Three Words Away
He was three minutes (and three words) away. And his heart was pounding. And it was clear that, maybe ... perhaps ... he was taking a risk. That he was gonna break his heart. Or have it broken by ... well, regardless, it ...
Azure breathed. Out and in, he breathed. As he went. As he walked. In all the dim of five-o'clock. Through the pale-green fields, the browning fields. November fields. Through it, through the pasture ... up and over the barb-wire fence. Careful not to snag himself on it.
The squirrel was going to his neighbor's house. His neighbor was a skunk. And his house was in view, and Azure ... caught his breath. Stopped. Contemplated turning around. Do it. Do it, his mind urged. Turn around.
He swallowed, closed his eyes. Said a little prayer.
And proceeded.
Haunted by the dream of last night, and of the night before. Of many nights. The dream that consumed him sleeping and waking. The dream of being with him, that skunk. His name was Tuttle. An odd name, maybe, but ... Azure thought it was cute. The cutest name. Sounded like a name a turtle would have. But, no, Tuttle was a skunk. Purebred skunk. From head to toe to ... tail.
Azure swallowed, clearing his throat, breathing of the slightly chilly air. There was a breeze this evening. A rather strong one. Maybe cold air coming from the north. Maybe storms coming from the west. He couldn't be sure.
But it didn't matter now.
All that mattered ...
Head to toe to tail. Tuttle was solidly built. Not, like, a model ... he wasn't as slim as the squirrel. But Azure didn't care. His fur, silky black ... with that white, bright stripe. So silky. So alluring. So ... smoky. If smoky was an accurate description for a skunk. The way he walked, and the way he laughed ... so confident, so ... assured. So bold. So ...
... was that he loved him. Azure loved him. That was all that mattered. And ... he was going to tell him. He was going to Tuttle's house to confess this.
And all on a Sunday afternoon. As the sun neared its sleep.
Maybe I should wait for Monday. Wait for Monday.
No, a new week ... new excuses.
Do it now.
Now.
Azure licked his dry lips, nodding to himself, padding over the dying grass, the grass that had long since lost its summer luster. And trampling over the fallen leaves from the arm-waving trees.
And, even on approach, he was dreaming of ... dreaming of ...
... of the skunk in the barn. They would be in the barn. The skunk would be stacking hay bales, and the air would be dusty. The air a bit moldy, and there would be cobwebs in all the corners. And barn swallows nesting in their muddy nests. Swooping in and out through the wide, open doors.
Tuttle would be bare from the chest up ... and would be stacking hay bales in the corner. Lifting them with the tan twine ... stacking them in a perfect geometry. And his fur a bit matted with sweat. His fur cluttered with little specks of alfalfa and dust.
The squirrel would approach. Timid. His tail flying behind him in the breeze. Standing in the entrance. Waiting to be invited.
Tuttle would look up. Would smile that charismatic smile. That bright, rural smile. The smile that could be representative of almost anything good ... bonfires in fall. Fireworks in July. Daffodils at Easter. He would smile that smile, and he would say, "Hi, Azure." Just, "Hi, Azure."
And, Azure, at only that, would wanna melt, and he would reply, "Um ... hi." Shy. Bashful. And biting his lip.
And Tuttle would think that was the cutest thing in the world. He would think that shyness was the cutest thing. He would wanna eat it up. And, so, he would beckon with a paw, saying, "I could use some help."
"Yeah?" Azure would go.
And Tuttle would nod.
And Azure would take a step into the shadows of the barn. And he would stop at the side of the tractor, leaning against the big rear tire. Running his paw over the rubbery, black treads ... and his tail would jerk about. And he would breathe and ... he would say, quietly, "I wanted to ... watch the race, but it's only on cable, and I don't ... have that." The squirrel only getting three stations on his television. On a good day.
The skunk would laugh a bit. "Is it already on?"
"Another hour," Azure would say.
"Gives us time."
And Azure would lose his breath. His will. And would take a step toward Tuttle. A step. Another. "For ... for," he asked, hopefully, "what?"
Tuttle would lift a bale, the muscles visible through the fur of his arms. His form. Physique. So much stronger than the squirrel. That body that ... offered so much safety and protection. That the squirrel could cling to. Could touch. Could pleasure. Could tend. Could do anything for. The skunk's fur so bold in this late light. Like the kind of light that one associated with maturity and wisdom. With epiphany. With the time before bed. And Tuttle, shifting on his foot-paws, would stack one more bale, would pant a bit, and turn and say, "For whatever we need."
And Azure would step, step ... up to him. And ... shaking, would bury his nose in the skunk's neck. Would breathe deeply and close his eyes, and ... his nose would itch, and he would ... sneeze.
And Tuttle would chuckle, and wrap his arms around the rodent. Hugging. Whispering, "I'm dusty. Got clover in my fur."
Azure's nose would twitch and itch, and he would chitter quietly, eyes a bit watered from the sneezing, from the touch. From everything. And he would whisper, "Makes you more real."
"Real," Tuttle would echo, and he would tilt his head and initiate the kiss.
And Azure would get lost in it.
Lips to lips. Little smack-smack sounds, little sucks, little squeaks ... little bobbles at the knees. Weak at the knees.
And Tuttle would back the squirrel up to the ladder to the loft. The hay loft. And would put his muzzle to his ear and whisper, "Climb."
And Azure would do so. Without hesitation. And with ease. Squirrels were built go climb. To hitch.
And Tuttle would follow him up ... and take the shy squirrel into his arms. Would close his eyes.
They would breathe of each other. They would hug, sway ... and their paws would stray away.
Tuttle undoing the squirrel's tattered jeans ... and letting them fall round the rodent's knees. And he would rub at the bulge in the squirrel's briefs.
Azure's heart would be out of control, but ... he would let it happen. He ... would. Wanting it so badly. More than anything.
Tuttle would remove the briefs, careful to not tangle the squirrel's bushy tail ... and he would raise the shirt over him. And toss it aside. It would flutter down to the barn floor. Down below.
And the squirrel, in return, would undress the skunk.
And, in the midst of all the rural, rustic quiet, the two males would bury their noses against each other's neck. Breathing. And then mouthing, and then ... the skunk would drag the squirrel to the hay.
Azure would kiss down the line of symmetry on the skunk's chest ... down, down, through the midnight-black fur ... down the white ... down to desire. Down to where the squirrel could open his mouth ... and take the skunk in. Could let that sheath marinate in his mouth. Let it soak in his saliva, and then ... suck. Suck. Suck.
And the skunk, sitting on his rump, would raise his head to the ceiling. Closing his eyes and sighing.
And the squirrel would go, go, go ... and would work his tongue inside the sheath, feeling the tip, the head of that penis ... and the drops on the slit. Would poke at that with his tongue.
The skunk would moan and his chest would rise and fall faster, faster ...
And the squirrel would bob, bob ... and let the cock slip into his mouth ... slip, slide, settle in his mouth. Between his cheeks, on his tongue. The feeling of that. Almost spiritual. The essence of the other male's sexuality, of his physical love ... in the squirrel's mouth. The trust. The vulnerability. The submissiveness (on the squirrel's part). Giving that ... taking it. Having it.
There were no words for that. For the joy this would be giving him.
And he would bob, suck ... fondle the balls as he went. As he licked. Took his mouth off and sucked and kissed the sides of the shaft, and then ... ran his lips over and over the head. Back and forth, and then ... going deeper. Wetting it. Tasting it. That flesh. That firmness.
The skunk beginning to hump the squirrel's muzzle. Fucking his muzzle, paws on the back of the squirrel's head, holding him in place, whispering things to him that only the squirrel could ever hear ... that, even from five feet away, would sound like mumbling. But, from this close, those words, that voice ... sounded like a bell. Like the bells of the earth.
Azure would moan and would bob, and would be pawing himself ... erect, stiff, sensitive. Would paw himself, trying to keep himself from having his orgasm ... too soon, too soon. Trying to hold back, despite the thrill, the excitement. Wanting the skunk to cum first. Wanting that male milk in his mouth. The essence of their yiffy act. Evidence of a pleasure felt, a peak ... of pleasure. Male milk. Azure wanting to taste that, and ...
The skunk would, fur matted, start to squirm, start to make animal sounds ... and would wriggle and ... push the squirrel to his back in the hay. And would, on all fours, hump down at the squirrel's mouth and muzzle. Shifting positions ... so that the squirrel's paws were on the skunk's rump, pulling, pushing, gripping his hips.
Until the skunk would whimper-shout ... and pant and heave.
And there, there ... there!
Azure would moan and his eyes would water and close, and ... he would feel an almost spiritual high ... as that liquid, that warm, wet, white stuff ... that semen ... shot in little jerks into his mouth. Little streams. Little pools on his tongue. And he would let it all filter there. Would keep that. And suck, suck ... suck a final time. Making sure he had it all. Making sure the pleasure for his lover was compete.
Until, nose heaving, whiskers twitching, ears swiveling ... the squirrel would slide his lips off the skunk's still-twitching cock, and ... would lay his head back in the hay. Would close his eyes, and the boldness of the light would go through the lids and seem to paint a warmth in his mind. Akin to the warmth in his mouth. Akin to the warmth lying, sprawled, next to and on top of him. To the warmth in his heart.
And he would swallow.
And would, paw still pawing himself ... though almost having forgotten ... would remember, would finish pawing himself, and ... would shiver and squeak as the seed shot into the air and fell back down. To their fur. To the strands of hay.
"Oh ... oh," Azure would breathe, unable to say or do anything else. Only to lay there and go, "Oh, oh ... mm ... "
The skunk, panting, would grin and snuggle right up next to the squirrel, and ... would whisper to him, "I love you, Azure."
And Azure, crying quietly, would whisper back, "I love you, too, Tuttle."
And the skunk would offer to lead the squirrel back to the house. Would offer a shower. And, in the shower, would hug the squirrel from behind ... and hump him, rocking him against the wall, water dripping from Azure's twitching whiskers. Would ...
... and the day would end with them in bed, chatting about each other, about their hopes and dreams, their desires ... about plans for their future. What they would do. Where they would go. They would talk and ... get closer. And sleep.
Would sleep with each other, and ...
... that was the squirrel's recurring dream. Day, night ... an obsession, and it was ... distracting him to the point where he needed to confess his feelings to the skunk. He needed to do it. Needed to hear that the skunk loved him, too. Needed.
And that was why he was no on the concrete front porch of the skunk's farm-house. In the sunset. Just three words away from having his heart take flight ... or crash and burn.
Three words away.
That was all.
And the squirrel knocked, fearing he would faint. He knocked, and he ... feared. And knocked, and ...
Tuttle answered.
Azure's throat was dry. His adrenaline was high.
"Azure?"
The squirrel just nodded. Nodded.
The skunk smiled a bit. "Um ... you want anything?"
"Um ... "
"You okay?" the skunk asked. He was so caring. So ... full of energy. So boyish. So ... such a simplicity. Such a rural kindness. A naturalness about him. Oh, how Azure wanted that. His neighbor for these nine months, and ... they saw each other several times a week. Sometimes, they hung out together. Watched the sporting events that were being broadcast from so far away (down in capital city). They would drink together, giggling ... talking. They were friends.
They were friends.
Azure wanted more.
And Azure ... was only three words away from creating love ... or killing a friendship. Was three words away from the wire. From the trigger that would, perhaps, change his life.
"Azure?" the skunk asked again.
The squirrel's eyes watered. He found, suddenly, he couldn't look Tuttle in the eyes. And so he looked to the dusty barn boots lying next to a potted plant ... and he stared at that, as if trying to anchor in something permanent. Some memory. And he said, softly, slowly, "I ... I need to tell you something."
The skunk looked confused.
Azure closed his eyes. Shaking. Telling himself he could still back off, could still ... stop, stop ... stop this.
"You need to borrow the tractor again?"
The squirrel, eyes closed, shook his head, and said, at a pained whisper, "No."
"Well ... what? What's wrong?" Voice showing concern. Showing uncertainty.
"I ... I ... "
Tuttle waited.
"I ... " Three words away. Three words away. Just ... three words, was all. Three words separated him from his dream. Three. Words. Say them. Say it. Say it, he told himself. Don't regret ... no matter what happens, don't regret. Don't ...
... say it ...
"I ... " The squirrel faltered. "I love you," he finally managed. Almost blurting it. And, opening his eyes, he ... managed to make eye contact with his neighbor. For a moment. And then his eyes darted back to the boots and the flower pot.
The skunk's mouth was slightly ajar. He was quiet, and he ... leaned against the door. And he sighed. A heavy sigh.
The tears started to flow from the squirrel.
"Azure, you ... " His voice was ... so delicate, so apologetic. So regretful. Like a voice trying to tread carefully. Trying not to hurt. "You know I'm not gay."
The squirrel took a sharp, aching breath. Nodded quietly. Yes, he knew. He knew. Had known. But ... hadn't cared. "I ... I love you," was all he said.
"Are you ... sure?"
Azure sniffled, nodding ... almost ashamed. Almost insulted at the questioning of his love.
Another sigh. "I maybe ... love you like ... how a friend loves a friend, but ... Azure, I'm not ... that way. I'm not like you. I'm sorry."
The squirrel cleared his throat, all the tears flowing ... still flowing. But trying not to make any sobbing sounds. He would wait until he was out of earshot to do that. He only said, shakily, "I ... I just ... I had to tell you. I ... I had to. I ... "
The skunk nodded quietly.
"I'm ... I left the hose on. At the shed. The water. I ... I ... gotta go back and ... turn it off," said Azure. Whether or not that was true ... wasn't of concern. He just ... had done his part. Said his heart. And, now, he had to leave.
"I'm sorry," Tuttle whispered. "Really, I ... if I were, I ... wouldn't hesitate, but I'm ... just not interested in ... "
The squirrel nodded, tuning the words out. Not wanting to hear anymore. Feeling that Tuttle probably hated him now. Probably thought him the saddest of rodents. Some sad soul.
The skunk bit his lip awkwardly.
The squirrel, blushing, flushing beneath his fur, just nodded and swallowed, and said, "I'll, uh, see you ... around." And he took a shaky breath.
"Yeah," the skunk whispered, looking a bit ... nervous. "Yeah." He nodded. "Course."
Azure paused on the porch and ... opened his mouth. And shut it. And ... walked away, walked away.
Walking away from those three words that had promised so much joy. Those three words that had pitched him head over tail ... and had led him to this. Had ... made a fool of him.
Walking away.
Walking back.