In January, Mateo and I and new friends (one, a Parisian who taught me, “moguls are your friends”) went out to the Winterfest Gay Ski Week in Park City, Utah, being held in place of the long-standing Gay Ski Week in Aspen, Colorado. Colorado was being boycotted because voters there had recently passed Referendum 2, an attempt to ban protections for LGBTQ+ people from discrimination. Utah, with equally magnificent ski resorts, stepped up, and masses of gay skiers instead spent their masses of disposable income on Utah hotels, lift tickets, cocktails, and generous tips for service workers—take that, Colorado voters. (Colorado’s bigoted Referendum 2 was later ruled unconstitutional by the U.S. Supreme Court. Years later, I went to a re-born Gay Ski Week in Aspen, which I found to be a beautiful little town I totally loved.)
I was extra excited about my first ski trip out West because I’d heard all my life about the skiing. I’d been skiing since I was a child but only back East and therefore, I thought crusty, icy slopes were normal. Skiing in the West was a revelation. The mountains were (are) huge, like skiing on an entire mountain range, the “champagne” powder dry and fresh. While skiing, Mateo and I even ran into “Stuart,” an exceptionally handsome centerfold from a recent Bear magazine and a very good skier; and his sister, who introduced herself while we were trying (without success) to chat up Stuart. She laughed and told us that wasn’t his real name (but I forget what it was).
Anyway, during one afternoon near the end of Gay Ski Week, Mateo and I had just ridden the chairlift to the top of Park City Mountain, and I somehow lost him in the crowd. But there was another group of guys off to one side looking at a map, deciding which trail to ski down next. In that group was a middle-aged (I could see flecks of gray) bear who, from what little I could see under his goggles, was pretty good looking. I waited furtively nearby, ready to follow them (him), provided they weren’t such good skiers I couldn’t keep up.
They weren’t. (I’m a pretty good skier, did I say?) Before too long I managed to sidle-ski over to Ski Bear and say hi. His name was Dean and we shook hands though our gloves. After chatting a few minutes, I skied the rest of the way down with him and with his friends. He was from Los Angeles and up close, had a friendly smile and crinkly blue eyes.
At the bottom of the ski run, Dean hung back, letting his friends get on the chairlift in front of us, so he and I could ride up together. We skied part-way down with his friends but then we peeled off and the two of us skied down alone, me on the lookout for moguls. As we approached the base, I got a bright idea: Let’s take the gondola!
We skied over to the gondola base, took our skis off, and hobbled into the next car which was (thank you, Goddess!) empty except for us, and we sat down facing each other. As the gondola took off up the mountain, I reached down and lifted Dean’s ski-booted foot between my legs, pulling the sole of his boot up against my balls (or wherever they were inside all my ski clothes). After a few more minutes of watching the scenery and Dean’s eyes, I put his foot down and moved over to his side of the car so I could try making out with him.
Now that I had better access, I reached down and somehow got Dean’s bulky ski pants unzipped, then felt my way inside, all the while kissing him, his fingers in my beard, and parting the layers his long johns down to his dick. I had just gotten my mouth down onto his stiffening cock when ALL OF A SUDDEN the gondola car gave a heavy lurch and began braking for the slow approach into the mid-mountain station, looming right ahead of us.
I totally—and understandably—forgot the mid-mountain station was coming. In just another second, other skiers would be standing on the platform RIGHT NEXT TO US as we slowly glided by like some perverted “It’s A Small World After All” tableau, and they would all have a front-row view of FELLATIO ON PARADE.
I shouted Oh, shit! and sat instantly bolt upright, yanking my hand out of Dean’s ski pants, both of us snorting and stifling our laughter so we wouldn’t attract even more attention, me praying that no one else got in our car with us. In my panic, I had only folded Dean’s ski pants over, but his stiff cock still needed to be tucked away and his pants zipped up. Just why that would be needed in a gondola might take some good explaining, even during Gay Ski Week. But no one got on the car with us, and I didn’t try anything again.
After a couple more runs, we somehow found Mateo and we three skied together for the rest of the day. After the gondola failure I was kind of horny (however still in a hilarious mood, especially after telling Mateo about it, and who kept jabbing me with his “why dontcha suck on this” ski pole). I was more than ready to get Dean naked and cum on his chest.
Unfortunately, Dean’s and my respective plans for the rest of the day didn’t mesh, to my erectile frustration. But we found each other the next day (I didn’t have a cell phone then) at the Gay Ski Week lunch tent, skied together the rest of the afternoon, then went back for some après ski in his room in the condo he and his friends had rented.
We got naked, and I did some of my expert back rubs and butt rubs, my stiff dick happily doling out a little pre-cum on Dean’s ass crack. We shared orgasms though I don’t remember the details now (but I’m sure I resumed Fellatio on Parade).
Based on his somewhat muscular handling and dominant approach to being naked, I figured Dean was into leather and rougher play, and I wished we had more time to try something with bondage or other sexy stuff. And much later I thought I should have invited him back to my hotel to play with Mateo and me, who of course instantly agreed it would have been fun to show Dean a double-good time. Darn.
But Gay Ski Week was now pretty much over, and Dean and I didn’t have any more time. We said good-bye, here’s my email address, and went back to our lives.
I heard from Dean once during the spring, and much later ran into him at a leather dance in New York City though we didn’t do anything more than say hello and exchange a quick kiss. He looked as good in leather as he had in ski togs.
Aside: Also in New York, I was out at the Lure bar really late and muckled onto Shaun, a thick-bearded bloke from New Zealand. He was absolutely fuckin’ handsome with his beard, beautiful eyes, and a blond, hairy chest in which I repeatedly rustled my fingertips. We spent at least an hour groping and making out but also chatting—finding I liked him.
But when it came down to it, fuck fuck fuck, I couldn’t invite him back to my hotel room due to roommates, and he felt he couldn’t invite a stranger back to his hosts’ home. In despair, I went back to my hotel, the smell of Shaun’s warm body on my T-shirt as I (quietly) jerked off.
Shaun and I traded info and we stayed in touch for a while. Once he wrote that his New York hosts had been wildly amused and said he should have dragged me home anyway. Damn it! I would have loved waking up on their couch, naked and smiling shyly over the edge of a blanket at indulgent hosts offering a cup of who-the-fuck-are-you coffee to their beloved friend’s trick.
Once again, no sex happened; but Goddess, next time: Shaun, please.