“Sounds good.” I lay back on the mattress and tried not to fantasize about another injection for the pain.
When he returned some time later, I sat up, which took a bit of an effort. I felt his hand take hold of mine.
“I’ll lead you.”
He led me, his hand big and gentle, through the station. The smell of food grew, and I decided we must have arrived.
“Here,” he said, turning me. “You can sit down here.”
I did so, reaching behind me for the chair back.
The first course was chicken soup, with crackers.
“Delicious!” I said when I had finished.
“How about some eggs and beans?”
“Sure!”
The eggs, which must have been from powder, had been mixed with canned milk and spiced so that they too were delicious. And, with the beans, made a good meal.
When I sat back at last, Matt put a mug down on the table in front of me and guided my hand to it.
“Coffee,” he said.
“Thanks!”
I sipped. He had added cream and sugar, just as I liked, and I cradled the warm mug in my hands between sips.
“So, I filled up your plane,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. You said. Uh…thanks.”
“So, when your eyes are better you can—you know—continue on your way.”
I nodded. The remarks seemed odd. Clearly, he was eager to get rid of me, but there was something in the tone I couldn’t quite understand. Regret? Sadness? I wasn’t sure.
“Thanks!” I repeated.
After another silence he said, “Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention meeting me here.”
I considered this, nodded.
“Sure,” I said. “None of my business.”
“Thanks,” he murmured. He sounded relieved, but sad too. I felt more bewildered than ever.
After the meal I said I would like to lie down again. Matt suggested Tylenol if I needed it, rather than more shots.
“They can be addictive.”
I nodded.
And so I lay down, took the Tylenol, and slept.
* * * *
When I awoke, the pain in my eyes had largely gone. Presumably Matt heard me stir, because I heard his footsteps approach and felt the cot shift slightly.
“What you think about trying the mask?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve turned off the lights. The only light is from the passage.”
“Okay.” I reached up and cautiously slid up the strap at the back of my head and removed the mask. Looking around I saw only shadows, but there were shapes—objects. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I can see!”
“Great.” Matt was a shadowy figure sitting on the side of my cot. He got up. “I’ll open the blinds on the window.” He went away, between the two rows of cots to the far end of the room. Then he adjusted something, and light began to flood the room.
I winced, and turned away. But then, looking, I found I could see well enough.
“Okay?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Matt came back and sat down on the next cot. I looked at him—saw him for the first time—and discovered that I liked what I saw. He had brown hair and eyes, was in his thirties, with a good-natured if somewhat lugubrious face that was strained at the moment in an expression of some anxiety. And he seemed to have a good physique, albeit with a few extra pounds.
I raised a hand and waggled my fingers while I grinned at him.
His eyebrows raised. I nodded.
“Yes!” he said, and punched the air. And now he looked very relieved.
Immediately he began to talk about getting me set for my journey. A parka and Mukluks were at the end of the barracks room, and Matt went to the kitchen to prepare a pack of supplies for me.
He was almost eager, it seemed, but when I was packed, he suggested a last meal before my departure.
He cooked up some fine spam, eggs again, canned vegetables, and coffee to finish off, along with a frozen cake he had defrosted.
“This is great!” I said. “So good that I almost don’t want to leave.”
I said the last casually, deliberately looking away as I said it, but I saw out of the corner of my eye the man stiffen momentarily. Then he seemed to catch himself, and gave a rather forced chuckle.
“A nice compliment,” he said. “But I put a piece of the cake in your pack. Along with a thermos of coffee. You almost won’t know you have left.”
I nodded and thanked him again. Then we went back to the entrance, where I dressed. He stepped up to the door and unbolted it. When he opened the door a flurry of snow blew inside.
“What?” He stood in the doorway, looking out. It was snowing, heavily, and it was starting to blow too. “Damn!” He turned to look at me. He was not only frowning, he actually looked a little scared. Then he seemed to pull himself together. He swallowed and nodded, then turned and closed the door again.
“Looks like you’re not going anywhere for the time being.”
I nodded, and lowering my pack, began to take off my outer wear. Both of us, I felt sure, were less than thrilled about this development.
“Well,” he said, “at least we can finish that cake.”
I laughed and nodded, watching him walk away toward the kitchen. It was my first real view of him from the back, and it struck me that the man’s garb, informal by any standard, was rather…provocative.
Not only did his gray sweatpants rest rather revealingly on the curves of his ass, but they sagged too, so that the upper parts of the cheeks, and the beginnings of the crevice between, were actually openly visible. I felt a thrill of pure pleasure at the sight, and stared greedily until he was out of sight. I decided that, given my predicament, it wouldn’t hurt to make the best of things.
Chapter 3: Storm and Perceptions
We ate the cake and had more coffee, and I became aware that the vibe had changed radically, in both a good and a bad sense. The urgency, evidently to get me away, was gone; and that made things more peaceful. But to accompany this there was also a new sense of wariness on the part of my companion. It made me both curious, and slightly afraid.
On the other hand, Matt was certainly, loosely speaking, fairly commendable eye-candy. The only real negative in him physically, other than the expression of sadness on his face, was the fact that he seemed to have some extra pounds on him. It occurred to me, as I watched him enjoy the cake that he definitely was food oriented, and I began to wonder whether it was the case of food as a form of self-medication.
My study of the man, however, was made more difficult by the fact that I couldn’t really look at him with impunity. And that was because whenever I did, I found he was looking at me.
He always looked away whenever I caught him doing this, but it wasn’t just the staring that struck me, it was the feel of it. It made me feel…odd. And, of course it was annoying, because it prevented me from studying the man, figuring out who it was I was closeted with, so to speak. Part of that was the issue of personal safety, but part also was just curiosity. And I had to admit that the viewing itself was pleasurable enough, and a welcome distraction from the limitations of our constrained surroundings.
But, as life continued in the station, at meals, cleaning up, hanging out—usually each to himself; my penchant was to the books that the station had, some of them quite good—I was treated to occasional glimpses. For he continued to dress in sweat pants and sweatshirt, socks with sandals, and nothing else. And the shirt did tend to ride up, and the pants did tend to sag down. So, like I said, glimpses—rather intoxicating ones, too. One’s libido, after all, conforms to one’s environmental limitations.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t aware of these glimpses, and he certainly did stare at me enough. But that was different. It didn’t feel sexual at all. Rather, it seemed to be a combination of fearful apprehension and a strange kind of curiosity. I’ve had some men look at me with curiosity, because they suspected my sexua
lity. This was different; it lacked the incipient hostility. It was just…curious.
Then one time I entered the shower room to see him drying himself off after one of his frequent showers. (He was right about them; they were a comfort, and, like he said, there was plenty of hot water.) He had a towel loosely draped around his hips.
I was not prepared for the sight of Matt’s torso naked. I mean, there was the extra weight, especially in belly, but…his chest! It was covered in hair, in the right amount and in the right areas. It spread all over his pecs, which turned out to be well-defined, if perhaps a bit rounded due to fat, then narrowing down into a treasure trail that disappeared beneath the towel.
I found myself staring…at the chest, and those pecs.
“Sorry,” he said, and, stepping into his sandals, he left, while I stood there, transfixed. I undressed and turned on the water. I was glad he had left, for I was sporting a fairly impressive hard-on.
* * * *
After my shower I smelled cooking, and realized that I was hungry. I dressed and went into the kitchen, where Matt was making pancakes, with real butter and maple syrup.
“Mmm-mmm!” I said, sitting down. “All this great cooking,” I added. “You’re going to make me as plump as you are.”
I said this kiddingly, and was mortified a second later to see that the remark seemed to have hit a nerve. He had frozen and was now looking down, massaging his belly ruefully. Then he turned to look at me.
“I guess I do eat too much,” he said. I didn’t say anything, but my ears burned slightly. Then he sat down and we set to. It was only when we finished and were enjoying coffee that he continued.
“I guess it stops the other stuff—thoughts and feelings, that sort of thing.”
I nodded.
“Plus, in winter up here there’s not a lot to do,” I added.
I did notice that we were both generally more at ease after having eaten. Matt often lay down for a nap after each meal. This time, however, after finishing his coffee he went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
He brought this and two shot glasses to the table and sat down. I grinned.
“Now you’re talking!”
Matt poured for us both. We clinked glasses and slugged the contents back, and then he sighed.
“I don’t get drunk,” he said, “but a glass of this now and then—” He paused, and I had the distinct impression that the next word would have been, “helps.” It made me wonder. I suggested a second shot, and he joined me in this, then placed the bottle further away in a gesture of finality. But even under the influence of two shots I began to feel a little more courageous.
“So,” I said conversationally, “you like being alone up here?”
He shrugged, then, after considering, nodded.
“Isn’t company policy that every station should have a minimum of two?”
He shrugged again, and shifted uncomfortably.
Okay, I thought, accepting that the guy wasn’t going to be forthcoming. I tried another tack.
“So,” I said. “Why’d you come north in the first place? Everyone has a reason. I like the cold, myself, and the wide vistas. There’s so much space up here.” He nodded vaguely.
“Ever see the paintings of Doris McCarthy?” I added. He shook his head. “You should. She paints vistas of the north, used to come every year just to paint. And then there’s Harris. You know, one of the Group of Seven? Lawren Harris. His Arctic paintings are just amazing.”
“I’ve heard of them,” he said vaguely, but that was all. I gave up.
Then, the next time we were eating, he surprised me by looking at me with a very odd expression. It seemed that something particular was troubling him.
I nodded and gave him a slight smile to encourage him to speak his mind. But he said nothing, and at last I had to speak.
“What’s up?”
He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Finally, he shook his head.
I chuckled and made a face. “Sorry! But I don’t quite understand. What are you trying to say exactly?”
His response smile was half a grimace. I waited, convinced he would speak. But instead he shrugged, got to his feet, and left the room.
I sighed and went to lie down on my cot.
About an hour later, Matt came in and sat down on the cot next to mine. I was looking vaguely at the ceiling, and didn’t turn to look at him. He cleared his throat.
“Ever hear of the idea of someone being a sexaholic?”
I frowned, considering. “Like alcoholic, but with sex rather than alcohol?”
There was no response, so I turned and looked at him. He nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “So?”
He looked unhappy, and lifting an arm over his head, pointed down at himself.
“Oh.” I turned on my side to face him. “So?”
He studied my face and gave another grimace.
“Are you,” I asked, speaking slowly, “warning me?”
He gave an unhappy chuckle. “No.”
“Well then. There’s only the two of us. What does it matter to me?”
“Well,” he frowned, “you kinda asked.”
“I asked?”
“You asked why I had come north.”
“Oh!” I sat up and looked at him expectantly.
He sat, his head lowered slightly, his hands vaguely rubbing together, but saying nothing. Then he began, in a low voice.
“I was married once. I was young, but I mean…I thought it was love. I think we both did. Who knows? I think I did—love her, I mean. But also, it meant a lot that she was interested in me, that she liked me, or even loved me. But,” he sighed quietly, “I think part of it on my part was, I was just sold on the idea of marriage meaning, basically—you know, the idea of getting it every night.”
I suppressed my urge to say, “Ouch!” Or to point out that that was naïve of him. And shallow. Anyway, I said nothing, merely nodded encouragingly. He was entitled to his own past, after all.
He saw my nod, and lowered his head again. Then he chuckled.
“Except, you know, it wasn’t like that. Oh, it was, almost—at first, but then, gradually…” He made a down-curving motion with his hand, like an airplane in a dive, then brought his hands, fingers spread, apart and up, as though in an explosion.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
He looked at me and gave an uneasy chuckle. “I started going outside the marriage, you know.”
“Prostitutes?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Somehow—I don’t know why—that never appealed to me. It didn’t…” He paused and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“So?”
“I started…uh, working the other side of the street: the gay side.” He shrugged. “I mean, gay men are open to sex. I just needed the…release.”
I nodded again, feeling my face heat up slightly. I wasn’t sure how to feel, for I couldn’t quite figure out his attitude. But I also was curious as to just what he had done with gay men.
He went on, “I started hitting the gay bars, even some cruising parks. It became worse and worse, and finally I went to a therapist about it. We worked on it and I got it under some control, but then, when I told my wife about my condition, she kind of freaked.
“Stupid move, but I wanted her help, her sympathy.” He chuckled ruefully. “Afterwards, thinking about it, I realized I kind of put her into an impossible position. She said that after I had told her that, she found the idea of sex with me repellant, said she thought it would feel like she was ‘giving in’ to my ‘abnormal urge,’ that it wasn’t real love, that she would just be ‘a piece of meat,’ and so on.”
He stopped, smiling ruefully.
“So? What happened?”
He looked at me. “What do you think? She cut me off totally. And I don’t even blame her, though I did at the time. And it hurt, too. I mean, the feeling of being married—it just went away. I began to doubt everyt
hing for my own part, and finally, well, I moved out.”
“Wow!” I murmured.
Matt nodded. “Six months later the divorce papers came. I was living with a guy by that time, just a friend, mostly, or fuck buddy. But I was also back in the bars, all the time. But getting those papers really did it for me. It hit me something deep, the loss—the sense of my own betrayal, my own life being a nightmare of…I don’t know what.” He sighed. “So…I decided to quit.”
“Quit? Quit what?”
“Everything—I mean, everyone. I decided to…you know, ‘join the Foreign Legion’ in a way…so I came up here, to be away from people. From temptation.”
I looked at him. “How did that turn out?”
“Pretty good, I guess.” He paused, and then gestured around him. “Look at it. My own personal kingdom.”
I thought again about what I knew of company policy, but decided not to bring that up. And, as I watched, I had the sense of a door closing. He got up and left me. I went and began to tidy up the kitchen, thinking to myself: Curiouser and curiouser!
Chapter 4: Revelations and Therapy
It was after our next meal—there were more than the usual number in any given twenty-four hour period—that I decided to attempt getting my companion to open up a little further. After coffee we had dressed and gone outside to see how the storm was proceeding.
It was still snowing, but the wind had gone down.
“Curious,” he said when we had returned inside.
“How so?”
“Well, there really is a lot of snow. That’s unusual. Usually it’s mostly wind, but here there’s over a foot, and it’s still snowing.”
I shook my head, puzzled.
Having taken off parka and boots, Matt rubbed his hands together.
“Brrr! What about some hot chocolate?”
“Sure.”
We were sitting at the table, lingering over our steaming drinks in silence. While he had prepared them, Matt had explained how the annual precipitation up here was actually quite low, and that the shore of Victoria Island was on the edge of the so-called Arctic desert.
“But now and then there’s a real snowstorm. It looks like this is one of those.”
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