Act I: Introductions and Instant Crushes
I’m 2 hours out from Tahoe on I80.
I’m Going to Auburn Ski Camp to unwind from Med School back at UCSF. I like Cross-Country Skiing….
….and I like Cross-Country Ski instructors.
Auburn Ski Camp Training Center is one of the ‘it’ places to train in Cross-Country. I want to train with a trainer. I’d just love to ‘train’ with a trainer!
Ostensibly, I’m trying to perfect my Skate Skiing form. I’d like to perfect it so that maybe I can compete in the sport. But, really, I’m just there for the Snowbunnies and some peace and quiet.
My name is Brian Chesney. I am 25 years old and I’m studying Neuroscience at UCSF Medical School. I am also gay as a lark.
I’m a blonde and blue eyed All-American type that likes to surf, ski, and have sex parties up in a loft on Castro with 25 or so of my really, really close friends. I never want for partners and sometimes I have them all at once. I’m sexy as fuck . . . and I’m sure humble about it!
I hate football, basketball, baseball, foozeball, and ping-pong. Much to the chagrin of lots of preppy twinks that want to ride my pony, I also hate tennis, polo and lacrosse too. As a matter of fact, I hate all team sports or sports that require a direct match with another player.
I’ll have fun with volleyball, but only because its on the beach and only if that beach is Pacific Beach in San Diego with a bunch of fucking tight assed Marines and Sailors. Heaven bless Top Gun! That old Tom Cruise movie was my masturbatory fantasy for most of my fifteenth year!
You see, I am not a team player. I have way too much ego for that shit. I can’t stand having to bend and weave to ‘take one for the team’. Fuck the goddamn team! I do my thing my way! Always have! Always will! Maybe that’s what makes me sexy as fuck?
I walk into a bar and all eyes turn to me. I strut and sashay my way up to the bar and the eyes follow me, generally raping me with their thoughts. Before long I have free drinks and 5-6 prospects for the evening.
Yeah, I’m hot as an H-Bomb . . .
. . . and I don’t wanna do it anymore.
I’m empty and I’m tired.
Dammit! I think I’ve finally grown up. But, habits are hard to break especially when you have a network of fuck buddies that can’t seem to let you go. As long as I stay in the City I’ll be, literally, sucked into the same rut over and over. Work, drink, drugs, and meaningless screws upstairs in the Loft.
I’ve tried the more kinky stuff hoping to rekindle my excitement in my old life. I found I didn’t like it that much. I neither like leather nor lace and I’m not particularly fond of giving or especially receiving pain. I don’t like edging. It pisses me off and I don’t like being tied up either. I’m pretty boring sexually. If you got a great bod and you wanna make it then I’m available. We can do it all night if you want. I got that kind of stamina.
But, then you go home before morning and I find myself awake and alone in bed. Again. The cycle starts over . . .
. . . and over and over.
So, I break it up. I go out to Tahoe and I ski if it’s winter and the water’s too cold to surf. I got to get away. I gotta hope maybe there’s something more than this.
I got into Cross-Country after a bad day Alpine Skiing. I was an asshole and I took a grade too steep for my egotistical ass. I managed to break my ankle, leg, and arm in the fall. So, Cross-Country seemed safer. So fuck me . . . I settled. Like I said, I don’t like pain particularly. Then I actually started liking Cross-Country a lot better. It’s a more natural use of skis and Nordic Skis are more comfortable to me.
Most importantly, it lets me be alone for long periods. There’s nothing like ice cold white snow and the repetitive ache of pushing yourself on a level track through some of the most beautiful wilderness in the country. California really is a miracle. You can go from Mediterranean beaches to alpine terraces that can put the Alps to shame in the space of a couple of hours over land.
Of course, being me, I rarely end up alone at night upon going to the ski lodge’s bar after skiing and exuding my sweaty pheromones all over the place. It’s remarkable how many gay folks like to ski Tahoe and all of them are almost as sexy as fuck as I am. Almost.
Somehow, doing it with a guy in a ski lodge is better than doing him in a loft above a gay club.
Still, they don’t mean anything in the end.
It’s when I realized this that I started packing cold weather camping gear, putting it on my back, and skiing out. I started camping out under the stars alone to get away. God, you don’t know stars until you see them in a crystal cold sky up on a mountain track! There’s something about cold air makes stars really twinkle and pop!
There is peace out there and a new perspective. Without my cock constantly being stimulated it is easier to concentrate on things. Important things. Things like: where am I going with my life and is this all there is?
Looking up into the heavens you understand how limitless things are. Looking down across the snowy ridges and vales you understand how immense and timeless everything is and just how small and puny we are.
The mountains around will be here 10,000 years after I’m gone! The light of the stars, if the astronomers are to be believed, comes to us from a time before the Earth even existed! Before the first amoeba came from protein dense water!
Here I was like a maggot squirming around with other guys in a loft and all of this . . . This!
This has been here waiting for me to discover it while I was waisting time!
There’s something more waiting here and I feel that it is close as I make the last leg up the I80 toward the lodge. This place calls to me. All of Tahoe calls to me! This is a place of power. It is somehow sacred . . . and its calling me home.
Ohss! I do not understand how people in this condition can ever hope to ski across from the lodge to the preparation area much less cross-country!
Even the groomed tracks will be too much for most of these people! One too many of those Chicago Style pizzas I imagine. They verily split the seams of their thermal suits!
I have a feeling that they thought of Cross-Country Skiing was somehow easier than Alpine. They have no conception of what it is they are trying to do. But, I try anyway for it is my job and my Father always told me that I must finish what I start no matter how seemingly hopeless the case.
It is most difficult at times. I tend to get the higher-paying clients not because I hold world records in the sport but, alas, because I’m a ‘real Swede!’.
To them it matters not that I am Finnish and not a fucking, limp dicked Swede! In my land these people would be made without teeth for such an insult! But then . . . Americans. So blissfully unaware of the other parts of the world. God go with them! Such a silly people at times.
I love Americans, though! There is an innocence in them that none in Europe have. A lack of history that opens their minds to possibilities . . . even far fetched ones. Not unlike this poor 69 year old man thinking he can master the Nordic Skis in 5 minutes. He knows it is not possible but he tries anyway!
Truly an inspiration.
Though, I am young in body, I often feel the weight of time when I am home in Finland. It ages my very soul. There is almost a feeling of shame to be too optimistic there. It is an old feeling from even older times when life in the Lapland was precarious at best. The harsh winters buried their knives into my ancestors once too often. It impressed an almost genetic pessimism. Even laughter is muted lest it may anger an Ice Giant or some other superstitious thing we once believed in long ago. Here in America, this oppressive weight lifts and I truly do feel the freedom here that exists nowhere else in the world!
My name is Jusse Halla. I am a Cross-Country ski instructor here at Auburn Ski Camp which is one of the better Cross-Country Skiing centers in the Americas. My friends used to tease me and call me ‘Lumihiutale’ which translates from Finnish into ‘Snowflake’ in the English. I earned this name because of my looks. I am almost snow white in my skin tone. My hair is almost platinum blonde. My features are a bit delicate for a man and I tend to wear white a lot. Even my eyes are pale. Grey blue but fortunately lined by dark eyelashes. The boys in the taverns back home used to call me their ‘Little Snowflake’ and tease me about how pretty I was. It was embarrassing, but fun too.
You see, if it was not done in a mean way then I did not mind that much. I like men more than women as I am bisexual leaning toward gay. In Finland this is not unusual. We certainly do not carry on about such things as they do here in America. At one time we did, but we have gotten beyond all that now.
I seem to be a favorite instructor among women and openly and, perhaps, not so openly gay men due to my looks. They come for the wink and a smile, but they stay (or quit) because I know what I am doing. I kick their flabby asses and make Laplanders out of them!
Cross-Country Skiing has been my life ever since I was little. It is a part of who I am as a person. I defy anyone to know more than I do about the sport and what it expects from you. Training in it can be grueling. Only a few graduate from me. Those that do have become lifelong friends. I even took two of them with me to Finland a few times. They now make regular visits there and speak the language . . . more or less!
So, here I am back at the lodge prepping some gear for my next victim, er, client. My 69 year old has retired to the bar after not even getting past the guard rails onto the groomed starting track. A wise man. I long to be off duty so that I can join him and have a couple of shots of vodka to thaw myself out a bit. I am a very cold Snowflake today to be sure!
Cold is good though. It means less slush. Also it snowed a few days ago, so the groomed trails will be packed down well. Cold packed powder is easier to glide. It will mean for faster skiing.
My new client is in for a good time today!
I pull the dossier on this new individual. Brian Chesney. Hmmm. Interesting. He has experience in Cross-Country Skiing. This means some things to me:
- He will be an arrogant asshole that thinks he knows everything . . . until he starts eating my blowback.
- If he really is experienced, then I will not be able to baffle him with bullshit if I think he is about to do something incredibly stupid. I will have to watch him closely.
- He will, more than likely, be hot. Skiers have some of the best bodies on earth. If he really is what his dossier says he is then I might be in for some fun and maybe a good student if I can just break him of his ego and get him to learn something. Maybe, I might have another mate to Cross-Country with in my Homeland! A rare gem.
But . . . alas . . . there goes my Finnish pessimism again. Usually these college boys end up never getting it. They just cannot get over themselves long enough. So they go home and pout rather than excel and become true champions on the snow.
We shall see and hope for the best then. This I learned from Americans!
This part is very interesting! He wants to learn the Skate Style. This style is different from the usual slide-slide push-push of the traditional version of Nordic Skiing. You must actually make use of your skis as if they are ice skates. A difficult trick to master but very useful in long distance races. So, it means he knows something of the sport and wants to compete. Very interesting indeed! What a fine Laplander he will make! If only . . .
I sit on the sofa next to the fire, lost in thought. I do not notice a slight weight change in the cushion to my right. I continue not noticing until I hear a familiar clearing of the throat and a hip connect with my hip with a bump.
I look up and am immediately captured in a succulent kiss on the lips and then feel a tongue push its way into may mouth. Long nails rake through my hair and send tingles down my scalp and all the way down into my groin. It makes me moan into her kiss.
Releasing me from her kiss, she stares into my icy eyes with her beautiful bluer than blue ones. Her pale skin is set off by eye makeup that is more art than makeup and bright red lipstick. Her pale blonde hair is shoulder length and dressed in an almost 1940’s fashion with loose waves meticulously combed and half pinned on the back with a vintage shell barrette. She wears the thin tight fitting ski suit apparel that serves as a uniform for all the lodge staff. It is stylized to accentuate her bosom and butt. It actually has no true thermal qualities.
I am still in a daze when she finally speaks in a slightly deeper voice than what you might expect from a lady.
“Penny for your thoughts, Handsome?” she intones like a bad film noir. I smile and then she smiles as I giggle at the statement.
It is not with humor that I refer to Sebastian as Sabrina. When she is thus arrayed she is every bit a woman . . . complete with breasts. A true transexual goddess! No one but me knows. They all figure their favorite concierge is every bit a woman, but she dates no one but me. She is an exclusive engagement and, oddly, the men acquiesce when they hear that her beau is Snowflake. It is as if . . . they don’t blame her!
I blush as her hands begin to roam. I flinch when her hand finds my cock.
“Ooof! Woman, please! We are in public!” I proclaim with mock offense.
“I don’t care . . .” Her lips go to my neck and she begins to nibble. With her hand where it is, my hardening member begins to strain against the inside of my thermal suit. It does not help that her hands have manly strength to squeeze through the layers of material.
It is, at this point, that Sabrina turns back into Sebastian as I now feel his own large member probing my leg as he leans in to his ministrations upon my neck and ear lobe. I am slowly pushed back into the couch as he positions his weight on top of me reclining my body and pushing himself between my legs with his hips. His thin ‘snow pants’ do not do much to restrain his monster. He will be humping and grinding me in a second. How he usually hides himself as Sabrina is a profound mystery to me.
“Ah-heemm!” I hear from somewhere above me.
My eyes open slowly to behold a vision not unlike a Norse God come to life. My eyes widen as I take in the sight of him. Despite myself, I feel my cheeks flush.
“You Jessie?” He blurts rather gracelessly. I don’t care . . . his full, pink lips mispronounce my name so beautifully!
Sabrina returns and lets me up from her mauling.
“Yes. Mr . . . ?” I would have stood to greet him but Sabrina is too good at what she does. She is regarding the intruder like an unwanted smell.
“My name is Brian Chesney. The guy over there said you are my new Ski Instructor.”