed off in something that looked like embarrassment.
Jack looked him up and down and shook his head. “Dude! Look at you. Thirty years older than me, sloppy, unshaved, stinking breath, and greasy hair.”
“Hey!”
“Whatever. I don’t hold any of that against you. This is a hunting trip; you can shower or not, none of my business. Know what I DO hold against you? You’re boring as fuck. You don’t talk about anything but cheating people out of their money or getting laid at conventions. And now you wanna ask me for a blowjob and talk to me like I’m gay and you’re not? Dude, that’s the most hilarious thing you’ve said the whole time we’ve been here.”
Len opened up his mouth, but nothing came out but half a squawk.
Jack picked up his beer and strode off toward the dining room. Looking over his shoulder his called out, “Yeah, that’s a no on the blowjob, in case I wasn’t clear. And keep your hands to yourself, please. Or didn’t they teach you that in kindergarten?”
Sitting in the dining room watching a few scattered customers working on meatloaf, beef tips, or goulash, Jack tried to collect his thoughts. Today should have been such a good day! He’d shot a large bear after he’d almost given up. And even though he’d kind of hated the awfulness of the kill, he was proud of himself.
He’d field dressed the carcass all on his own, dragged it out of the woods without any help, and gotten it to the processor’s. Not bad for a fruitcake! Or whatever that idiot in the bar thought he was. Len didn’t have a bear! He’d spent the same week Jack spent and got nothing!
“Take your order, sir?”
The question startled Jack out of this thoughts. He turned and found Sonya hovering over him with a menu. He reached for it and looked her in the eyes. “Is that all you have to say to me? Can you take my order?”
“OK, fine. Try the whitefish. It’s the best.”
He snorted and nodded his head. “I will, thank you.”
“Look, I’m in your debt. My grandson, Paul’s dad, is an asshole. Always has been. And that girl he married is no match for him. It’s the boy who suffers, and for getting him out of there safe tonight, you have my thanks. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“You are NOT in my debt. I didn’t do anything. But if you want to thank me, tell me what the hell is going on. Why is everyone acting so weird? What was Paul trying to warn me about?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Sonya as she headed back to the kitchen.
“OK, fine,” called Jack. “You’re welcome, though. It was my pleasure.”
She threw her order pad on a countertop, rang a bell to get the cook’s attention, and marched back to Jack’s table. She leaned down and hissed into his ear. “Fine, you want some answers? Here’s what we’re gonna do. Here’s what you’re gonna do if you know what’s good for you.”
Jack sat up straight and strained to hear her ragged whisper.
“It’s Saturday night. Your bear won’t be ready until Wednesday. You’re gonna sit in this inn, not step one foot outdoors, not until I say you can. Got me? And you’re gonna tell nobody what I just said. THAT is what’s going on.”
Jack backed up in his chair and looked the old woman up and down. “You’re crazy, you know that? All of you are crazy.”
“I’ll get your fish now,” was her only answer. “Eat it. It’s good for you.”
Next Chapter!
What you just read is fiction loosely based on a real hunting trip I took a few years ago. There’s more to come, but not too much more. This chapter is paced to let you catch your breath, but hold on as we get set to dive into more fun Halloween terror.!
Miss the first parts? Click here!
James Finn is a former Air Force intelligence analyst, long-time LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Queer Nation and Act Up NY, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].