A Babyfaced Stud Named Kyle

Chapter One

It was already mid-afternoon when I flew into Missoula in a snowstorm.  Normally, I made my annual pilgrimage to Montana for fly-fishing in August or early September, but the old timers at my favorite fly-fishing shop had persuaded me to try coming in early October when the river waters were cooler and fishing hotter.  I hadn’t thought about the possibilities for snow and, as we taxied to the terminal, found myself wondering about how you fish in the middle of a blizzard.  

I collected my bags and, along with my carry on backpack and cylindrical metal case containing my fishing rod, headed to the rental car counter.  Soon I was in my SUV on US Highway 90 heading through town and towards the East. 

The snow had lightened up a bit but visibility was less than perfect.  I had made this journey to the East of Missoula since my teens.  In those days, my Dad would be driving as my brother and I daydreamed about all the Westslope cutthroat, rainbow and brown trout we’d catch during the week ahead.  Catch and release, that is.  Our Dad had trained us to return our temporary captives to the river.

Today I was alone.  My older brother had begged off this year, citing family obligations.  He was now a grandfather.  In my mid-forties, I was happy for the break from my sometimes insane work life on Wall Street.  The shoddy cell reception in the area meant it would be difficult for anyone to intrude on my vacation.  I couldn’t wait to decompress.

The old fishing lodge remained open until mid-October.  I was wondering if there’d be any other guests at this time of year. 

I exited the highway at the junction of the Clark Fork and Rock Creek rivers and saw the fly-fishing shop ahead on the right.  I parked my vehicle, stretched my legs and ambled through the front door after kicking snow off my boots. 

Almost immediately, Tom the store manager looked up from behind the counter and grinned, “Well, look what the cat dragged in!  Hey Jeff, good to see ya!” 

“Nice to be back Tom,” I replied, shaking his hand, “Thought I’d stop by to confirm tomorrow’s arrangements before heading to the lodge,” I said.

“About that,” Tom said hesitantly, “I’m afraid Alan’s come down with the flu.”

Alan was one of my go-to guides.  He was around 70 years old but strong as an ox, still easily navigating boats down Rock Creek.  Silver-haired and crotchety, Alan knew the location of all the hot spots, which changed from season to season.  He coyly kept that information to himself, sharing it only with his favorite clients and not fellow guides.  When Alan was my guide, I felt I had the inside track.

“Oh,” I said, “That’s disappointing.  I hope he recovers.”  I almost added “this week” but did not because it would sound selfish.

“Yeah, it may just be a 24 hour deal,” Tom said, “But he’s definitely out of commission tomorrow.”

“Understood,” I said, somewhat dejectedly.

“But I’ve got a back up for ya,” he said, brightening up, “He’s our youngest guide but he’s been hitting it out the ballpark all season long.  Name’s Kyle.  He’s in the back.”  Tom paused then hollered, “Hey Kyle!”

I heard a voice call out, “Yeah Tom?”

“Come on out here and meet your client for tomorrow’s float trip,” Tom said.  I wasn’t surprised Kyle was in the back of the shop.  Most guides started out as shop assistants and only occasionally got out on the water.  I hoped he was as good as Tom promised.

Then I saw the kid emerging from the backroom.  He wore a backwards-facing blue baseball cap and was dressed in hip hugging, stretchy gray athletic pants and a tight fitting long sleeve blue T-shirt.  It was basically a first layer of clothing.  He’d have to throw on a few more layers to guide outdoors in the cold tomorrow.  

Kyle appeared to be in his mid-20s.  The guy was obviously fit.  He had a classic gymnast physique.  He was shorter than my 6’2”.  Probably only 5’8”.  He had broad, muscled shoulders and big, well-defined pecs that strained against the fabric of his T-shirt.  If there was an ounce of fat on his body, I couldn’t see it.  The kid had a babyface, with blue eyes, curls of light brown hair, which peeked out from under the ball cap, and a bit of brown scruff around his chin.  But for the scruff, I might have pegged him for 20 years old or younger. 

As he approached the counter, Tom said, “Kyle, meet Jeff Richards, one of our oldest clients.”  Correcting himself, Tom said sheepishly, “Uh, uh… I mean longtime client.  Jeff ’s not an old man!”

We all chuckled.  Kyle’s grin revealed a cute dimple near the right corner of his mouth.  He extended a large hand and I leaned forward shaking it.  “Good to meet you, Mr. Richards,” he said politely.

“Oh,” I said, “Jeff…please call me Jeff.”

“Jeff,” he repeated, still grinning, then added, “Thought we’d float the southern most section of the Rock tomorrow.  It’s been hitting pretty good this past week.  Still getting some good Callibaetis hatches.”

I had fished that section of water many times but resisted showing off my knowledge.  “I’m in your hands,” I said, “But listen I’ve never fished this late in the season.  Are the trout spooked by the snowfall?”

Tom interjected, “Not really.  They love the cooler water, and you’ll be using a dry-dropper, of course.”  Dry-dropper was a rig with two flies, one floated on top of the river and the other drifted below the surface imitating a nymph.  More often than not, the fish ate the dropper, which pulled down the dry fly on top.  That was the cue to strike (meaning raise your rod) and hook the fish below.

Kyle added, “Yeah, but we’ve been getting some action on the dries as well.  A lot less pressure this time of year and the trout are hungry.  Anyway, it’s supposed to warm up tomorrow.”

I nodded agreeably.  Kyle took off his cap for a few moments revealing unruly curls of light brown hair.  They weren’t too long.  But more than enough to hold onto, I thought to myself.  Close up his blue eyes were more of an aquamarine color.  I stared into them for several seconds before looking back at Tom.

Back in New York City, I am out as a single, proud gay man.  I'm not into long-term relationships these days.  “Been there done that” is my motto after a rather painful break up a few years ago.  At 6’2” 190 pounds, I keep myself in top physical shape.  I have 46” pecs, 18” biceps, a 33” waist and 33” quads.  My short brown hair is sprinkled with a bit silver.  Not to sound conceited, but I have a handsome, youthful-looking face with gray green eyes, a stately nose and a neatly trimmed brown beard.  My chest has a dusting of brown hair around my pink nipples.  My six pack abs are smooth above a brown treasure trail that leads down to my trimmed brown pubes.  I’m endowed with a thick 8” cut cock.

In contrast to New York City, I had stayed in the closet when visiting Montana.  At least I didn’t advertise my sexuality.  Maybe I was concerned about some homophobic reaction.  At the same time, there were a lot of independent, libertarian types in Big Sky Country who could care less about a person’s sexual attractions.  If someone asked me, I’d not hesitate to tell them I was gay.  I just didn’t volunteer.

“The southernmost section sounds promising,” I said to both Tom and Kyle.  Glancing at the kid, I asked, “Should we meet up here tomorrow at the usual time?”  The “usual time” was 7:30 a.m.

Kyle shook his head no, “Actually I was thinking I’d pick you up at the lodge.  Otherwise, you’d come all the way in just to have us backtrack to your place and well beyond it to our access point.”  He smiled showing off his dimple again and replaced the ball cap on his head, this time with the bill facing forward.

I nodded, once again transfixed by his handsome face, muscular physique and eager demeanor  I assumed he was straight but whatever I’d lost in fishing know-how with Alan’s flu absence I’d gained back in having a sexy stud by my side on the river.  “Sounds fine,” I said, “I’ll be ready at 7:30 a.m.  See you tomorrow!”

As I was turning away from the corner, Kyle winked at me.  I wasn’t sure how to read that gesture.  A little odd, I thought, but sort of suggestive and cocky at the same time.  The kid didn’t lack confidence.

From the fishing tackle shop, I drove out Rock Creek Road then Upper Rock Creek Road for several miles.  The road paralleled Rock Creek and I stopped a few times to get out and take a gander at the water.  With snow still falling and the light fading, I couldn’t make out any fish rising on the surface.

It was early evening by the time I reached the turnoff for the lodge.  I drove up the dirt road about a mile and saw the main dining hall and manager’s office ahead of me.  I drove past those buildings and through a corridor lined with wood cottages of varying sizes until I reached the stone bunkhouse near the back of the property.  The bunkhouse was where male visitors stayed when they came without their wives or girlfriends.  

As I got out of my SUV, the lodge manager Sandy pulled up behind me in his white Ford F-150 truck.  “Hey there Jeff!” he exclaimed..  Sandy was white and about 60 years old.  He was balding and had a beer belly.  He and his wife Adele were salt of the earth and perfect hosts, always warm and gracious.

“Sandy, good to see you!” I said enthusiastically, while brushing snow off my shoulders.

“Great to see you as well,” he replied shaking my hand.  “I came over to light a fire for you.  Had planned to do it earlier but got waylaid with the horses in the barn.”

“No worries,” I said, adding “Who else is here?”

“Well,” Sandy responded, “We have the Walkers in one cottage and two close friends of theirs in another, but you’ll be on your own in the bunkhouse.  Might get another single male guest later in the week but you’ll have the place to yourself for at least a few nights.”

“Oh that’s fine,” I replied, actually pleased I wouldn’t have to be social with anyone in the bunkhouse.  I got my suitcases, backpack and rod case and went inside.  I maintained a locker at the lodge so I didn’t need to bring my tackle boxes, waders and other paraphernalia with me each season.

Sandy followed me and set about building a fire in the huge stone hearth, which was located in the common living room with a vaulted ceiling.

With some surprise, I noticed there were black rubber mats laid out over the hardwood floors before the fireplace.  The usual comfy woolen rugs were nowhere to be seen.  “Why all these mats?” I asked.

Sandy had his back to me as he worked on preparing the fire.  “Well,” he explained without turning, “Last week was unseasonably rainy and muggy and folks were tracking mud into the bunkhouse.  We put the mats out to protect the rugs.  I could remove them now that it’s turned cold again but the season is almost over.”

“It’s okay,” I said, “Leave them.  It’s fine with me.”  The mats were arrayed in a large square and reminded me of my grappling days.  In college, I had wrestled in the 86g to 96g weight class.  It was only Division III but I more than held my own.  I still manage to wrestle in New York City as a member of a gay wrestling club.  Fat chance I’d be wrestling in this neck of the woods, I thought to myself.

Sandy had the fire up and roaring in the stone hearth.  The room heated up quickly.  I thanked him and went down the corridor beyond the living room to pick out a room and unpack my things.

After seven plus hours of travel, I felt grungy and decided to take a shower before the cocktail hour in the lodge’s lounge.  In the communal bathroom with its four sinks, each with a mirror, I stripped out of my traveling clothes.  Before heading to the stalls, I paused to stare at myself in the mirror.  My hairy 46” chest was well-defined.  With no one around, I did a double bi-flex taking in my brown armpit hair.

Gazing at myself, I thought back to my muscle stud of a guide, Kyle, and his babyface.  My 8” cut cock began to swell.  I couldn’t help but wrap my right hand around my thickening shaft.  I visualized him giving me that suggestive wink with his curly brown hair, aquamarine eyes, scruff and gymnast physique.

I felt pre-cum leaking from the slit of my mushroom head and used it to increase the tempo of my strokes.  I closed my eyes and imagined what Kyle might look like naked.  Was he a bit hairy like me?  Or smooth?  Were his brown pubes darker than his hair?  Was his cock as big as mine?  Bigger?  If he was gay, did he top or bottom or both?  I wanted to order Kyle to get on his knees before me and swallow my tool.  I imagined his lips wrapped around my shaft as he stared upwards at me with his aquamarine eyes.  I wanted to fist his curls and yank his mouth and throat forward, over and over again, impaling him on my tool.  Fuck, that did it.  Cum erupted from my hard cock, landing in the sink before me.  I shot five ropes as my body shuddered.

(To be continued.)