Copyright © 2026 J.P. Russell. The author asserts the application of all U.S. and associated international copyright protections and all rights to this original work of fiction. Do not reproduce without explicit written permission, etc.
Fishin’ in the Dark
Things between me and Grady were incredible on the personal front. He was a thoughtful friend and a generous and energetic lover, and our relationship quickly deepened beyond anything I'd thought possible. I learned more about his previous life as we lay in our regular afterglow, finding a strengthening connection in that mutual place of trusting openness. He’d always been drawn to other men; he’d had sex with a few guys during and after high school—just fleeting, unsatisfying encounters, like most of my own—and although he’d also had short-term girlfriends, there'd been nothing very serious for a few years.
He’d entirely put sex and romance aside when he came to look after his uncle. There was just so much he had to do between Doug's end-of-life care and the ranch, and the old man’s own internalized shame and loneliness made Grady’s personal struggles seem pretty mundane in comparison. Then, after Doug was gone, he was so busy trying to sort out the ranch that he just kind of felt like that part of his life was over, at least for a while.
I’d been an entirely unexpected wrinkle in the plan but, he assured me, a very welcome one.
He still didn’t talk much about his mom. I read between the lines that, after his dad's wreck, she found Grady far from her ideal of manhood and probably suspected that he was queer. His closeness with Doug also seemed to be part of their rift, as she didn’t seem to care for her brother or his “lifestyle” either.
But Grady asked me a lot about my family, and although his own upbringing seemed pretty unhappy, he never seemed to be put off by the obvious love I had for my hard-hewn crew. If anything, he had huge respect for it, and he insisted that I also make sure to spend time with them on weekends. Having had so little in the way of family, he appreciated mine. Alex had shown absolutely zero interest in hearing about my folks or Mark and resented when I went home to visit but then seemed put out when I offered to spend time with him instead. I realized that, although my family didn’t understand everything about my life, their unconditional love was a rare thing, as was Grady’s support of that bond. I didn't have to give up one for the other.
I even convinced him to pick up some paints and start making art again. Between work on the ranch and play in the bedroom, there wasn't a lot of time for other activities, and he only agreed to do it if I’d pose for him as I’d teasingly suggested. It was nothing as cinematic as Rose and Jack, as I was (mostly) clothed on the couch, right under the bay window that looked over Saddle Mountain itself, but there was such intimacy in the way his electric blue eyes caressed my face, my hair, my arm, my neck, as if he was committing every part of me to physical memory; the way he’d purse his lips as he captured just the right brush stroke; how he’d put his brush down and come over to move my wrist slightly to the right, curve my arm just enough to deepen the shadow in an interesting way, tilt my head so he could capture a different light on my face, then sneak a quick kiss before heading back to the easel.
We didn’t do it more than a handful of times, and every time the painting session would end in a passionate fuck on the couch, on the living room floor, or up against the kitchen wall, and I spent a surprising amount of time afterward scrubbing oil paint from hard-to-reach places on my body and a surprising range of furniture. I was keen to see what he was putting on the canvas, but he steadfastly refused to reveal it before he'd finished, and I respected his process even though I was incredibly curious.
So personally, the summer was better than anything I could have hoped for. The undeniable business reality, however, was that Grady was running out of money and time to get the big repairs done before I had to leave. In spite of all the careful planning and dedication to doing as much of the work on his own or calling in favors, the problems completely outstripped Grady’s resources. Mom was right: Doug had just neglected things too much for way too long for the two of us to sort out in three months, no matter how hard we worked.
He still paid me every week—that was non-negotiable and never an issue—but cattle were going to have to wait until he could figure out how to get some money in. At the end of June the local bank rejected his business plan for a loan, so I helped him work on a more streamlined proposal that we submitted in mid-July to a bigger bank down in Durango, and we were hoping this pitch would do better. The options were running out, and we both knew it.
The one thing Grady did invest in were a couple of horses, as he was going to need them to manage the cattle and wanted some time getting comfortable in the saddle again before working them with a new and likely restless herd. Some ranchers in the valley had started using ATVs, but Grady wanted to reduce stress on the cows, and he had an affinity for horses from his childhood visits to the ranch. My Uncle Dennis was true to his word and helped Grady buy two good geldings from a rancher near Alamosa for a reasonable price: a strong, majestic, but slightly unhinged and still very studdish strawberry roan named Buddy, and a docile, easygoing pinto with the predictable name of Beans. We were pleased to find that the old saddles and most of the tack still in the stable were in serviceable condition after a bit of elbow grease and some minor repairs. The galvanized water tank didn’t have any cracks or holes and only needed cleaning, so all that was required was a good feeding trough now that the stable was in working condition again.
Grady was a confident rider—no surprise there given the smooth pelvic rhythm I’d experienced so many times—but I hadn’t been on a horse since I was about twelve. Early-onset hay fever during puberty made horseback riding a nose-plugging, eye-watering misery for most of my teens. Lessened sensitivity as I got older and advances in allergy treatments made it possible for me to get back in the saddle and get comfortable with horses again.
I stuck with Beans, who had a temperament better suited for my return to riding. Physically, Buddy was well suited to Grady, as he was big and tireless, but he was also unpredictable, and more than once Grady ended up on the ground when the evil-minded horse decided he’d had enough of a rider and started bucking wildly and kicking at anything that moved. But we persevered, and it didn’t take long until we were taking the horses farther from the main house, in part to get them used to us, in part to keep up with our fence repairs, and in part because it just felt good to ride together across the ranch and its summer blanket of wildflowers and greenery, both more abundant due to the higher temperatures and rainfall that year.
Unfortunately, hay and grain prices were also higher that year than Grady had budgeted for, so even with the savings Uncle Dennis negotiated, the horses weren’t a cheap investment. At the end of July, the other bank turned us down, although it was a bit of comfort that they praised the proposal and said if there had been any more collateral it would have been an easy yes. But Grady had put everything on the line, including his truck—there was nothing else. And the one phone call to his mother made it clear she wasn’t going to help.
Grady wasn’t one for sulking, but he was struggling to find a hopeful way forward, and I could tell he was getting pretty low. We still chipped away at the task list, which now included looking after the horses, and sex was still exciting and frequent, including once in the hayloft above the stable, but he was quieter than usual and it was clear that his troubles were starting to weigh heavily on him.
Without any extra financial resources of my own, there just wasn’t much I could do other than support him emotionally, and I was sure there had to be options. So I started thinking back to some of my environmental history class lectures, especially some of the end-of-term discussions about innovative land-use policies in the American West, and the spark of an idea caught my imagination. I spent a bit of time at the library on a couple of my weekends home to do some research in hope that my hunch might offer something viable.
I wasn’t sure the best way to bring it up, but then Grady suggested a short camping trip with the horses. The actual Saddle Mountain rose to a height of about 10,000 feet on Forest Service lands abutting the south end of the ranch; he’d camped up there with Doug when he was in his early teens and remembered some pretty striking scenery that he wanted me to see. We’d already scanned the full fence perimeter on horseback, so there was no need to do that again for a while. This time we’d just head up Harrison Canyon and meander our way to the slopes of Saddle Mountain.
It was an easy yes. We had to be back on Thursday for a big hay delivery that we’d have to load into the stable loft above the horse stalls, but that gave us a couple of days to enjoy some time together before big decisions had to be made, both for the ranch and for my employment, as summer was coming to an end and the fall semester was approaching way too fast. I didn’t want to think about either one.
We packed lightly—saddle bags with canned food, apples, oranges, and chocolate bars, along with water canteens, some beer, some ground coffee, teabags, and a beat-up old campfire coffee pot and a couple of travel plates and cutlery—and stuff for cleaning, along with some soap and a travel tube of lube. Sleeping bags, a secondhand canvas army tent, and a change of clothes with extra socks and underwear, along with grain for the horses’ feedbags and enough dog food for a couple of days, and we were set to go. Grady also brought along a pistol in case we encountered a mountain lion, as that was a realistic possibility in this part of the mountains, but he seemed largely unconcerned, especially with the dogs tagging along. He was an impressive shot—we’d gone target practicing a few times behind the shop—so I had every confidence that we’d be safe no matter what we encountered.
The day started hot and stayed that way, and that was always dangerous with Buddy, who liked to pitch and roll when he got sweaty, and he didn’t care if his rider had managed to jump off or not. Buddy tried to roll twice, and both times Grady just managed to leap off before getting crushed. Eventually he and the testy roan walked side-by-side for a few miles until Buddy was calm enough to allow Grady to ride again, but he stayed vigilant, and I think Buddy’s vicious little heart liked keeping everyone on edge. Beans was thankfully gentle and completely unflappable, but when Grady was walking so was I, leading Beans by the reins as we walked in silence or quiet conversation. Toby, Bailey, and Bear loped alongside us, tongues lolling, noses on the alert for any interesting and unexpected scents, of which there were apparently many.
While we walked I told him about a new partnership I’d heard about that some universities in Colorado, Wyoming, and Idaho were starting with rural landowners, state and federal conservation groups, and local American Indian tribes to help reintroduce threatened or locally extinct species and restore better balance to predator-prey relations and ecosystem health. There was money for research and to help develop new practices that could serve as models for expansion across the mid-mountain west. I didn’t know if there were any partnerships in our area, but I thought it might be something different enough that banks might listen, especially if there were other partners to help mitigate the risk and expand the input. We were also in traditional Southern Ute territory, and my dad had contacts in the tribe that might help.
Grady didn’t dismiss the idea, but he had questions that I couldn’t really answer. I could see he was intrigued, and I knew he was glad to have another option even if it was only pure conjecture at this point.
We talked about pros and cons throughout the afternoon as the trail we were on cut up the canyon to a series of aspen-dotted meadows in the shadow of a rocky ridge that snaked along the southern flank of the peak. Saddle Mountain was well named, as its center curved long and low between high, rocky flanks, and Harrison Canyon cut lengthwise along that edge to what Grady assured me was a pretty astonishing viewpoint.
But that was for tomorrow. Today we made our way to a broad meadow hugging the base of the ridge. A cool mountain stream cut through silver-green willows, and just beside it, to my surprise and delight, was an old, dilapidated log cabin, its roof partly caved in but walls intact, with a much-used firepit in front and sun-bleached logs for makeshift seats. This romantic site would be base camp for the next couple of days.
We got the horses in their hobbles and put their grain-filled feedbags on their muzzles, removed their saddles and blankets and curried them until their hair was smooth and shining, then set to getting food sorted out for the dogs and ourselves. I fed the dogs, got the campfire started, and started warming up some canned beef stew before popping a tab on a can of beer for Grady as he wrestled with the tent. For all his impressive talents, tent-erecting was decidedly not one of them. He was adamant that he could do it on his own, and I stifled my laughs at the staccato spattering of obscenity that poured from his pouty lips and became more colorful as his frustration increased. I later described him as the “Jackson Pollock of profanity,” and he wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or a criticism, though I assured him it was the former. After a while I left him to finish it on his own, and although it took over an hour, he finally had the tent together and mostly upright. We celebrated his hard-won victory with a meal at fireside.
It was the perfect night. After we took off their feedbags the horses grazed a bit in the meadow, staying close with the hobbles on, and we could hear frogs and crickets and various nightbirds in the aspens and across the mountain slopes. There was enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes to a minimum without chilling us too much. The dogs lay around the fire, occasionally shifting position when one side got too hot or too cold, sometimes lifting their head to sniff the air or listen to the land’s symphony around us. The night was completely cloudless and ablaze with stars, and even though the Moon was half full it didn’t dim much of the starshine at this elevation. Ever since I was a kid I loved looking at the stars, but never so much as this wondrous night alongside this sweet, solid mountain man.
We sat next to each other, knees touching, and ate in contented silence as the night world came to life. I handed him another beer and got one for myself, and we tapped the cans together and took a drink. After a while Grady said, “Ben, thanks for today. I appreciate it.”
“For what?”
He waved at the saddles and fire. “For all of this. I can’t think of a day I’ve enjoyed more. Or company I’ve enjoyed better.” He gave me a shy wink.
It was all I could do to keep from going down on him right then. God, how is it this man can get me so damn turned on? But I resisted and just enjoyed this tender moment.
“It’s been incredible. Thanks for suggesting it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just seemed like this was as good a time as any. Especially with you leaving so soon and all.”
The reality behind the words hit me like an icy wave. I nodded, and I could feel my eyes start to tingle. “I…I kind of wish I didn’t have to.”
His gaze was warm. “I want you to.”
“Really?” I asked, hurt edging my voice.
He bumped his shoulder against mine like we were little kids. “I don’t want you to leave, you sexy dumbass. But I don’t want to hold you back, either. You’ve got dreams. And you’ve got the talent to make them happen. That’s all I mean.”
I pressed back against him. Grady put a big arm around my waist and let it rest on my hip as I snuggled in. “I seriously never thought at the start of the summer that I wouldn’t want to go back to school. All my life there’s a part of me that’s been running from this place. But now…it’s the only place I want to be.”
He kissed my temple. “I get it. It sure won’t be the same without you.”
“What are we going to do?” I couldn’t stop the tears now.
Grady sighed. “I don’t know, Benji. We’ll think of something.”
I looked up. “Benji? You’ve never called me that before.”
“Not out loud,” he grimaced in embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” I said, smiling despite my sadness. “I kind of like it.”
He pulled me tight and rested his chin on my shoulder. “I know you want to stay. And I’d like that. But you’ve got school, and…”
“And…?”
He went silent in a way that made my stomach clench. After a while he said, “I don’t know that I can make the ranch work, Ben.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what was I thinking? I’m not a ranch man. I’ve got a few trade skills and a small inheritance from my dead uncle that I’ve just about pissed through. I don’t want you giving up your schooling for a daydream that might not even be here at the end of the year.”
“What about my idea? Don’t you think it will help?”
He leaned over and kissed me. “I want it to. I hope it will. It’s an amazing possibility, and I’m really grateful you thought about it. But I also need to be realistic. Even if the ranch is what these folks are looking for, things like this take time to get in place, and I don’t know if I have that. I’m already too late to get cattle in for the season—I can’t afford a winter’s worth of feed without any money coming in. I might be able to fix up the rest of the guest units and rent them out to skiers for some winter income, but beyond that…I just don’t know.”
I tucked in closer to him, like I was trying to absorb his pain and frustration and disappointment into myself and turn it into something helpful. He’d worked so hard, tried so much, but he was right—everything was going in the wrong direction, and even if this plan was a good one, the timing was off. He squeezed me again.
“I promise I’m going to keep trying, but if it doesn’t work out, I need to know you’re out there living your best life, not giving that up for the silly dreams of a failed barista with a welding certificate.”
A grey cloud seemed to settle over his strong shoulders. I wanted so much to help, but all I had were words, and they didn’t seem adequate right now. But they were the best I could offer.
“Don’t forget an incredible artist. And a spectacular lover. You’re those things, too. And none of your dreams are silly. You’re not a failed anything.”
Grady kissed me again, deeper this time. “I wanted us to have this trip together so that no matter what happens, you know how much I appreciate you.” His lips grazed my ear. “How much I…love you. I love you, Ben.”
I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I love you too, Grady. From the first day we met, I’ve loved you. I just wish….” I couldn’t continue from the sob that suddenly choked my words.
“Me too,” he whispered. “Me too, Benji.” With that kiss we didn’t need words for what we both wanted. He pulled me into a warm embrace, lips sliding down my neck, and we drifted together onto the grass beside the fire, where we made love under the stars, sparks spinning from the firepit into the moonlit sky above us, tracing our tongues down salty skin and taking each other’s cocks until we shuddered in shared climax.
Later, when the fire had died down and the dogs were huddled together by the still-warm embers, we washed each other in the cold creek and moved to the tent. I turned the little battery-poured lantern on the lowest setting so that I could still see Grady’s tight body and luscious body hair, that meaty cock, those long legs my tongue had traveled along so many times, that beard I’d so often run my fingers through, the mouth I’d tasted and touched in my waking hours as well as my dreams. He was beauty incarnate.
I laid down beside him on the sleeping bag, and he put some lube on his palm and stroked me to aching hardness. I started to reach for him, too, but to my surprise he stopped my hand. He squeezed out more lube and rubbed it on his own ass, then pulled me toward him and guided my cock toward his hole, giving me an encouraging nod.
I knew from our post-sex conversations that he'd never bottomed before; with an impressive cock like his, partners were always more eager to be fucked than fuck. Now, though, he was ready. He wanted me to be the first, and I wanted his first time to be everything he hoped it would be.
I leaned in slowly, like he’d done with me that first night together, sucking on his lips and then his nipples, arching my back as I eased my tip in and waited. I wanted so much to go deeper, but I could feel his sphincter clenching, so I stopped and teased him, licking his skin and letting his body fully adjust to the new feeling and the warmth that radiated from his tight channel outward.
At first he squeezed his eyes in discomfort as my cockhead opened him up, but he urged me on. As we slowed down and allowed his hole to gradually relax, his eyes flared open again, this time in something like sudden amazement, which turned into a satisfied flutter as the sharp ache eased into an unexpected pleasure that flowed across him like pulsating waves.
“Bennnnnnn,” he moaned. “Goddamn, Ben, that’s…is that what it’s always like?”
I smiled and pumped my hips slightly forward—not too much, but enough to make him bite his lower lip and let out an involuntary whimper. I was so turned on seeing him experience this as something revelatory and pleasurable, to see him open up to me as I’d so often opened to him. That’s how it was supposed to be, especially the first time.
“Not always,” I whispered into his ear, hot breath lingering, pulling out and pushing back again in one fluid motion. “But that’s how it always feels when I’m with you.” He pulled his legs up a bit more, so I slid deeper, and we groaned in unison.
His blue eyes gleamed bright in the lamplight. “Deeper,” he said, voice shaky. “All the way.”
“You sure?” I asked, my arms trembling as I held myself above him.
In response he wrapped his legs around me and drew my body in fully to the hilt. We both cried out. His head rolled back and he pulled my chest onto his as his arms held my entire upper body tight against him. “Don’t stop, Ben—please, don’t stop until you come.”
I didn’t say anything else—I couldn’t. I just started pumping in and out, driving my dick as deeply as I could, the curve of my cock hitting that spot that made him gasp like it was made to be part of him, my sucking mouth latching onto the tender skin on his neck. We were panting, groaning, aching for release but not wanting to surrender too soon.
We’d never been this close before, two bodies now mingled into a single experience of hunger, pleasure, grief, and wonder, and we wanted it to last. I don’t know how long we moved in that fierce shared rhythm, but without warning I felt all my muscles go tense, tighten, and then unleash in a blazing flood. I grunted in a full-body spasm as I came inside him with an intensity I’d never experienced as a bottom, my entire lower half shaking with every fresh contraction as he squeezed and clenched my cock from within until I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t part of him like this, my essence now fully intermingled with his own.
As if he could feel each spurt of my climax he gasped and his eyes went wide and wild, and his whole body writhed as thick torrents of his warm cum pasted our sweat-slick bodies together.
“I love you,” I breathed into the nape of his neck, making the hair all over his skin go erect. “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou….”
Grady held me close and we whispered it together, as if the chant would somehow keep the future at a distance, as if by sheer force of will we could make the world stop and bind us together forever in this stolen moment on the moonlit slopes of Saddle Mountain.
