2
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
“Well, when you put it like that,” I’d said.
“I do. Andy, get your butt up there and call me to let me know you made it all right. Be careful driving.”
“I will, Mom.”
Which is why I found myself counting exits instead of sitting alone in my apartment in the city. The snow was coming down harder now and starting to stick. By the time I made it home, it was four inches deep.
Pulling into the driveway, it was hard knowing that they wouldn’t be there, my mother coming out to urge me to eat a snack to hold me until dinner, my father gruffly slapping me on the back and shaking my hand….
The house looked like it always did and it hit me how much I’d missed coming home. Not just to see my parents, but the feeling of being in a place I was completely familiar with. It was strange, as if I’d lived there in a previous life long ago, which in a way I guess was true.
I should have taken my bag inside and gotten settled right away, but just being home made me want to see the old fishing hole again. Instead of coming straight down, the snow was dancing sideways, as if promising that it would hold off long enough for me to walk there and back before dark if I started out now. I pulled my cap down to cover my ears and turned up the collar of my coat. With my hands dug 3
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
into my pockets, I set out cross-country through our apple orchard, taking the shortcut from when we were kids.
The bare trees cast pale blue shadows across the new snow and the pond was frozen over, a flat disc of silvery grey surrounded by the wizened sumac at the edge. Where the creek flowed in the ice was thin and black, showing the sluggish current beneath.
The big flat rock still jutted out over the water like it always did. We used to sit there in the sun to dry off after swimming. I brushed off a spot and sat down cross-legged like I used to, squinting into the misty glare, wishing I could see Jake jump from the rope just one more time. It still hung there, rigid and glittering with ice, or maybe it was a new one, replaced by the boys who swam there now, whoever they were.
Maybe it was nostalgia, but I could swear the air felt balmy on my cheek and the sky was blue again as I watched Jake swing on the rope and launch himself into the water.
For just one moment, it was as if time froze and I could see his naked body stretched out, achingly beautiful, muscles taut and firm, the round lushness of his ass as he soared through the air before cutting into the water sleekly.
How often had I wished that I’d owned a camera back then and could have captured that shot to keep it forever.
He’d always be laughing when he broke the surface and gave that little shake to get his hair out of his eyes.
4
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
From the time I first started to feel the unmistakable tug of attraction to other boys, rather than girls, the fishing hole became both heaven and hell for me. I would sneak glances at the other boys, getting a thrill from looking at their undeveloped torsos. It was the contours, hard instead of soft, angular instead of curvy, except for the sudden swell of their buttocks, the hint of something between their legs that kept me submerged most of the time.
Once I moved to the city, my fishing hole became the gay bars where you could find action every night of the week even if you were a quiet, nerdy guy like me.
But back then this was my personal fishing hole and Jake had played a starring role in all my fantasies. He developed faster than most of us, his lean body hardened with muscle. He had big biceps, and his forearms were defined under his tanned skin. Farm work developed his trapezius muscles, sloping along the top of his broad shoulders. Where other boys’ chests were flat, his pecs were filled out, with pink nipples that pebbled in the cold water so they cast tiny shadows on his chest in the sunlight.
He was adventurous. He was the one
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
“Well, when you put it like that,” I’d said.
“I do. Andy, get your butt up there and call me to let me know you made it all right. Be careful driving.”
“I will, Mom.”
Which is why I found myself counting exits instead of sitting alone in my apartment in the city. The snow was coming down harder now and starting to stick. By the time I made it home, it was four inches deep.
Pulling into the driveway, it was hard knowing that they wouldn’t be there, my mother coming out to urge me to eat a snack to hold me until dinner, my father gruffly slapping me on the back and shaking my hand….
The house looked like it always did and it hit me how much I’d missed coming home. Not just to see my parents, but the feeling of being in a place I was completely familiar with. It was strange, as if I’d lived there in a previous life long ago, which in a way I guess was true.
I should have taken my bag inside and gotten settled right away, but just being home made me want to see the old fishing hole again. Instead of coming straight down, the snow was dancing sideways, as if promising that it would hold off long enough for me to walk there and back before dark if I started out now. I pulled my cap down to cover my ears and turned up the collar of my coat. With my hands dug 3
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
into my pockets, I set out cross-country through our apple orchard, taking the shortcut from when we were kids.
The bare trees cast pale blue shadows across the new snow and the pond was frozen over, a flat disc of silvery grey surrounded by the wizened sumac at the edge. Where the creek flowed in the ice was thin and black, showing the sluggish current beneath.
The big flat rock still jutted out over the water like it always did. We used to sit there in the sun to dry off after swimming. I brushed off a spot and sat down cross-legged like I used to, squinting into the misty glare, wishing I could see Jake jump from the rope just one more time. It still hung there, rigid and glittering with ice, or maybe it was a new one, replaced by the boys who swam there now, whoever they were.
Maybe it was nostalgia, but I could swear the air felt balmy on my cheek and the sky was blue again as I watched Jake swing on the rope and launch himself into the water.
For just one moment, it was as if time froze and I could see his naked body stretched out, achingly beautiful, muscles taut and firm, the round lushness of his ass as he soared through the air before cutting into the water sleekly.
How often had I wished that I’d owned a camera back then and could have captured that shot to keep it forever.
He’d always be laughing when he broke the surface and gave that little shake to get his hair out of his eyes.
4
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
From the time I first started to feel the unmistakable tug of attraction to other boys, rather than girls, the fishing hole became both heaven and hell for me. I would sneak glances at the other boys, getting a thrill from looking at their undeveloped torsos. It was the contours, hard instead of soft, angular instead of curvy, except for the sudden swell of their buttocks, the hint of something between their legs that kept me submerged most of the time.
Once I moved to the city, my fishing hole became the gay bars where you could find action every night of the week even if you were a quiet, nerdy guy like me.
But back then this was my personal fishing hole and Jake had played a starring role in all my fantasies. He developed faster than most of us, his lean body hardened with muscle. He had big biceps, and his forearms were defined under his tanned skin. Farm work developed his trapezius muscles, sloping along the top of his broad shoulders. Where other boys’ chests were flat, his pecs were filled out, with pink nipples that pebbled in the cold water so they cast tiny shadows on his chest in the sunlight.
He was adventurous. He was the one
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