Forest
In my youth I was a particular kind of beautiful. I was a slender wisp of a white mouse. I never wore any clothes of particular note, other than that I had a habit of always owning a pair of boots too large and sturdy for my frame. My eyes were large and bright, brilliant blue. My hands and tail didn't suffer from the splotches of brown discoloration or the coarse, obvious hairs that they do now. Anything not pillowed in pure white was as soft a pink as could be found anywhere, sprinkled with even softer, invisibly sparse fur.
Around the time which I'm about to recall I had a close friend who was a pony. Though my meek and disconnected air was attributed in large part to my species, his associating with me was a great source of consternation for his family. They saw him as weak, though I never did. They saw him as less than equine. I'm not sure if I should have been more offended by their implications.
We spent most of our time doing very little if anything. Our conversations were shy and brief and consisted of mostly body language. Despite this we grew impossibly close. It was because of our closeness that when I was given the opportunity to see family in a part of the country that I loved I could think of no one I wanted to share it with more than this friend. To this day I'm not sure if he actually had permission from his parents or if, for that oh-so-influential time in both our lives, he was a homeless runaway. It's on some immaterial date during this vacation that my story takes place. I wrote it some time ago but kept it jealously hidden. Now, seeing very little left in my life in terms of time and ambition, and seeing so many children confused and afraid, I think it's appropriate to let my family know what I did in those days.
***
All he asked me to do was to take a walk. The both of us were staying on my grandfather's land, a sort of farmhouse in a rural area south of Seattle. Nobody was home but us, and we had finished breakfast an hour earlier. He was so casual that any questions I had concerning the break in our sedentary routine dissolved.
It's amazing how clear the retrospection became when I later realized the gravity of the day's events. I can see the pattern of the mud from my boots on the patio floor from when I picked them up to put them on. I clearly remember the transition of smells from the burnt dust of the heater to the old wood of the door to that fresh blue-green musk of Washington that I stay up at night longing for these days.
I remember wanting to move slowly. Pacific forests always feel spiritual to me. It's almost like there's a holy energy that demands respect. Or rather, I fear subconsciously that an irreverent step could bring that energy crashing down like a statue made of a thin membrane of ice.
Even now, after so many years, I still ramble on about those forests.
We set out at a brisk pace, directly into a thin, overgrown trail. He took the lead in the same forceful casualness that he asked me along with. I'd never been down the path and from the looks of it nobody else had, either.
He walked with more and more purpose as we went deeper into the forest. He was focused and I was dreaming. It didn't take long for the tenuous link between our motives to droop and snap like warm, chewed over bubblegum. I looked up from a fern and he was gone.
I stood there in silence, staring through the woods wherever I thought he might be. I looked back where I came from and realized I couldn't see a trail at all. Panic welled up till my fingers shook but at the last moment my eyes drifted to the fern and the panic broke on the shores of manic glee. I giggled out loud and ran my hands through the feathery leaves. It was so green that I couldn't fathom how it could ever turn dark in the shade. Just through the brush was a stream with rocks so broad and smooth that they had to be laid out for me. I stuck my hand on something as I stepped through but didn't think anything of it.
As I pulled my boots from the mud of the embankment I became aware of blood dripping from the finger. I balanced on the first good rock and dangled my feet in the water one at a time. All alone, I felt safe enough to spread my arms wide in a bid for stability. In the back of my mind it felt graceful, like a ballerina, but it was in reality the clumsiest and least manly thing I'd likely ever done. I felt light headed and free, blood dripping on the toe of my boot then washing downstream. I dipped both hands in the freezing water and it stung pretty good, but it stopped the bleeding. At least, it removed the mess that gave it the illusion that it was bleeding more than it was.
When I was younger I lived in California. My father used to take me and my brother out into parts of the Sierra Nevada's that today I couldn't find on a map to save my life. In a way I like it that way. They're lost forever. The only part of them I'll ever have is the granite, the water, the dirt, and the saturation of life. The last place he took me we went alone. It was Yosemite, shortly before I was old enough to notice the paved roads, trash, and irreverent strangers. I fear that if I went back I'd see them all as infidels in my temple.
Through the clouded eyes of youth, though, and with my father leading me by seven steps or more, I felt my body pale in comparison to my soul. It took me years to realize that the quiet comfort in our distance was the result of a shared spiritual experience. I was a part of him and we were a part of the land. Perhaps it's all just a romanticizing of the facts, but he's gone now and I rather like that memory.
Now, though, I realize that the Sierra Nevada's are a dried up smear from the northwest. Yosemite is a pearl in that smear chipped away by a population looking for what they don't know how to find. I found it, and sometimes I hate that they took it away from that place.
That stream, with its stepping stones all laid out, was begging me to walk deeper and deeper into an unknown that I couldn't see finding my way out of. So I went. The banks spread out and opened up around me. The wide, flat stones ended around the third or fourth bend but the stream stayed shallow so I kept walking up it. As the forest got thicker the stream got wider. I couldn't figure out how farm equipment and old model trucks found their way into a forest like this. However they did, they were piled up everywhere, dark iron oxide red all over and fully reclaimed by nature.
Eventually the euphoria and nostalgia wore off. There was that, and the fact that I was tired. I trudged up to a pickup that looked nearly whole and leaned with both hands against the hood. It was one of the old round-fender sorts that I'd expect to find driven only in black and white alleys by rats in fedoras, inexplicably cast permanently in the shadows of Venetian blinds. The black and white of this one, and its soft shadows, had been eaten away to a cratered Martian wasteland of rust.
My left hand was the one that was pricked. I only fully realized it at that point. The ring finger had a deep gash running nearly to the bone. I, to this day, still don't know what I did to it, but at the time the blood on the rust struck me as a rather funny irony.
I remember realizing I was tired. That was the fist time in the day that I didn't set down vivid memories. I remember the truck, I remember the forest around it, and I remember that after rinsing the cut it once again looked trivial, but I remember thinking it could get infected. I heard something in the brush across the stream and felt faint. In his casual, purposeful stride my friend came out of the brush. He jumped a good three feet and screamed, turning around and obviously expecting me to be right behind him. In the process of trying to get his bearings he asked where I was and how I got in front of him. He looked a bit hurt, in fact. Initially all I could think to do was point down the stream and say "I found a shortcut." He looked like he was going to cry till I gave him a proper explanation.
When we got back to walking, the cut stopped bleeding. I was sure it was to the bone but I was told later that I must have been confused because "a little blood goes a long way." Sometimes I get sick of recollections being sapped of their romance by friends later in life.
He walked slower this time and kept a close eye on me. The brilliance and spirituality of the forest came back and I was in danger of wandering off again. I remember that we came to a clearing. It had a damp, moldy, but oddly in-tact couch. We never pieced together where it or the cars came from. In college someone casually mentioned that the forest could have been fairly young and that there might have been buildings or roads reclaimed by even younger growth nearby, but that explanation never sat right with me. There, on the couch, in tears and shaking, he professed his love for me.
We made love on that couch; that day, the next, and every day for two weeks. Our relationship was typical for virginal first loves, I was later told. Somehow though, over time, the significance of the time outside that forest spent with him has faded. I choose to remember him, and I suppose myself, as a frail family disappointment, tangled in clumsy love-making. I don't remember it all exactly, as it was something of a blur. However, for the sake of preserving my image of perfect, innocent lust I've decided to record my memory of that first day in sordid and poetic language. If it is found later to be in poor taste than perhaps that is just a sign that it should sit unread for a longer time.
"I love you." was the first and only thing he said to me on the couch before everything happened. I was confused and didn't see how it was possible. I think he felt the same way. He had already started crying and my silence didn't do much to stop him. Not knowing anything to say, though, I could only sit there stunned. The more it sunk in and the more I examined my own feelings the more it made sense. Neither of us had ever been told that there was such a thing as a man joined together with another man. Neither of us was entirely innocent, though, of that certain playground vocabulary and repartee that happened to give us vague knowledge of such a couple.
He was deathly afraid that I would run, or tell an adult what he said. Neither of us much cared what the other children thought, but we knew that adults would certainly frown on that sort of thing. But a tear of his hit the back of my hand and rolled across it, upsetting a line of those thin, sensitive, isolated hairs peculiar to mice and their like. I was keenly aware that not only did I love him back, but he needed me now.
I placed my hand on his large muzzle, feeling its heat, and traced slowly to his eye, wiping away his tears in a futile gesture, as they were pouring down his cheeks at that point. He sniffed and realized that there was no immediate crisis but couldn't make a full-stop of emotions. I climbed up to face him, on my knees and sinking into the old couch with my tail draped over the armrest, and leaned close. Without a word I pressed my lips to his and we hugged in such a soft, tentative way that I think it would sicken me to see such a saccharine display ever again.
Something exists in the hearts, minds, and hormones of young boys that takes a rose and makes wine. It then, invariably, takes wine and makes liquor. No sooner had we realized our forbidden devotion than our hands were tangled together in a fight for the other's pants. I remember my first realization that everything was natural happened then. I was completely dumb to whatever he was touching on my body because I had, in searching for the zipper or button to his jeans, placed my entire palm on an enormous bulge in his crotch. I don't mind saying that I would now think very carefully before ever accepting the advances of someone so well endowed. The sensation that what was happening was right and that the passion existed in my bones washed over me as if it sprang from that throbbing, thickening bulge.
I wanted nothing other than to have it exposed but my lover was too fast for me. He had my pants undone and pulled them down as I paused marveling at the heat radiating through his jeans. I was, as far as I knew, completely average. Now I realize I am a bit small, but at the time I was so young that I don't think it mattered anyhow. When he removed my pants he found no underwear, as I had abandoned it early in life, and a four inch penis, as pink as my hands and tail, but brilliantly bright. It shone with every ounce of lubricant my adolescent body could muster. I noticed all this when he unceremoniously took hold of it in a fist and started stroking quite fast. I reflexively squeezed his shaft, which at that point threatened to burst its confines, but this only made him go faster. My body went weak and I fell back limp.
I produced very little cum until I was, by all accounts, well past where puberty should have ended. Because of this he, who I would soon find came profusely from a very early age, had no idea that I had my first orgasm while falling. He followed my cock from where he started to where I fell and straddled me, entranced by my ridiculous expressions of bliss. I jerked in his hand and under his body over and over as the leaves danced above me. I remember every scent of the forest and the rust, the couch and our passion, and the creek and the sky itself washed over my face as he brought me to climax after endless climax.
When at last I realized that he had stopped my four inches had shrunk away. He was licking his hand and rubbing his length, which he had freed without my assistance. I felt cheated. I wanted to touch it so badly.
He looked down at me with green eyes as wet as the forest. He was a deep, deep brown. His cock was enormous, though, and I have to imagine my eyes were terribly wide at the sight. He stood there on his knees, between my spread legs, stroking himself and spitting on its flared tip. It stood well up to the bottom of his ribs and I dare say farther. It was the first time I'd seen anything but my own and I marveled at the pattern of pink and black all over it. The shape of the tip confused and excited me. My post-orgasmic bliss kept me from realizing where it was going but made concession by way of making the colors more colorful. My first love was jacking off his massive length between my legs. I was naked and pure white and pink. He was deep brown with the dark blue jeans he always wore hanging at mid thigh and he wore no shirt. The shirt was the same deep wet green as his eyes and lay draped over the back of the couch. Most impressive in the scene, though, was how the whole thing was framed on that striped multicolored couch from some previous and outrageously confused generation of furniture building and was dotted with those old rusted trucks in the lush forests that I still love more than life itself.
When the spit ran down the underside of his cock and stained the fabric as it dripped from his balls he pushed the entirety down to point under my comparatively minuscule white furry globes. I tilted my head back, staring into the forest, as it felt so much like instinct and nature were in control.
I remember feeling that flair first. It pressed gently through the thin, downy soft fur I was later told led the way to my tail-hole. I felt it as a hot, spongy-springy thing and wondered if it was going to enter more like a tongue than a fist. It met my hole and pressed firmly. It pressed harder and harder, lifting me off the couch. I remember wondering if I was screaming but not really sure. I remember the look of intense concentration on his face as he tried as hard as he could to put a brick through a pinhole, but I can't remember when I would have opened my eyes or lifted my head, as the next memory I have is of clenching my teeth, fluttering my ears, and refusing ever to look at the drab world around me as long as I had that hot flesh pushing around my insides.
My own cock ached. It was brought back to life as his huge horse-meat ravaged my prostate. I could swear that as my hands roamed passionately around my own body, searching for something to hold, I felt it as a bulge filling my stomach then leaving. Eventually I opened my eyes and stared at him. If you can fuck and make love at the same time he was achieving that. Muscles that I didn't know he had ever had were straining and the couch made a terrible racket as he slapped his balls against my ass over and over. I could feel a fluid running down the crack of my ass and off my tail. Though I didn't realize all the mechanics of it at the time, he was filling me to the brim with pre and it splashed out all over the place.
His eyes opened and met mine as I tried to read what it could possibly be like to cause this intense feeling of completion in a person and he smiled warmly through an obvious expression of concentrated effort. When I was quite assured there was no better feeling in the world a tiny blob of cum, the first I recall ever having seen, jumped from what was then my deep magenta four inches and splashed against my cheek. To avoid belaboring an impossible poetic image, I simply lost touch with reality.
As he saw the occurrence, though, it was much less about drifting off and much more about spilling over. When I came my ass cinched around his length right at the hilt. When he tried to pull out it was like the climax was wrung straight out his tip. The sheer volume of cum replaced every bit of pre bloating my insides. It sprayed it out of me at an impressive speed. When, shuddering, he finally managed to pull back; he found that my ass was covered entirely with a new shade of white, and that his cock, balls, and a good portion of his legs matched it. He dug his hands painfully into my hips as he shuddered over and over, unable to control the orgasm that was running away from him in sporadic and random bursts. Thick globs of horse cream poured out of me whenever there was the slightest focus of pressure on one part of my stretched tail-hole.
Feeling he couldn't stand the sensation anymore he pulled out roughly. This was when I woke back up. His flair had managed to become even larger inside me and when he jerked it out I felt my whole body ripping in two. The pain was brief, though, as the smooth salve of his seed was pulled out by his exit and it ran over my battered ass. I looked up at him and met his eyes again just as he sent three huge streams, the last of his climax, across my chest and against my cheek. I tasted a bit very cautiously. To this day I don't think I enjoy eating anything quite so much. I scooped it with my paws from myself, from him, and from anywhere I could find it till I was left with nothing to do but sit, held in his arms, sucking him clean.
I don't remember if it was that time or one of the subsequent visits that he came down my throat while I cleaned him. It was an incredible introduction to giving head. I made sure I did it every time I had a lover from that point on.
It was an incredible time of my life. I wouldn't trade it for anything. But when he called me up recently I realized that that time has changed, somehow. We went for a walk in a favorite park of mine. We talked, we kissed, and we had a good time. But when it was over we conceded to fate. It ended two years after that vacation in Washington and it ended for good. He regretted spending so much for tickets to see me just to find that out but it satiated what was left of my memory for him. I suppose it did something similar for him.
When I think back now to any time in any forest, though, I have the memory of me and him, young and in love, washed over everything. I can't say that I don't like it. He's an old man, I'm an old man, and neither of us is particularly full of life. I found a wife, then a husband, then someone I just felt comfortable living with, and we get along fine in Colorado without him. I think that memory of us in Washington broke off from our physical selves so that we can carry it safely in our pockets.
When I feel like I've run out of life and memory I'm going back to that forest to say goodbye to the best footprints I ever left on this earth. It's the only forest I can point out on a map.