— originally published in Inches Magazine - September, 1994 issue —

Unlock the legend of ... The Lagoon.

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It was a perfect place, so isolated from the rest of the lake that it seemed more like a dream than a part of reality. I first saw it in September, shrouded in fog and the pink glow of dawn, when the last scattered stars were fading in the west and crisp mountain air hinted of early autumn frosts. It was also an erotic place, so hauntingly beautiful that I longed for it like a lover. Insatiable desires burned within me whenever I was in its midst.

I knew, from reading the yellowing pages of my great-uncle Andrew's diary, that this was the secret lagoon he had loved so much. He'd discovered it over sixty years ago when he first came to the mountain as a young artist, and painted it countless times. Although Andrew's canvases reflected many aspects of the mountains around him, the lagoon was his favorite subject and the one that exasperated him the most.

Like all good artists, he was unduly critical of his own work. Shortly before his death at age eighty-three, he left a note in his journal which reflects this frustration: "Perhaps the lagoon was only meant to be experienced, not immortalized."

My great-uncle was a loner and a life-long bachelor. His hermitic existence on the mountain had always baffled my relatives and intensified their unfavorable opinions of him. According to family gossip, it wasn't merely Andrew's artistic eccentricities that had rendered him the black sheep. As a young man, to the horror of everyone, he ran away to live with his male lover. When his lover was killed in a logging accident, Andrew retreated far up into the mountain, where he built a small cabin and stayed the rest of his life.

Although my great-uncle and I hardly knew each other, his will stipulated that I should inherit the humble cabin. It soon became a welcome refuge where I could get away to write and enjoy the solitude of nature. Thirty miles from the nearest town--no phone, no electricity. Not even a plane flying overhead. It was like going back a hundred years in time.

At night I'd huddle by the stone fireplace, sifting through my great-uncle's sketchbooks and diaries, listening to the plaintive cries of the owls and loons. My days were spent hiking and discovering the mountain. Although situated less than half a mile from the cabin, the lagoon wasn't easy to find. I stumbled upon it, by accident, early one morning and decided immediately that it would be a perfect place to bathe.

The cold air was heavy with fog and intoxicating silence. The clear water barely rippled as mists skimmed the surface, and the pine trees were nothing more than a distant blur. Slowly, the sky brightened to a rose-colored glow. I placed my jacket on a large, flat rock and shed my clothes. Being naked in the wilderness was exciting. The biting chill did nothing to suppress my libido, and I suddenly realized how long it had been since I'd had sex.

Kneeling on the rock, I saw myself reflected in the water and was fascinated. This surprised me, since I'd never before given much thought about my looks. My image seemed only vaguely familiar: lean limbs still brown from too much summer sun, blond hair a bit too shaggy, that sandy mustache I'd been meaning to shave off for years.

It wasn't until I leaned forward and lowered my head to kiss the reflection, that I finally realized my blatant narcissism. The water rippled away from my lips, momentarily distorting the image. My hands roved sensually over the hair on my chest, then slowly caressed my stomach and thighs. My cock was rock-rigid but I deliberately avoided it, concentrating instead on my smooth round butt and its moist crack. As I gently massaged the puckered ass bud and inserted one finger, my cock pulsed and throbbed achingly. A few finger-thrusts would have probably gotten me off involuntarily, so I reluctantly withdrew.

While rubbing and squeezing my hardening nipples with one hand, I finally cradled my cock with the other. It was already leaking lube juice. I knelt close to the water, to look again at my hard, naked image. Every muscle in my body tensed as I pumped faster and aimed my cock at the cock in the lagoon. An arc of white sperm shot so far out over the water that it disappeared in the mists. It was followed by several more enthusiastic spurts.

I was still panting as I squeezed my cock to milk out the last few sticky drops. Despite the nippy air, I felt thoroughly warm. With a whimsical smile, I decided that my impromptu workout gave new meaning to the phrase "enjoying one's own company." I was almost ashamed at how satisfying it had been.

Inching into the cold water, I immersed myself in the extraordinary aura of the lagoon. After the initial shock I began to relax and the water rose to my neck. Delicate fog still caressed the surface, swirling around me like obstinate ghosts. Having succumbed to this enchantment, I knew that I would never be the same again.

That's when I saw him. Or thought I saw him.

On the far side of the lagoon, beyond the fog-shrouded rocks, stood a young man. Despite the haze, I could see him quite clearly: tall and lean, buckskin clothing, dark shoulder-length hair. A Native American. His presence was startling. I'd never heard that there were Indians on this part of the mountain--or anyone else, for that matter. I had no doubt that he could see me. His sharp eyes seemed to penetrate the fog and the shelter of the water. Realizing that he'd probably witnessed my solo performance on the rocks was unnerving, not to mention embarrassing. Almost as if he could read my thoughts, the Indian gently placed one hand on his broad chest then slowly let it trail down to his crotch. It rested there for only a moment.

Uncertain as to whether this was a genuinely friendly gesture or only the result of my fanciful imagination, I decided to get a better look. Slipping under the water for a few frigid moments, I swam toward the Indian. When I surfaced, the misty shore was deserted.

He was gone.

For the rest of that day, I couldn't stop thinking about the young Indian. I even returned to the lagoon, but he wasn't there. That night I scanned my great-uncle's papers but could find no mention of encounters with Indians.

Although there were many notebooks and diaries, they were sporadically written and some pages had been deliberately torn out. Details of his visits to the lagoon were infrequent--almost as though the mere mention of it would dispel the illusion. Often, he simply wrote "Lagoon" in his entries, with no further explanation.

There was no way of knowing if Andrew had felt the same intense sexuality that overpowered me every time I visited the lagoon. I wondered if he ever jacked off there. Such a pure, immensely satisfying experience could easily become habitual. Despite having seen the Indian--or perhaps because of him--I returned the next day.

It was a glorious morning. Much of the surrounding foliage had already begun to redden with the hues of autumn. I scanned the distant shore, but there was no sign of the Indian.

After shedding my clothes, I spread my towel on the flat rock and tried to summon the courage to plunge into the water.

My reflection once again stirred erotic desires. Instinctively, I wrapped my hand around my hard cock and pumped slowly as I watched my reflection shimmer. A wisp of fog momentarily obscured the image. When I looked again, there were two faces reflected in the water!

Leaping up, I grabbed the towel and tried to hide my burgeoning boner. As I turned toward the intruder, my breath caught in my throat--like I'd been punched in the gut.

It was the Indian.

We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. The towel did little to conceal my slowly but surely deflating dick and I adjusted it clumsily, feeling scared and looking foolish.

He was tall, lean, strong. Although his beautiful features were masculine, his face had a youthful innocence. It was difficult to decipher his age--he could have as easily been twenty as thirty. Most striking were his emerald eyes, which seemed to betray his heritage.

The great silence of the mountain intensified as we stood there. When the Indian finally spoke, his words were as soft and gentle as the rustle of eagle wings.

"Don't hide your body. You're good-looking."

The encouraging words registered in my brain, but the towel stayed securely around my waist.

"You scared me," I stammered, ignoring the compliment. "I thought I was alone."

"No one is alone for long on the lagoon," he said solemnly. "It is a place for discovering love."

"Discovering love?" I was amazed. Did he sense my crazy attraction to this place, or was he just mocking my solo workout?

"But one can only discover love," he continued, "if he first discovers himself."

"You sound like a philosopher," I decided, hoping he wasn't a madman.

"Look," he said. "Look at your reflection. It is perfect."

As I looked at the shimmering water, he moved close behind me and removed the towel. I could almost feel his body touching mine. I didn't move, didn't even breathe. My reflection nearly vanished in delicate swirls of white fog as his arms reached around me. His hands were warm and his touch gentle. He slowly explored my hairy chest. my stomach, my hips and upper thighs. He avoided my aching cock, but it hardened quickly as I savored his embrace.

I turned around, facing him. He smelled wonderful -clean and slightly musky, like the mountains that surrounded us. His face was smooth and his cheekbones strong. His emerald eyes glowed with the liquid fire of dawn. His sensual mouth was incredibly desirable. My throbbing cock nearly touched the bulge in his crotch.

Our lips touched, gently, sweetly. As our mouths moved together, I put my arms around his strong back and pressed my erection against his expanding bulge. My tongue slipped between his lips and leisurely explored the warm recess of his mouth. I melted with the sensation, as if it were my very first kiss.

When my eyes opened again the fog had thickened--swirling around us like billows of white smoke. I unbuttoned the Indian's shirt and slid it off his torso. He wore a long chain around his neck, on which hung a beautiful amber stone.

He quickly removed his pants and was naked except for the chain. His body was very smooth and lean, with the sleek muscularity of a natural athlete. He was hairless except for the dark, silky, delicate thatches of hair under his arms and around his crotch. His dick was very stiff against mine as we continued to kiss. My hands moved down his silky back and past his slender waist. resting on his firm buns.

As he rubbed against me, pearly, dewy drops of pre-cum leaked from the head of his cock onto my belly. Sliding down to my knees, I kissed and tongued the tip of his cock head, smearing lube juice over my lips.

When I took the fleshy knob into my mouth, swirling it around and sucking gently, he emitted a soft sigh. The muscles in his buttocks tensed.

"Let's get more comfortable," I breathed against his pulsing rod.

I spread my towel over the flat rock near the water and we lay down on it. The Indian's eager hands and mouth explored every part of my body. I shivered as his tongue leisurely traced my neck and shoulders, chest and stomach. His touch was maddeningly sensual.

Leaning back on my elbows, legs spread apart. I watched as he licked my balls. His warm lips moved up and down the length of my prick, tongue flicking against the sensitive area underneath the head and over the oozing piss-slit. He sucked expertly, easing off now and then when he sensed I was on the brink of shooting.

Watching this dark-haired mountain god work on my dick was enough to make me cum and I fought hard to hold off. Just in the nick of time, I withdrew from his mouth. I pulled him towards me and we kissed as our bodies pressed together.

As I rolled over on top of him, my balls tightened and I spurted my load onto his cock and belly. Our mouths were still glued together after I came, and it was only with great reluctance that I finally interrupted the kiss. I slid down to his crotch and began licking my warm, sticky sperm from his stomach and rigid rod. When I slurped at his wet nut sack, his entire body tensed up. Grabbing his cock with one hand, he gave it a few quick strokes. Wads of milky man-seed splattered on his chest and neck.

We lay close together on the towel for a few minutes, exhausted and satisfied, but the chilly air finally forced us to move. Before getting dressed, we plunged into the cold lagoon for a quick and invigorating swim. The soft mists were receding from the water, but still lingered thickly around the distant trees. The great silence seemed to cast a spell on the lagoon which we were reluctant to break. Neither of us spoke until we were out of the water and dressed.

"What's your name?" I finally asked, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

"Tristan."

"Tristan? That doesn't sound like an Indian name."

"It isn't." he said. "My mother is of German descent and a romantic by nature. Tristan and Isolde is her favorite opera."

"The name suits you," I told him. "If I remember right. Tristan was supposed to be a handsome knight. But it's a sad opera--the lovers die at the end."

"Not unlike the legend of the lagoon."

"Really? Tell me about it." I was more than curious.

"Well," Tristan said thought fully. "Long ago there was a Kalapooia Indian named Tikawa who had a male lover. One hungry winter, his lover went out in search of food and was devoured by wolves. When Tikawa found his lover's remains, he cried so hard that his tears formed the lagoon. Upon seeing his lonely reflection, Tikawa immediately plunged into the water and drowned."

"What a downer," I said, wondering if he'd just made the whole thing up for my benefit. "How come all love legends have unhappy endings?"

"It's not unhappy, really," Tristan told me. "Because ever since, anyone who finds the lagoon also finds everlasting love."

"Have I found it?" I teased.

"Definitely."

Tristan kissed me with a tenderness I wasn't expecting.

When our lips parted, I breathed a question. "When can I see you again?"

"I'll be here whenever you want me," Tristan promised. "You can be certain of that."

He kept his word. We met at the lagoon every day and our love-making grew more passionate and intense. I told Tristan where I was staying and begged him to come to the cabin, but he always insisted on meeting at the lagoon instead. Sometimes he walked. Other times he came in a canoe, which he said had belonged to his grandfather.

"The lagoon is an enchanted place, a special place," he said. "The spirit of Tikawa must witness our love so he will know that his death wasn't in vain."

"Sure, the lagoon's a special place," I agreed. "But it's October and nearly freezing. My cabin is much cozier."

"I know," Tristan sighed. "But if I go there, I'll never want to leave."

"That's the idea," I smiled.

"I want to be with you forever," he assured me. "But for now, I must be with my people."

"Why?" I felt selfish for asking, but love is selfish at times.

"My parents are getting old and I have no siblings. I must help my father work. We will go farther south for the winter, away from the harshness of the mountains. Few people stay here during the winter."

My heart sank, even though I admired his devotion to his family. Reluctantly, I asked the inevitable question.

"When will I see you again?"

"In early spring. As soon as the first thaw comes. I promise that one day we will be together forever."

I wanted to believe him.

On the night of the first hard frost. we met at dusk. Tristan came across the lagoon in his canoe, sailing through the misty water like a stately apparition. Soon the sky deepened to black velvet and was generously speckled with icy stars and a golden silver of crescent moon.

We built a fire near the flat rock and Tristan prepared a cozy bed of blankets and furs from his canoe. Soon we were naked together in the snug shelter. The fire crackled warm and bright and the scent of pines was delicious. The crisp night settled in around us with an overwhelming loneliness and neither of us seemed inclined to talk. We embraced tightly and were both rock-hard in anticipation of making love. Our passion was more fierce than tender that night. We devoured each other with insatiable lust.

I straddled Tristan's chest. plunging my cock deep into his receptive mouth with an almost animalistic fierceness. I wanted to satiate my desires in every way that his beautiful body had to offer. I wanted to eradicate the hurt I felt at knowing that we would soon be apart.

I came on his face, anointing him with a generous load of spunk. After my cock finally stopped shooting, I slapped it against his wet cheeks and dribbling chin. Then I slurped my jism from his handsome face, slipping my tongue between his parted lips now and again.

My tongue slowly traced his neck and shoulders, probed the deliciously musky pits under his arms. I licked his chest. sucking and biting his tits until they were hard. The amber stone that Tristan always wore around his neck glowed in the light of the fire, with the same sparkle that was in his eye.

When I dove beneath the snug cover of blankets to savor the rest of his burning flesh, the smell and taste of his manliness was intoxicating. His hot cock felt so good in my mouth that I stuffed it deep into the back of my throat and held it there, while cradling his swollen balls.

As I thoroughly worked his iron shaft with my mouth, I parted his legs to feel his puckered ass bud. When my finger probed the tight hole, his pulsing cock exploded in my mouth, spewing torrents of hot creamy sperm down my throat.

My own dick was throbbing with renewed desire. Urging my lover to roll over on his stomach, I licked his asshole until it was wet with spit and cum. Then I mounted him, pressing my rod against the moist crack between his buns. His sphincter yielded easily and I slid up into the silky warm sheath of his rectum.

I plunged with long, slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the ecstatic feeling of being deep inside him. As I increased my rhythm, I pressed my chest against his moist back and clasped my arms tightly around him. His body responded, moving underneath mine with a gentle rocking motion. I tongued his ear, kissed his neck, smelled the sweetness of his thick, dark hair. Then I pulled out and rubbed my cock between the sweaty crack of his ass until I came. I shot with even more intensity than the first time, my cum splattering on his back and shoulders. I clung to him and finally whispered what I had been wanting to say all night.

"I love you, Tristan. I always will. "

We kissed and cuddled in each other's arms. "'I'll be here in early spring," he promised again. "You can count on it."

His words were soothing and even as I began drowsing, my lips grazed his.

"You'll forget me by spring," I murmured.

"True love can never be forgotten," he breathed softly. "It is our most sacred memory."

I awoke shivering. It was nearly dawn and the fire smoldered feebly. The foliage around the lagoon was dusted with frost. The eternal mists drifted thickly. Realizing that I was alone, I leaped to my feet.

"Tristan?" My shout was lost halfway out across the water.

He was gone.

A horrible emptiness welled up inside me, thickened in my throat, forced tears to my eyes. The silence of the wilderness was almost deafening.

Then I saw Tristan's chain necklace with the amber stone. It had been placed on top of my pile of clothing. When I put it around my neck, my entire body seemed to warm with the reassurance of beautiful memories. After I dressed, I stood by the water for a long time thinking about Tristan, hoping he would suddenly appear out of the swirling mists. When it finally got too cold to stay there any longer, I headed back to the cabin.

Several days later, I happened to find a package while cleaning house. Tucked far under the bed, it was neatly wrapped in old brown paper. When I dusted it off and tore the wrapping away, I gasped.

The painting was of a young Indian in a canoe, in a mist-shrouded lagoon. It was unmistakably my lagoon, drenched in the glorious golden colors of October. The Indian bore a striking resemblance to Tristan, right down to the small amber stone on a chain around his neck. On the back was the date scribbled in my great-uncle's hand: "Autumn, 1936."

I hung the painting above the fireplace, where I would be able to see it constantly. It seemed to belong there, and I had a feeling that it had been there once before.

It would be a great comfort during those long winter months, while I eagerly awaited the arrival of spring.

THE     END