And with my hand engulfed in Oscar’s large one, we did just that.
We spent the day together, enjoying all the activities. I entered and won a jack-o’-lantern-carving contest, capturing the exact skyline of lower Manhattan from memory across a pumpkin sky. Polly and Leo ran the three-legged race and lost spectacularly, coming in so very last they were almost disqualified. Roxie easily beat out the competition in the pie contest, and people were fighting to get the last piece of her classic vinegar cream pie, which sounds terrible but was fucking unreal.
But my day in the country was complete when I watched Oscar compete in the butter-churning race.
There are no words. Scratch that. There are words. And some of them are . . .
Pumping.
Up.
Down.
Hands.
Wrapped.
Around.
Wood.
Cream.
Splashing.
Tongue.
Poking.
Out.
Concentrating.
Rhythm.
Thrusting.
Sweating.
Eyes.
On.
Me.
The.
Entire.
Time.
Is.
It.
Hot.
Or.
Is.
It.
Just.
Me?
(This is Roxie . . . it’s not just you.)
If it was possible for someone to spontaneously combust from watching a grown man churn butter, then I’d be the first to do it.
After he won, I managed to tug him behind the stone barn afterward and cop a few good feels, enough skin to tide me over until tonight, at least, when I planned on riding my champion until I’d brought him right across the finish line.
The day was perfect, one that if you could watch from above, could pull back to a wide camera shot and observe, you’d think you were watching an ad for the New York Tourism Board, or at the very least a small-town council’s print ad in a regional magazine. Shiny, happy people—and now we were dancing.
No, really, there was even a square dance in the middle of all this Martha Stewart meets Norman Rockwell visual perfection.
While my sore back kept me from allemanding left and promenading right, Oscar and I did manage to sneak in a slow dance when the bluegrass band played its own version of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” We swayed back and forth under the October sky, eyes seeing only each other, his hands trying his damnedest not to be full of my sweet ass. Every few bars his hands would start to slip down, and I had to remind him that we were on display here, with kids everywhere.
We saw every stall, visited every booth, chatting with everyone I’d come to know in the few short weeks since discovering this wonderful town. Eventually we nabbed a picnic table, filled it with Leo and Polly and Chad and Logan, and Roxie and I headed to a stand to grab hot dogs for everyone.
“You two seem cozy,” Roxie said, bumping my hip on the way to the hot dog stand.
“We do, don’t we?” I replied, feeling my cheeks creak as I grinned for the thousandth time that very day. “I gotta admit, it’s pretty great.”
“That’s obvious.” She jumped into line right before a gaggle of junior high kids beat us to it. “So where is this headed?”
“Can it, Callahan.”
“Shut the fuck up with your can, this is me. Give me the deets please.”
“The deets are that it’s an impossible question to answer. Besides, who says we have to decide where it’s heading right now? I’m heading in the direction of the biggest hot dog I can find.” This placated her for a moment, and we moved up another space in line. But then she simply couldn’t resist . . .
“At least tell me something about his hot dog,” she said, shooting me a conspiratorial look.
“It’s in the direction of the biggest hot dog I can find,” I repeated.
“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” she cackled, squeezing my arm. “Sometimes it’s like God handed out great bodies and beautiful faces, but then absolutely nothing in the trouser department, and it’s just the worst! And Oscar is so beautiful, I was afraid for his trousers.”
I laughed in agreement. It was rare that someone so blessed above was so blessed below. And some of the least attractive guys could have the most talented cock out there. But not often did the two converge. And I was beyond delighted to have that convergence occur between my thighs.
I leaned in close. “Be not afraid of his trousers, for it is good and we are well met.”
“I love when you go all Middle-earth on me,” she said, just as I heard one of the kids behind us ask—
“What the hell are trousers?”
“I think they’re some kind of old-timey pants,” one of the other ones answered.
She caught my eye, and we silently agreed to keep the rest of our conversation trouser-free as long as we remained in line.
“Three hot dogs, please,” I chirped to the guy behind the counter.
“How d’you want them?” he asked, gesturing to the array of condiments.
I had no idea. When in doubt, go bold.