This story tells about sex between men. If this offends you, or if you're too young to be reading this kind of stuff, please hit "Back" right now.
The Upper Snowfields
Mark and I had both come East to graduate school from California. He was in classics; I was in anthropology. It was a coincidence that we both ended up at the same university: we had gone to boarding school together but to different colleges and had been out of touch for several years. Our time in boarding school was before the co-ed era. As is well documented, when male adolescents are penned up together for months on end the hormones erupt in episodes of "mostly harmless" homosexuality. Mostly harmless means that those who weren't gay got over it, and those who were did not. Mark and I were in the second category. In school we had done a bit of communal wanking but we had had our crushes elsewhere. So when we met again, even though we did not exactly fall in each other's arms, it was a great relief for each of us to find someone else whose perspective both on life and on the strange world of ivy-league academe we could understand completely.
Another thing we shared was our love of the outdoors. We had both hiked and climbed while at school, and we discovered that both of us had spent a lot of time in college skiing and ski mountaineering. Our university was very well located for skiing; during our first winter we drove up the Interstate almost every weekend to try out the ski areas in Vermont and New Hampshire. We would always share a room to save money, but we slept in our own beds and left each other alone at night. I have to say that when I would see Mark naked or nearly naked coming out of the shower I would feel a definite sexual twinge. The smooth, limber body I remembered from school, still almost entirely hairless, had taken on hard packs of muscle. On his head the hair was black and curly; he now wore it short but it still set off his very white skin. Celtic blood, no doubt. He had always had a gorgeous ass and he still did. The beautiful stripling had become a beautiful man. But I was an adult now and knew how sexual infatuations pass while friendship lasts. Being Mark's friend and companion was enough for me.
Ski mountaineering was not so easy to arrange, but we learned of a route in the White Mountains, through the Presidential Range, that would be practicable in the late Spring. We made careful plans. We borrowed or bought air mattresses, sleeping bags, a 2-man tent, packframes and cooking equipment. We carefully divvied up the load into two equal parts. Since that winter had been an especially heavy one, the snow cover in the higher Presidentials was expected to last through May. We planned our trip for the Memorial Day weekend.
We only had time for an abbreviated version of the full traverse. We would climb Mount Adams the first day, hike on skis over to Mount Washington on the second, and ski down Mount Washington on the third.
The first day was miserable. We left our university town at dawn under a clear sky, but as we neared North Conway we could see a cloud ahead of us on the horizon. That cloud was squatting on the Presidentials. We hiked up in a light drizzle that soon changed to a mist thickened by wet, clinging snow. Mark led the way. All I had to do was watch him and mechanically follow his movements. The snow blew in my face and I could barely keep my eyes open, but the sight of his hips rocking and twisting as he stepped from rock to rock kept pleasant thoughts coursing through my mind. By the time we reached our campsite, up at the snowline, my fingers were freezing and my eyebrows and moustache were encrusted with ice. Setting up the tent was torture. Cooking would have been impossible. We huddled inside and shared dry food from our packs, made one last excursion to piss, and worked our way into our sleeping bags. We were facing away from each other; in the cramped tent whenever one or the other of us shifted his position our rear ends would softly collide through the layers of clothing and down. That and the memory of his hips walking ahead of me must have percolated down to my subconscious. Or maybe it was something entirely different. All I know is I woke up in the morning and realized I had had a wet dream. Changing was out of the question. I wore it all day.
That day was better. We set off on skis. The snow had stopped and the mist had lifted, becoming a heavy overcast; a chill breeze still whipped down from the col. Progress was tricky, especially on the downhill reaches. The light was so dim and diffuse that bumps and dips in the trail cast no shadows at all, and so were completely invisible. Mark was skiing just ahead of me. At one point I saw him thrown to the right by a bump; the weight of his pack took over and he lost his balance completely, tumbled off the trail and slid down the hillside through the heavy, loose snow. Luckily we were just at the timberline; he stopped against a clump of stunted shrubs. He lay motionless. I took off my pack and my skis and half ran, half glissaded down to him. He was on his back with his arms underneath him and his legs out of sight in the snow. His body was arched with his groin at the apex. "Mark! Are you OK?" He nodded. The thought flashed into my brain that he was powerless: I could unzip his fly and do my worst. But I banished this nasty fantasy as quickly as it had come, bent down and loosened his shoulder straps. Mark was quick, though. "What were you thinking, you bastard?" he asked. Meanwhile his shoulders were free of the pack. I knelt over him, put my arms around his chest and heaved him up into a half-sitting position. His wrists had been trapped in the ski pole safety straps. Now he could slide them out and move his arms. I dug out his boots one by one and released the bindings. He wiggled his feet, and smiled: "No damage." Still, it took another fifteen minutes to get all his gear out of the snow and back up on the trail; then we started off again.
We reached our campsite on Mount Washington in early evening, tired but with enough energy left to start up the gas stove and make supper. The campsite was hidden in a group of large boulders at the foot of the upper snowfields, long, smooth, steep slopes that stretched almost up to the summit. We would climb to the top in the morning. We had one last cup of hot chocolate, crawled into the tent, pulled on our sleeping bags, faced away from each other again and went to sleep.
I woke up the next morning with sun in my eyes. Light was pouring through the tent-cloth. I checked my watch: it was barely six o'clock. I clambered out of the tent, trying not to wake Mark. The sun, horizontally across from me, lit up the snowfields like a theater set. Below all of New Hampshire and Maine were still dark. These first rays were just for me. The air was cold but I stretched and luxuriated in the warm sunlight. "Feeling good, eh?" Mark was awake and came up to stand beside me. His feelings were what I was interested in. I was tempted to look in his eyes and read what I could but instead I said: "Let's have some breakfast. The snow should be ready in about an hour." In the Spring the snow freezes solid overnight but loosens up into heavy grains when the sun hits it. The very best conditions are half an inch to an inch of this granular topping on a smooth firm base. That was what we were waiting for. The snowfields face north-east so they warm up quickly in the morning. Later in the day the thawed, loosened snow can get too deep for safe skiing.
We melted snow, made coffee and flapjacks and ate in the sunlight up on one of the boulders. Washing up, breaking camp and packing everything for the ride down the mountain used up the rest of the hour. Then we changed into ski boots, shouldered our skis and poles and started uphill. The air was still cold. I was wearing zip-up shell overpants and a nylon parka over my climbing clothes, ski gloves, a light wool cap and sunglasses; our clothes had been part of our planning, so Mark was dressed almost exactly as I was.
I led the way up the slope. Although the snow was still so hard that I had to kick in steps one by one, I soon got into a comfortable rythm. I had the poles in one hand and the skis in the other, over my shoulders and crossed behind me, so the weight was spread evenly on both sides and actually helped with my balance. Even so it took almost an hour to reach the top of the snowfield. We left our skis there and walked up the wind-packed snow to the summit house. The Dartmouth student usually in residence to monitor the weather station must have had the weekend off, because that morning no one answered our knocks. We had the top of Mount Washington to ourselves.
We shared a chocolate bar as we walked back down to the top of the snowfield, admiring the view. Then we stepped into our bindings, took our poles and pushed off.
The surface was still hard, and the descent took a lot of effort. "Boiler plate" is what we call that kind of frozen snow, because that's what it feels like. I had to ride my edges the whole time. Also the air had started to warm up. So by the time I reached the camp I was starting to sweat. I left the parka and the overpants tied to my pack, and I saw Mark do the same with his.
Mark led the way up for our second run. More happy contemplation of his hips. It was easier going because we could use the steps we had kicked in before, but it was still a long, very steep climb. At the top we just waited to catch our breath and then started down. The forty minutes or so since our last run had made a difference. Although the surface was still lumpy, my skis had much better purchase and my calves and shins could relax. But I was sweating again when I got to the bottom. It was now about eight-thirty. The air was very warm, and the sun's rays, both direct and reflected off the snow, felt hot. The thought occurred to me: we could even ski naked. There were other people on the mountain, about a hundred or so camped on the floor of Tuckerman Ravine, but it was a long way up and we had at least an hour more of privacy. I looked over at Mark and said, "Hey, Mark. I'm hot. What about skiing..." "Naked?" He finished the question for me. This guy was quick. And answered it: "Yeah!"
In less than a minute we were standing in the sunlight wearing our socks and boots, our sunglasses and nada mas. We left the zip-up shell pants on top of our packs because they could go on in a couple of seconds. The only discussion was whether we should take them along in case someone turned up. "Nah!" said Mark, "Are we naked or not? Let's go for it!"
I wedged one glove under my skis and one under my poles to cushion my shoulders, and started up. It was my turn to lead. The thought that Mark had to stare at my ass the whole time kept me tingling, but having to concentrate on staying in the steps, which were starting to get sloppy, kept my cock under control. When we got to the top I started right down. I was nervous being so far from my clothes.
The snow was now perfect. Like icing on a cake. My skis rode smoothly and I could make wide, relaxed, impeccable turns even though the slope was very steep. I felt I was at the top of my form. I had pushed down my knee-socks for maximum nakedness and I was enjoying every square inch of the exposure. Each time I crossed the fall line I would pick up a lot of speed; the air would whip deliciously past my body. Every so often a chunk of snow kicked up by my poles would strike me on the legs or the stomach. This was delicious, too. I did not stop until I was back at the camp. It was an unbroken, ecstatic sequence of linked turns from the top to the bottom. I ended up with my skis across the slope, panting and looking uphill.
Mark had waited for me to finish, I guess so he could show me his stuff. It was quite a show. Mark is a very daring skier. He came down much faster than I had, almost lost his balance at one point but recovered completely enough to give me a little demonstration of "wedeln" just before the end. It was like a hootchie-kootchie dance by a beautiful man naked on skis racing downhill, risking everything. Too much! My cock stiffened immediately. He made one last turn and roared to a stop facing me, his skis just below mine.
He glanced at my erection and said: "What are you looking at, mister hard-to-get?" At that he reached down, scooped up a handful of loose snow and stuffed it in my crotch. I felt myself falling uphill and grabbed at his shoulder. I hit the snow. He fell on top of me. Our legs and skis were twisted together, with his on top; my feet were trapped. My naked butt and back pressed against the slope - I gasped from the shock. With my chest and abdomen I felt Mark's body squirming against mine. His cock, erect, slid along my thigh. I pulled my hands out of my gloves and put my arms around him. "Mark," I said, "you're so fucking beautiful!" "Nice try," he answered, "but too late." He took another handful of snow and began to rub it into my chest and stomach. Granular snow is actually sleet. Mark's gloved hand was scouring my skin with little, sharp chunks of ice. I was writhing and trying to push him away, but at the same time my cock was throbbing dangerously. Mark must have sensed it beacuse he slid down to my crotch and said: "Wait till you feel this!" He took a mouthful of snow and then slipped me in with it. "Hey!" I yelled. The icy tongue darting over my glans and licking at my shaft was more intense than anything my penis had ever felt before. Then he hit my balls. He massaged snow around them and behind them, all the time continuing his frozen teasing of my cock. I lasted less than a minute and exploded right into his mouth. After a moment, I sat up and caressed his head. My backside was completely numb from the snow, but I did not care. My mind was still spinning from the rush he had given me.
Mark spat out a mixture of ice and sperm and wiped his mouth on the back of his glove. I pulled his face up to mine and kissed him. His mouth was still cold. "Mark," I said, "You know I love you." "How could I tell?" he said. "We're together all the time and you've never said anything." "Well you're an unobservant, insensitive asshole, that's all. Let me up!" We both got back on our feet. I released my bindings and stepped out of my skis, and saw Mark bending over to release his. I scooped up a snowball and fired it at the small of his back. Bingo! He looked up, but he had to unfasten the other ski. I got him again, between the shoulder blades. Now his feet were free; he tried to run. I caught him with a shot to the groin as he turned, and followed right behind him, pelting his naked body with snowballs. He was Saint Sebastian and I was the Roman soldiers. It was glorious.
Ski boots are not made for running. Within fifty feet Mark tripped and fell flat on his chest, facing uphill. I jumped on top of him and let myself slide down just over his ass. There it was, beautiful as ever, solid with muscle but almost as soft and smooth as a baby's. His arms were scrabbling against the slope, trying to get some leverage, but I had enough weight on his torso to keep him pinned. I tunnelled my arm through the snow to check out his cock. It was stiff and hot, and spasmed when I touched it. He was ripe. I said: "Okay, Mark, up on your hands and knees!" as I slid my body down, freeing his butt and his thighs. He complied. I filled my mouth with snow and licked a circle around his anus. He yelped. "Start beating off!" I ordered. Mark got down on one elbow, pulled the other glove off with his teeth and began pumping. I initiated a series of slow ass-licks on him. I can touch my tongue to the tip of my nose. My father can do it too; it's genetic. I grasped Mark's hips and forced my mouth into his crotch, starting each lick as far down towards his balls as I could reach. From there my tongue sashayed up to his hole, gave it a dipsy-doodle and slinked out into his ass-crack. I replenished the snow whenever I felt it melting away. Only a few licks were necessary. "Jesus, man, I'm starting to come." That was my cue. Ramming my face against his crack I shot my frozen tongue deep up into him. Mark screamed, and then gave a kind of long, piercing, pulsating yodel. Tarzan getting his. Thank goodness it was just the two of us on a mountain top. I let him finish, then I pulled back and kissed his ass. I really did love the guy.